Never, ever leave early

I’ve always taken issue with people who leave sporting events early. 
If you’re going to leave a baseball game during the seventh inning stretch or a football game after the third quarter, why did you even bother showing up in the first place?
I should really practice what I preach. 
Classes C and D participated, bravely I might add, in its district track meets Thursday through the wind, rain and just odd weather conditions. 
My Thursday began with a nice drive up Highway 11 to Burwell to cover Giltner’s efforts in the D-5 district track meet and see how many Hornets could punch tickets to Omaha. 
Surely you can already see where this is going.
The weather was decent through the morning and early afternoon as the Hornets punched several qualifiers through the early session. 
But, as the action began to shift to the track events, the sky grew increasingly dark and ominous. 
Everyone knew the weather was coming, it was a matter of when it would show up. Just about 3 in the afternoon was the correct answer. The meet went into a weather delay just after the 100 and 110 high hurdle preliminary races. 
I had a bright idea. I already had enough photos and instead of waiting for the weather delay to end in an unspecific amount of time, I could beat the storm out of town and sail for an early night home. 
The storm won.
By the time I got on the road and just past the Nebraska Big Rodeo arena, it was so dark out it could’ve passed for 3 a.m., not 3 p.m.
I probably made it a mile out of town before you-know-what hit the proverbial fan. 
The News-Register pickup was swallowed up by the wall of dust blowing across the prairie and this sports guy became a sitting duck. 
I pulled over to what I thought was the side of the road and waited. I couldn’t see the hood of the pickup, the rear bed or out any window. It was a muddy, dirty hurricane. 
Or, a tornado? 
Oh, the wind. It was so fierce that you could feel the vehicle rolling over to the left. I began coming up with an explanation for the bossman on why the pickup was in a rollover accident over in the next pasture. 
Before long, the pickup began bouncing like a basketball, up and down with a bit more hang time on occasion. 
Not ideal. 
With a firmer grip on the wheel than Dale Earnhardt winning the Daytona 500, there was nothing else to do but wait. I couldn’t see, the hazards were flashing and I had a helpless feeling of waiting to be hit from behind. 
Or, I suppose, from the front.
After some of the dust blew away and I could see a sliver of the highway. The pickup had bounced, literally, onto the left side of the road. 
That’s not where I was when the dust found me. 
Not only that, but I was staring at the headlights of a Burwell local not far ahead of me. 
Makes perfect sense. 
We both pulled off on a side driveway and waited out the rest of the windy excursion. Once that blew past, the discovery of several downed power lines a spits throw from our vehicles provided another one of those you-know-what moments. 
I learned my lesson from Mother Nature. Never leave a sporting event early. 
RICHARD RHODEN can be reached at sports@hamilton.net.