Smokestacks in the Smoke

We are en route from Myrtle Beach to Charleston, South Carolina. Leaving a loss at Coastal Carolina University heading for Charleston Southern University, and hopefully a win. As our charter bus drove through Georgetown, South Carolina, we approached a large power plant. The metal sheeting of the building probably shined at one time, had since dulled under layers of coal dust particulates and the weathering of years of exposure. The buildings of this compound themselves seemed hollow as we passed on the right. Thin, slatted walls slapped around stairs and machinery. Slits revealed the inner workings of the beast below the smokestacks, coughing out a thin cloudstream. Two workers in hard hats and lime vests idled in the large doorways at the base entrances clogged with small bulldozers. Bright orange and blue signs adorned these doorways and numerous other strategic locations around the compound. Like a wasted minetown. Failing and floundering for breath, but giving the impression that it was a place you wanted to be.

We passed and came to a bridge over a river. To the right, another shinier power plant pumped smoke into the atmosphere with virility. The new metal gleamed the sun back to passerby. It lays riverside. I thought about the side of things that we don't see, how there is often a dark underbelly to all things seemingly good. Like power and electricity, even energy itself. To say nothing of money and labor.

Then I thought about the mood on the team bus today. About the hollow, empty feeling prevalent this morning. The silence that pervades everything. Everything that can be said has. There is only to try again tomorrow. Coming straight from church, the players wear matching custom-made sweatsuits, some of the coaches dress clothes. For some, the feeling inside does not match the external appearance. The general feeling seems to be that this is the social equivalent of putting a brightly colored sign on the dust coated wall of a dingy plant.