11:10 A.M. School Spirit

By Timothy Roche

On with Webster. On with Webster. Fight on for your fame. Fight, Statesmen, fight, And you will win the game.

--W.G.H.S. fight song

The bleachers vibrate, and the floors shake under the feet of 1,200 stomping, screaming kids crammed into the gym for a late-morning pep rally. They're celebrating the first winning football season in years--and the more immediate promise of an early release from school on this perfect fall afternoon. It is at once a moment of old-fashioned ebullience for students and unspoken, post-Columbine worry for teachers and staff. Principal Voss paces the floor with her walkie-talkie. Scores of teachers and student monitors are assigned sections of the gym, alert to everything from fights to the booing of freshmen, a long-standing tradition that has been banned this year as part of the campaign against factionalism. Also gone is the ritual of announcing entire team rosters during the pep rally. Administrators don't want to turn an otherwise popular jock into a target of the disaffected. Says Cliff Ice, the new football coach: "We don't want the players to be perceived around the school as something special."

Yet there's a limit to the school's influence. Key Club and Math Club have no pep rally, and student athletes are still celebrities among their peers. They're the ones who bring the parents to the stands on Friday nights. They get their names in the newspaper and get more pictures in the yearbook. Nearly every Thanksgiving since 1907, Turkey Day has capped the football season for Webster and nearby Kirkwood, drawing 7,000 fans and a large local TV audience for what's billed as the oldest high school football rivalry west of the Mississippi. (Webster leads, with 46 wins to Kirkwood's 33.)

Though the school may have stopped naming all the players in the pep rally, there are still raucous introductions for the few who are called to the floor for today's toilet-paper race, in which the players mummify their coaches. Among the loudest cheers are those for one football player, Bobby Granderson.

He's 18, a senior known as Bee Gee. He grew up in North Webster, the district's predominantly black neighborhood. His father is a supermarket produce manager; his stepmother works at a department store. Bobby once worked at the Gap after school, but with chiseled good looks and at 6 ft. 2 in. and 195 lbs., he looked as if he should be posing in the clothing chain's ads, not restocking its shelves. He has an ability to seduce both kids and adults. When he works as an aide in the principal's office, visitors often just stare at him.

Bobby carries his charm onto the floor of the gym as he passes out a rose to each member of the girls' softball team, whose coach has `recently died. Then he strolls over to principal Voss and hands her a bouquet. When the pep rally ends and school is dismissed early for the day, Bobby passes a freshman sitting on the steps outside. He says, "Hey," and waves. To be recognized by a jock like Bobby is a big deal to the kid, who beams. It is part of Bobby's charm. It brings him fame. Bobby climbs into a friend's Oldsmobile, with a large speaker blaring rap music in the backseat. They're going to a drive-in for chili dogs and draft root beer. As the car pulls away from the school, Bobby reaches under his seat and lights a Marlboro. You gotta do more than play football to be cool nowadays. Unfortunately, he knows it.

--By Timothy Roche