Column: It could be worse, kid

I’m a big fan of the 2001 HBO miniseries “Band of Brothers.”

In fact, I think the World War II epic, based on the book by late historian Stephen Ambrose, represents some of the finest television programming in history.

In one memorable episode, the soldiers of Easy Company battle the fierce winter cold – and, of course, the Germans – in the woods of Bastogne, Belgium during the Battle of the Bulge.

Later, one of the paratroopers who made it back home said for the rest of his life, he always thought about his time in that miserable, frigid forest on long winter nights, and often remarked aloud, “I sure am glad I’m not in Bastogne.”

Granted, sportswriters have precious little in common with the men of Easy Company.

But there are times near the end of the high school football season, when the mercury dips into the 20s and the wind howls out of the north like a vengeful banshee, that I can’t help but shudder at the memory of an impossibly bleak and desperate wintry night, when I wasn’t at all sure I’d escape the bony hand of hypothermic death to see my loved ones again.

And then, my eyes fixed in the faraway stare of a wizened veteran, I sometimes say, quietly and to no one in particular, “I sure am glad I’m not on top of the East Burke press box.”

It was late in the football season back in ’93 when my outfit, which included, among others, WBRM Radio’s Van McKinney and Walt Bagwell, and erstwhile McDowell Titans statisticians Danny Willis and Ralph Burnette, became stranded on that lonely, windswept outpost.

In those days, visitors to the Cavaliers’ home field could forget all about finagling a seat in the enclosed portion of the press box. Off limits, too, was the next-highest level, which features concrete partitions that effectively shield onlookers from the elements. Here were seated the school’s football boosters, older gentlemen whose donations no doubt helped defray the construction costs of the edifice.

Our lot, it seemed, was to scale a tall metal ladder and exit through a sort of manhole onto the roof. Once our climb was completed, we busied ourselves setting up the portable tables and chairs we had brought. We hadn’t been seated long when the sun dipped below the horizon and an Arctic tempest began to swirl violently around us, threatening to blast us headlong off the roof and into eternity.

I leaned forward across the wobbly folding table and cast a nervous glance over the edge. It was probably only 35 feet or so to the ground below, where happy fans lined up for hot dogs and coffee, but it might as well have been 1,000.

Unable to hide my displeasure at our predicament, I turned with trepidation toward Ralph, only to discover, instantly and to my horror, that he was badly afflicted with the same insidious malady as I – a paralyzing fear of heights. Without a word, we rose and moved the table back as far as we could without losing sight of the field. It stayed there the rest of the night.

The game itself went by in a blur. I recall MHS tailback Marcus Stacey rolling up about 100 yards and Titans defensive end Shane Ramsey tackling everything that moved. McDowell won in a rout.

And somehow, our company made it through the battle. By the end, my hands were blocks of ice, and it was only through intense concentration and effort that I was able to keep writing down stats and play-by-plays. The gale never abated in the least, driving the chill deep into our bones. But we never lost a man.

Thankfully, most of the football stadiums we visit nowadays have enclosed press boxes. Even East Burke, in recent years, began allowing the visiting press into the cozy confines of the lower level, although it hardly matters to me now: We don’t play them any more.

Things are, by and large, much more civilized these days, and it’s a good thing.

The high school football playoffs are well underway in North Carolina. From here on out, there will unquestionably be some mighty uncomfortable nights. Not knowing any better, sportswriters will complain endlessly about the conditions.

And even though I could, I won’t berate the naïve youngsters for their lack of grit.

I’ll simply flash a weary smile and shake my head. “Could be worse, boy,” I’ll say. “You could be on top of the East Burke press box.”