Old Sport

This year, the Old Sport Champagne Badminton League and Postmodern Literary Society presented 24 Hours of Old Sport – 2013 (First Annual Bonnet Edition).
Saturday March 23, 1 PM to Sunday March 24, 1 PM. Old Sport is a yearly two day party that happens at the Wise Acre Farm in Sorento Fl.

Getting to the Wise Acre Farm was an adventure in itself. Winding country roads gave way to dirt roads. The GPS kept Terry and I on track but the road seemed to stop. We pulled into a horse farm where a suicidal dog kept walking in front of the car.  The dog wasn’t barking but Terry was sure we were in the wrong place. We pulled out and drove through a gate and then drove through a field up a hill towards a gazebo. A bonfire hinted that we had reached our destination.

The Old Sport “Super Committee” consists of
Kim Buchheit (Custodian and Referee)
Naomi Butterfield (Bonnet Judge and Egg Stasher)
Rachel Kapitan (Old Sport Stylist and Mixologist)
and Mr. Robert Johnson (“Token Male”, Live Music and Jam Leader)Terry and I arrived just in time to sample dinner. Everyone sat in a line in their lawn chairs watching the fire. In all there were perhaps 30 Old Sports in attendance. Everyone had been issued lanyards and you could get stickers if you performed stellar deeds. Terry got a sticker for her pink bonnet. Half way through the night she discovered that the hat was meant to be worn inverted inside out. Rachel Kapitan won the egg hunt contest. She knew she had a shot at winning since she was a home town egg hunt champion in her youth. The bar was located in the garage and I sampled the white wine we had brought.

Robert Johnson began performing on the make shift wooden stage set up under a tent. His band “Everyday Ghosts” had split up so he sang solo.  The stage was lit with citronella candles and the fire’s blaze. Electric lights also rimmed the tent’s edge. I was offered a sticky smoors and a milky herb drink as I sketched. People circled up around the fire and the tribal dancing began with drums keeping beat. Dancer, Micihael Sloan, kept the dancing primal and borderline dangerous. He jumped over the flames with grace, and did cartwheels. He wore some pink bunny ears and by evenings end he was christened, “the fire bunny.”

Terry and I had brought a tent but Kim offered up her studio which is where we crashed for the night. Amazingly, the next morning the fire was still blazing. All the Sping trimmings from the farms trees had been burned. A pink blaze on a wooden fence marked the spot where a freeway would one day cut through the property. Robert Johnson’s stage was likely in the south bound lane.