Glory of the Flag

"John!" I looked to see Mark Phillips calling for me. "Did you bring it?"
"You bet." I pulled the neatly folded cotton flag out of the plastic bag.
"Excellent." Without even opening it, Mark ran into the hardware store where, for the past three weeks, we had been building our homecoming float.
I wandered over to our completed float, where three of my lesser-active classmates were standing. "Not bad, John," one of them said, admiring the cardboard and plaster edifice. "You helped?"
"A bit," I said.
"Why in the world did we do a Mississippi paddle boat?" another student said.
"Duhhh... the theme of this year’s homecoming is regions of the country. We got the South," the first student said. The other just shrugged off the sarcasm.
Three pickup trucks pulled in behind the float. "Let’s go!" called out Mr. Hollins, our class advisor. "We gotta get moving!" I sprinted to the first pickup truck and climbed in the back. The metal sides were cold from last night’s October frost. I elbowed for a little space and settled in near the cab. A loud cheer from the last truck got my attention. I turned to see Ted proudly waving a staff with my flag attached to it.
"The South will rise again!" someone yelled, which just encouraged Mark to raise the Confederate battle flag higher in the air. The breeze snapped the flag straight back as Mark climbed into the third truck. With a lurch, we were off to the start of the parade.
We were the last class to arrive at the Middle School. It gave us a good view of the other classes and the mesh of cardboard, chicken wire, and duct tape they called floats. "We got this one in the bag," I said aloud to no one.
"About time!" The principal, Mr. Abernathy, yelled. "We have to start the parade immediately!"
"Then let’s go!" Mr. Hollins called back. Our "convoy" eased into line between the junior and freshmen class as the rest of the classes mounted their respective pickup trucks and started to pull away.
Within minutes we had turned on the main parade route. Dozens upon dozens of people lined the mile-long route to the High School. Some were sitting in lawn chairs, others on curbs, but most were just standing, probably just running out to see the spectacle. No wonder they knew of us: every driver hit his horn every twenty feet, drowning out for only a second the screaming high schoolers shouting at the top of the lungs and twirling noise makers.
I didn’t notice when Mark had leaped off his truck and started to run around our vehicles, hefting our flag -- my flag -- high in the air. He was just there, running along the left side of the truck. His route encircled our float and all three pickup trucks.
On his third pass, every student was rooting Mark on. Empowered by our vocal support, Mark didn’t stop at our float, instead continuing forward. The junior class’ jeers and catcalls rose above our cheers. Suddenly, a blur came from one of their trucks.
We knew the junior’s intentions as he chased Mark. Everyone in our truck stopped yelling for a moment, waiting to see if their thoughts were going to be true.
I didn’t wait. I pushed my way out of the truck, leaped down, and sprinted forward.
I could see the junior catch up to Mark and grab at the flag. The staff wavered, then fell as the junior wrestled it from a very surprised Mark. Mark made a quick grab at the cloth, managing to get hold of the edge. The junior quickly pulled his prize back. With a loud rip, a long section of the flag ended up in Mark’s hands. Mark just stood there, dumbfounded, as the junior started to run his own celebration route.
I had caught up to the junior almost immediately. I didn’t go for the flag. I grabbed the junior’s shoulder, and turned him around. I could see confusion in his eyes at first, then surprise, then the red in my own eyes covered his face. There was only one way to recover my flag -- the thief had to go first. It must have been the surprise, because he let go of the flag after only a couple of swings. For all I know, I may have missed him completely. All that mattered was that I had my flag back.
I had not read the manual on how one must act after retaking one’s flag, so all I could do was stand there for a moment, watching the floats drive by. I didn’t see the people in the trucks. I couldn’t. I picked up the staff with the flag, saw where Mark had dropped the other piece of the flag, and went to get it.
It was strangely quiet on Maple Avenue. The parade had already turned the corner on North Street and the spectators all had returned to their homes. I sheepishly picked up the ripped piece of the flag and turned to walk to my uncle’s house just down the street.
I could hear the homecoming parade arriving at the football stadium as I entered my uncle’s back porch. There was no one at home, and all I could do was sit on the porch, listen to the sounds of the game, with the flag in my lap, and cry.