Published March 1999 in True Experiences Magazine

My Homecoming Date

            All I wanted was a date to Homecoming.   During my senior year in high school, just before the biggest social event of the fall semester, my boyfriend jilted me.  He tossed me aside and asked another girl to Homecoming.  I was mad.  I set out for revenge.  Because my ex-boyfriend played in the marching band, I decided that not only did I need a date to Homecoming, but I needed it with a football player.  Only the popular, pretty girls, the cheerleaders dated football players.  At least that’s what I thought and I was not popular, pretty, or the cheerleader type. 

            My mother tried to help.  She advised, “be yourself and anyone would be lucky to date you.”  Her advice wasn’t working, no one was calling.  Suddenly, in the midst of my self-pity and panic, I spotted a tall, good-looking football player walking down the high school hallway.  I didn’t even know his name, but I wanted to go to Homecoming with HIM.  Unfortunately, my mother expected me to follow her rules; ones she preached endlessly:  #1-Never say, “ain’t”, #2-Never spit (that rule was included after a poorly aimed incident on the Golden Gate Bridge), AND #3-Never ask a boy out on a date.  I had to think quickly.  Rule #3 stood as a roadblock to my goal in life.

            Desperate times called for desperate measures.  After learning his name, I thought of a convoluted plan, a plan only a frantic, dateless teenager could devise.  My girl friend, Paula, needed to ask her boy friend, Jim, to ask the football player, Doug, if he would ask me to Homecoming.  To my surprise, Doug called!  My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears, it was hard to hear; I was so excited about the call, I forgot who said what. Two facts were certain: he called me and we had a date.  My mother, thrilled by the news, boasted, “Now aren’t you glad you were patient and let him call you?”  I was just glad I remembered to breathe. 

           The night of the Homecoming game and dance finally arrived. At the football game, I wore my white Homecoming mum with the red pipe cleaner “A” glued in the middle, like a diamond brooch.  I sat next to Pam Ferguson who was popular, pretty, and one of the Homecoming princesses that night.  Doug escorted Pam at half-time when the Homecoming queen and princesses were announced and presented to the crowd.  After returning to her seat, Pam turned to me and said, “You have a date with Doug Fisk?  I think he is so cute!”  I decided not to tell Doug that little bit of information.  I knew I couldn’t compete with a Homecoming princess.   (I may have been a rule breaker but I wasn’t a fool).  Once again I marveled that unpopular, skinny “me” had a date to Homecoming with a football player.  I wasn’t a Homecoming princess but I felt like Cinderella.       

            After the game I went with a friend to the Civic Center where the dance was being held.  I waited there for Doug, who planned to change out of his football uniform and then come to the dance. The Civic Center was a squat, one-story cement block building with the paint peeling on the sign that read “Alton—All-American City”.   For me it was the castle where I would dance with my prince.  I was standing in the dim light at the back of the large hall when Doug walked in.  I will never forget seeing his body backlit by the lights in the doorway.  He took my breath away.                                                                                                                      

            As Doug walked over to me and started talking, I thought he would suddenly realize who I was (not the cheerleader type), say goodnight, and dance with someone else.  He didn’t.   Again, my pulse pounded so loudly in my ears it was hard to hear.  I did notice that he didn’t say; “ain’t” and he didn’t spit.  My mother would be pleased.  When the phonograph speakers blared out “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” we began to dance.   He was shy, thoughtful, and funny--not brash, egocentric, and rude.  I felt like the luckiest girl at the party.  I can’t remember what we talked about that night or what I wore, but I will always remember the outline of his body as he stood at the door of the Civic Center looking for me.  Doug drove me home that night in his family’s 1954 Dodge four-door with an army blanket thrown over the front seat to cover the rips in the upholstery.  To me, it was a golden carriage.                 

            Our first date was October 23, 1965.  Doug’s hair has thinned and his stomach is not as washboard-flat as it once was.   After two children, I am no longer skinny and no longer care whether or not I’m popular. We have been married almost thirty years.   He still makes me feel like the luckiest girl at the “party”.  When he enters a room looking for me, he still takes my breath away.  Doug claims, however, that I asked him out on our first date.  I swear--HE asked ME to Homecoming--at least that’s what I keep telling my mother!