Oakes: Goody, it looks like it’s my turn to get this mental gymnastics started this week. I hope you can compete without having the built-in advantage of going first and keeping the topic concealed like Colonel Sanders’ secret recipe until the last possible second.

I’m kidding, actually, because my plan is to keep the topic fun and light this week. High school football is a game of traditions ’round these parts. Sons, fathers and grandfathers suiting up for the same school over the course of 50 years. Pep rallies and team dinners at the same time every week, every season, because Lord knows superstition is alive and well. You know the stuff I mean.

So I ask you, Mr. High Grand Poobah of all things that involve a hockey stick, rely on your ever-expanding volume of gridiron familiarity and tell me, what is your favorite local football tradition? I’ll help you (or maybe take an obvious one out of play) by giving you mine. Spruce Mountain successfully defends its title in this space, because for me, there’s nothing better than the team and the marching band sauntering down that hill in tandem before the Phoenix run on the field to the school fight song.

It’s a Livermore Falls tradition that survived consolidation, and it’s perfect. No artificial smoke. No AC/DC “Thunderstruck” or Van Halen “Right Now” blaring from the speakers (not that either one is a bad alternative). You can set your watch to it at 6:45 on a fall Friday night. It is simple, beautiful Americana.

Better take it away before I get misty-eyed, boss.

Pelletier: Cry away, old man. I call shenanigans on this one, because not only are you taking away the most obvious choice for anyone who has ever seen a game in these parts, you are taking away the clear-cut winner, leaving me to choose between fire extinguishers, artificial noise and crumpled up, oversized crepe paper signage.

At least a certain hockey team about which I used to write on a daily basis on occasion unfurled a large flag on the ice and had local youth players hold and display it. Imagine that across the 50 to open a game?

So, to throw a wrench into your ambush, I am going to pick a tradition that is essentially ubiquitous. Like you, I am a sucker for sentimentality and also for the camaraderie of team. When a handful of the team’s players — ostensibly the captains — march onto the field for the coin toss with their coach, many have taken to holding hands in a sign of team solidarity. Given my more recent knowledge of the high school social pecking order, that can be an uncomfortable thing for a 16- or 17-year-old to do. That they do so with pride shows a deep brotherhood, a team unity that you and I and so many other opine as missing in today’s athletic landscape.

So, Mr. Football, who’s crying now?

Oakes: Normally I would say this discussion is veering too far into the bro-love department, but that’s not a bad one. You went way off the board. I kind of like it. As ubiquitous traditions go (waaaaaay too early in the morning, as of this writing, to deal with big words such as that), hand-holding beats the heck out of that infernal Kenny Chesney song everybody decided to adopt three or four years ago.

You have to be careful with musical traditions, though. Leavitt likes to play and sing “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond (speaking of ubiquitous) after every win. Somebody accidentally cued it up two weeks ago after a last-minute touchdown while the Cape Elizabeth game was still in progress, and the home team wound up losing in overtime. Kind of made me think John Lennon’s “Instant Karma” would be next on the list.

What’s foolproof is when there’s no tape or iPod, because a song effectively is a team’s secret club handshake. That’s why my list of favorite traditions includes Winthrop/Monmouth’s short, sweet “Boola Boola” chorus after a big home victory. Which, in recent years, have been mighty frequent.

Have I put a song in your heart, Mr. Coin Flip Kumbayah?

Pelletier: That “Sweet Caroline” is anyone’s tradition, high school or otherwise, is a sad, sad … sad commentary on societal tolerance. The only song you put in my heart, Mr. Boola Boola, is Dave Mason’s (who?) classic “We just disagree.” (There ain’t no good guy, there ain’t no bad guy/There’s only you and me and we just disagree.)

And for the record, “Thunderstruck” is a fantastic song during which to skate onto the field, I mean, run onto the ice … I mean … enter. 

I’ll be glad next week when I get to pick the topic again, too, so we can discuss a topic more near and dear to our … stomachs? Maybe. 

Until then, old man, try not to trip over the chains as you shuffle along the sidelines.

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