By Walter Agnew Moore II,

Little did I know, when I suggested a "paper-grading party", that the front door would come crashing in and that Aunt Sue's house would be swarmed by all the Coolest Women From The Language Department, bearing armloads of groceries.

They took over the kitchen with the professional intensity of a veteran submarine crew preparing to dive. The German Baroque Poetry Specialist tossed the biscuits in the oven, while the one discussing Women's Rights in Revolutionary France mixed up brownies. The hellion ex-French Quarter pool-shark worked side-by-side with the demure Baptist preacher's daughter prepping vegetables for the Greek Salad, while the cute introverted brunette with Buenos Aires on her mind shuffled and stepped along with the scratchy rhythm of my Cumbia CD. Made me wish I knew the steps myself.

Me, I grilled up the steaks, and simultaneously smoked out any wasp nests that might have been hanging out in the attic.

Afterwards, we played poker and sang hymns.

---

So I got a letter from Arts Revive in Selma asking me to join, I sent in a check and now I'm in. I take my new membership duties seriously, seeing myself as a Dickensian Factory Owner, and the artists that my money supports as ungrateful orphans who need to learn to work for their gruel.

In that state of mind I plan to attend this weekend's show at the Harmony Club, David "King Kong" Hurlbut's semi-restored vampire-castle on Water Avenue. I have already called one artist, Teresa "Yellow-Hair" Cammack and informed her that I expect her to paint constantly now that I own a piece of Arts Revive. Any of you in Selma, Maine, New York, or Paris, I expect you to jet into town this week-end and attend.

B'HAMSTER: STEEL DOGS

Dionne and I have driven to the Civic Center to watch the Birmingham Steel Dogs play Arena Football against San Diego, determined that we wish nothing but ill on the opponents, that we hate them and all that they stand for, and that we must see them crushed and broken, limping back to their plane dragging the remnants of their soiled pride behind them like damp toilet paper stuck to the shoe of a drunk.

Well, I am determined. Dionne is a little more relaxed, she's just out to see the game. And to get an impromtu new hairstyle as her long dark hair tries to levitate out of the open top of the Tracker.

The Civic Center has grown since I was here last. It is like "The World of Tomorrow" minus the monorails, robots, and Esperanto. Eventually we find the right part. All along I am chanting "Steel Dogs!" and trying to convince Dionne that she should add a syncopated "whoof" after the phrase.

"It's not really feminine to bark like that," she points out.

"Hell it ain't, they got girl dawgs too!"

"You want a hot dog? I'll get them and meet you by the gate."

As we emerge inside the coliseum the crowd roars. I stand at the rail with my arm raised and shout "Hail, Romans! I, Caesar, declare these games to
be-- oomph--"

The Steel Dogs are in orange and black, the visiting San Diego squad is in white with blue trim.

"It's easier to tell them apart than usual," says Dionne, "all our guys are black, and all of theirs are white."

That's almost true. Our guys are wiry little black guys, only one or two seem to have any meat on them. The San Diegans tend toward the bulky, lumpish, no-neck, shaved-head look.

"They're not all white. They got a couple of Mexicans."

"Yeah, well they still look way bigger. I don't like this."

Arena Football is a basketball court covered with green mats, more mats along the sides that the runners slam into, eight players to a side, and is quite fast and exciting. There is more intensity, and more scraps, more flare-ups.

"Man," I say, "it must be because those guys are penned up in there with no sidelines to run off of, they are about to get into it!"

"I don't like that other team! They are meanies!"

San Diego has our guys down by a touchdown the whole game. Sometimes they get 10 points ahead, and we'll close again, but we can't get even with them.

The Show Steelers come out to dance at regular intervals. These are 15 or so young women with pom poms and an inability to sit still. Some of them are pretty good dancers.

"Gotta use those cheerleader-camp moves sometime in life," Dionne rolls her eyes.

"Uh-huh," I say, distracted. Every time the Show Steelers make a move, they give their metallic pom-poms a shake.

The Show Steelers also participate in spectacles of Fan Humiliation every few minutes, as some poor sap is given the chance to come out on the floor and show his inability to pass or kick a football in order not to win a new car.

My favorites, though, are the Child Humiliations, where they do things like have kids try to race around an obstacle course wearing clown-shoes.
Couldn't be better if you added lions.

The music blares out again, "Who Let the Dogs Out", as a man behind us does the "Whoof, whoofwhoof, whoof, whoof".

"That song, I have mixed feelings about that song," says Dionne. "I was in a marathon in Berlin, and they played that song."

"And?"

"And it was a Women's Marathon, is what! Don't you think they knew what the words meant, when they picked out 'Who Let the Dogs Out' to blast out in the streets of Berlin as 10,000 women came running around the corner?"

I think. "You're saying... some Germans... made a joke?"

"It's POSSIBLE. I used to like that song, but after that..."

Our guys cannot catch up. As soon as they score, San Diego does the same.
There is another time-out. This time it is some sort of Parade of Mascots, with animals representing all the colleges and universities of Alabama flouncing around the court. The Show Steelers dance around with them, giving their pom-poms a shake after each step.

"Damn I need a pellet gun," I say.

"You are BAD."

"You don't even know. If I was one of those mascots, I'd put the pants on backwards and come running out with the tail hanging out the front."

"What? And mentally scar some little kid?"

"Hey, it's animals, animals got--"

"Stop it!"

"Hey, how come nobody has a Female Baboon mascot?"

"The 'Babettes'?"

"Whoa look whoa look LOOKLOOKLOOK--"

"DAMN!GOGOGOGOYOUGOyiiii!"

The place is an uproar. Our guys returned a kick ALL THE WAY, they didn't lay a hand, not a finger on the runner.

"Take THAT you bald-headed behemoths!"

"You old meanie-players! HA!"

We are ahead. For the first time in an hour of play we are ahead, and there is less than two minutes to play.

San Diego gets the kick, and they grind their way down. They score and take back the lead. About a minute left.

Our guys go back on offence, and make it close to the goal. We don't have anybody big in the game at this point. The coach is talking to his players.
Suddenly, the crowd starts moaning as the remaining 30 seconds of the clock start running down again. Stop it! Stop it!

At 15.4 seconds it stops.

"What are they doing?"

"They did it on purpose. We only need a second to kick a field goal. Then there won't be time for them to score again."

The kick is good. There are maybe ten seconds left on the clock, Steel Dogs ahead 57-55.

"Let's start moving down," says Dionne.

"Wait, let's stop here, watch the last plays."

"No..."

"We're gonna beat them! They can't come back now!"

"No..."

They can come back. They do. Two seconds left in the game, San Diego makes their own field goal. 58-57. It's over.

The Steel Dogs gather on their knees in the middle of the court. The San Diego boys come over and and kneel down with them, mixed in amongst them.

"They're praying."

"And look, here come the Show Steelers, they're praying too."

And they do, going down to one knee in a ring outside of the players, with heads up or bowed as they listen.

Then the one leading the prayer says "Amen", and the players stand up. And then the Show Steelers stand up.

And give their pom-poms a shake.