The sergeant at arms barks out the command as the judge enters the room.
Everyone stands up out of respect.
The casual onlookers.
All rise out of respect and eyes go forward.
The wedding march starts to play. Someone looks back. “Here they come!” The bride in her resplendent dress, on the arm of her father, is coming down the aisle.
The soaring strains of The Hallelujah Chorus ring through the cathedral.
“The Lord God Omnipotent reigneth…”
The king rises. The queen. The royal family. The cabinet.
The entire gallery rises.
The faithful rise.
Infants are carried high.
Something more than the normal human experience lifts them.
The honor guard marches to the field. In the middle is one with a metal spring boot where a foot should be. Still he summons all his skill to step smartly as the national banner flutters above his head. He is proud and intense. Memories of searing heat and rolling thunder cloud his mind. Flag-draped caskets in the plane he rode home in.
The crowd rises.
The singer rises.
The men in the 33rd row rise with their VFW hats on, emblazoned with patches.
The high school kids visiting the game rise.
The fourth plane rises — high into the sky, the missing airman symbolizing the thousands of airmen and women who perished holding back oppressors. The Somme. Berlin. Midway. Iwo. The Yalu. Khe Sahn. Kuwait. Flight 93.
Tears rise to the surface as they sing the question about “Does it still wave…” and “What kind of land does it now wave over?”
Thousands rise, mostly middle-class and working class people who love the game.
Some who play the game do not rise.
Some raise a fist.
They are ashamed of something, but no one is sure exactly what.
After the game a bus takes the players to a VIP parking garage at an undisclosed location.
Exotic luxury cars rise out of the sunken ramps and blare out rising songs of all sorts from expensive and loud music systems.
They rise to reenter their unique daily lifestyles in the country they inhabit.