Samples - Football Frenzy
Football is the season my family has anticipated this moment since football season ended last year. My husband, Tim, spends winter evenings experimenting with the latest radios, Walkman, and headsets. My brother, Boyd, calculates how far it is from the Sanford Stadium hedges to his front door in Hampton. Meanwhile my son-in-law, Eric memorizes the names, numbers, and stats on every player. They huddle and plan, purchasing season tickets to e very Georgia football game between the hedges or otherwise. They track their favorite players on Georgia Bulldogs at the University of Georgia. Collectively, they are the Boss Tweed machine of Athens football. I have to deal with them at every game.
It's not that I don't enjoy football. Just not as much as THEY do. Obliviously they watch and cheer while I bake in the afternoon games, freeze at the night games, or pour rain out of my tennis shoes. But I draw the line at painting my face, wearing bulldog insignias on my underwear, and baking brownies for Section 121 of Sanford Stadium. The Georgia vs. Clemson game was so cold one year that I caught myself slipping my hands in a complete stranger's pocket to avoid frostbite. I wonder if there are support groups for people with sports addiction.
Once I mistakenly asked when the officials would "call" the game like they do in baseball when the weather is inclimate. Tim responded "Football is a real man's sport. There's no calling the game."
Football Saturdays begin the same way at the Hudson Household. We are Up at daybreak, no matter what the ACTUAL game time. We park in the same place and join our family for the pre-game meal at the same restaurant. Afterward, the football mafia proceed to the stadium along the same route we've followed for 18 seasons entering the same gate, plucking a tiny piece of the sacred hedge, and nodding to fellow stadiumites on the way to our traditonal row and aisle. To change any tradition would be a serious breach of sacred football rituals and rites of passage. Tinkering with tradition could jinx the game for the Dawgs. Who needs that kind of guilt?
You can feel the electricity mount as Tim unfolds our red stadium seats. My job is to test and distribute each Walkman radio. I adjust the dials and volume so that Larry Munson and Loran Smith come in loud and clear. I ration water and snacks tucked in the black and red official game bag, clean my sunglasses, and put on my visor. I focus the binoculars and pass them to Tim. The crowd is buzzing while I am doing all of this; I have missed kick-off.
I pass out the hand held Coca-Cola fans, individual misters, water bottles, and trail mix. I collect the reusable plastic stadium cups with the Georgia bulldog cartoons on the side. On cold game days, I smuggle in a thermos of coffee, blankets, and insist my family wear battery powered hunting socks. Our supply bag looks like we about to embark on a voyage to the center of the earth or at least climb Kilimanjaro.
By now it's half time. The family clan buys peanuts, Cokes, and goes to the rest room. It is my job to stay with the "stuff". I pass out the sunscreen for everyone to re-apply. Water bottles are replenished. I go for hot dogs, popcorn, and nachos at the beginning of third quarter. By fourth quarter and I am back threading my way through the crowd and doling out the last of the tailgate leftovers.
The sun sets. We file out -- smiling and yelling if the Dawgs win. More demure if the Dawgs lose. I guess one could say our family has truly gone to the dogs - the Georgia Bull Dawgs that is. It was a great game. I wonder who we played?
