December 16th, 2006. My wife's birthday. I promised her a Championship for her birthday present. It's all she asked for. Today's the day. After a hearty breakfast consisting of bacon and eggs at the local Huddle House, we're back on the bus. Emotions are running high. You could just take a bite out of it. Sister Suzanne leads us on a sing-along of the Saint Francis fight song:
Hail to Saint Francis;
Loudly we sing our praise;
Onward to victory,
our voices we raise.
Never vanquished, always proud
Of our blue and white;
Our team will win the fight,
We cheer with all our might. RAH! RAH! RAH!
After a brief drive we're in Savannah. We head off in different directions, take in the carnival atmosphere, watch the players warm up, settle in to watch the game.
And then it happened...
Gloom.
Not quite the outcome we had all hoped for. Heads hung low, hearts heavy with grief and frustration. The trip home would take longer to make. We're traveling the same distance, but the trip would take longer. We know it.
We didn't leave Savannah just yet. We had made arrangements to attend Mass at the local St. Mary's Catholic Church for those that wanted to, just down the road. I opted not to attend. My body was aching for sleep and none was to be had the night before. Closed my eyes and settled back in my seat. Next thing I know we're cutting my wife's birthday cake, on the hood of a Toyota, out in the church parking lot! One of our friends had deviously smuggled a cake for this occasion. Sister Elise was busy cutting slices while I was passing plates out to whoever wanted one. It was a treat. I wish we could have done more. Buddy check!
The trip back was a blur. It was night, it was dark, not much to see out the windows. My fellow passengers were quiet. Not much to say anyway. There might have been a movie popped in, "Elf," or was it "The Santa Clause?" Maybe both, I don't remember. I dozed off.
Brief stop at some unnamed place, for dinner. There were the usual haute cuisine to choose from: KFC, McDonald's, Wendy's. I don't even remember where we went or what I had. Burgers, I think. Buddy check! Last one. Next stop: home.
It was almost four in the morning when we pulled in the Doermer parking lot. People rubbed sleep from their eyes, gathered their belongings and slowly shuffled back to their cars. I took one last look at the bus as we pulled away. It looked lonely having just emptied its cargo. I remember how it creaked and groaned, but never wavered. It calmly took us to our destination and brought us safely back home. For several hours of that weekend it was our home. It was jubilant in taking us to Savannah, and quiet and respectful on our way back. It entertained us, never complained. There were times I couldn't wait to get off that bus. I even complained loudly how I didn't want to go through that again. That was shortly after the game. Now, with the passing of time I can't wait to go back. The Fan Bus. The irony. Jim Pictor would have loved it.
Epilog:
I heard of Jim Pictor's death shortly after boarding the bus. He passed away early that morning, losing his fight with cancer. The news hadn't been released to the Saint Francis community yet, but a friend had heard of it and knowing that I knew him, passed the information on to me. I was broken-hearted that whole trip. The main reason for the trip becoming insignificant thereafter.
I could never call him “Jim” to his face, even though he told me I should. To me he was always "Doc." I'm sure he cringed every time I called him that. I had the utmost respect and admiration for him. He was passionate in his lectures. He brought the British Romantic authors and Shakespeare to life. I recall his favorite phrase being "This just drips with irony!" I immediately knew I had to write about The Fan Bus, as a small tribute to Doc.
Not only a teacher, but I considered him a mentor and a friend. I will miss you, Jim "Doc" Pictor. But know that every piece I write, every book I read is because you lit a fire in this former student's life. For that I thank you. Peace.
