There are no deadlines to meet; no fires to put out; no problems to solve. Just get up late, read the morning paper, have cup of coffee, and ...

"Hey, Dad, a couple of kids from school are coming over today," said the 15-year-old, destroying the tranquillity of an otherwise peaceful Saturday morning. "We're going to work on the homecoming float."

"But I was going to watch the Notre Dame game," I moaned.

"That's OK," he said. "You won't bother us."

"Well, that's certainly a relief," I groaned. I paused, then asked, "By the way, when you say a couple of kids, how many does that really mean?"

"Oh, I don't know ... a few."

"Wait a minute, a few is more than a couple. How many?"

"I'm not sure ... just a bunch of kids."

"A couple? A few? A bunch? Do you have any idea how many we're talking about here?"

"Not really," he admitted. "All I know is that I started spreading the word at school, and some kids are coming over."

So much for peace. So much for solitude. So much for the weekend!

OK, so this happened a few years back. The 15-year-old is now 21 and off at college. But I was reminded of this "special" event when Saratoga football coach Kurt Heinrich told me that the Falcons were having their homecoming game on Friday night. And memories of homecomings past flashed through my head.

The Fighting Irish had barely kicked off when the doorbell rang for the first time that Saturday morning in 1997.

"Hi, Mr. Sparrer," said one little blond girl while her two blond friends giggled alongside. "Is Kevin home?"

"Yeah," I grunted. "Come on in."

A car pulled up, and six guys piled out. Another car roared in, and there were five more. The scene became very familiar—every car loaded with teens and driven by parents who were smiling from ear to ear as they drove away.

The process continued until it seemed like every kid in the sophomore class had joined the assembly in our front yard.

"Have you seen how many kids are trying to cram into our garage?" I asked the wife. "Why are there so many of them?"

"Well," she explained, "they have to build their homecoming float."

"Homecoming float!" I screamed. "They have enough people out there to build all the floats for the Rose Parade!"

"Calm down," she said. "Maybe you should run out to the store and get them some sodas and chips."

"Sure, I had no plans." (After all, any hopes of watching the Notre Dame game were lost to the booming bass of the stereo.)

That's when I made a crucial mistake.

"OK, I'm going to the store," I yelled out to the kids. "What do you kids want to eat and drink?"

"Doritos!" "Pretzels!" "Fritos!" they screamed. "Pepsi!" "7-Up!" "Dew!" "Mug!" "Crush!"

"And, Mr. Sparrer, could you get some Diet Pepsi, too?" added a skinny little girl in the corner. "Oh, and maybe a couple of bags of candy."

"And don't forget a couple of bags of ice," added the wife.

A half hour and $61.86 later, I was back home, pitching bags of chips and candy into the feeding frenzy that had once been the sophomore class work party.

Work? I don't know. Party? Definitely.

It's funny, but when kids get together for such things, they fall into a number of different categories:

• Planners—those who have a vision for this float and will try to organize the project and direct this mob until the job is complete;

• Workers—the handful of boys and girls who jump right in and get the job done (needless to say, there are never enough young people in this category);

• Specialists—the girl with the artistic skills who can skillfully draw the background for the less talented to color in, and the boy whose dad owns the flatbed truck (because what's a float without a truck?);

• Talkers—usually the girls, who are really just there to see the guys;

• Goof-offs—usually the guys, who are really just there to see the girls.

The work usually lasts about an hour and a half at these affairs. The party lasts about four hours, or until the wife kicks kids out of the house because the boys are playing football in the living room.

This one lasted through the Notre Dame game, through the National League Championship Series game, and well into the American League game.

Finally, though, a certain serenity returned to the house. It was quiet and peaceful again. Maybe this was a weekend that could still be salvaged for some much-needed relaxation.

"Are they all gone?" I asked hopefully.

"Yeah," said the teen, "but so is all the soda. Do you think you could go get some more?"

"How come?"

"Well, they're all coming back tomorrow."

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.