When I was a kid, my dad was a popular and winning coach of baseball and football at Flint Southwestern, a high school at which he also taught. My fondest memories of that period include sorting the zillions of coins he'd bring home from selling doughnuts before school (would this even be allowed now?) in order to fill up our rare-coin collection, going to football camp with his players (where my cousin and I would raid their rooms while they practiced, going through their stacks of Oui and Penthouse and worse) and, of course, seeing what was painted on The Rock each time we drove by.
The Rock is a slab of concrete down the road from the school, on which anyone and everyone has, forever and ever, painted a daily decoration—“Go, Colts!,” birthday wishes, what have you. Even back in the late '70s, the paint was incredibly thick.
Just read that a huge chunk of all that old paint mysteriously peeled away this week. Surprising it didn't happen sooner. It would be cool if it could be taken and maybe carved into little rocks of paint; seems a shame to trash it. But I guess the pleasure of The Rock is temporal—live for the day.