The Game is Never About the Game
The thought of fall embraces me the way my grandmother does. Fall evokes driving through back roads, with the top down, scarf flying off in reckless abandon, skin stinging from the cool chilly air.
Pulling over to take in the last light of day. Amidst the ample bed of crimson, gold and warm brown leaves, the branches snapping under our L.L. Bean boots, we find an opening to build a crackling, tiny bonfire. Thank heavens I remembered my oversized corduroy barn coat, but where the hell is my beanie?
We snuggle close. These friends are more than friends, they are tried and true, bruised and blue.
The cork is precariously pulled from a bottle of delicious, dark, inky, fruit-forward Zinfandel. The wine is sloppily poured into red plastic cups that are clumsily held, our multi-colored, wool mittens make it difficult. Someone turns up the car stereo. Silence put to music. The flames of our poor attempt of a bonfire turns into embers, we welcome the night under the stars.
Out is the fire, pink are our cheeks, empty are our glasses.
We walk briskly, almost run, through the crisp air to the lakeside cabin, half tripping over the colorful canoe paddles tossed in the grassy yard. We are confident that our sophisticated cocktails, missing key ingredients, will taste just as good, but quickly turn our attention to shots of cheap peppermint schnapps heaped into steaming hot cocoa, finished off with oversized dollops of whipped cream. We fall into slumber knowing that we have a big day ahead.
College game day. I’m now wearing a gold, wool cardigan, paired with a Scottish plaid skirt, dark tights, warm mittens, and the beanie that had previously been missing.
Traffic has come to a full stop, but close enough to the alumni center, so we park. We are greeted by fans handing out frothy, cold beer which spills over the mugs, and hollering the fight song which may or may not be the correct version. Crowded, but comfortable and warm, we realize we must face the cold and crawl through the masses dressed in crimson and gold. Complete gridlock at the entrances. Did I remember to bring the tickets?
The marching band is already on the field, we scurry to find our “not so good seats” in the end zone. Time to get settled.
The stadium is electric, and the crowd draws on the energy. We are there for the fandom, pageantry, tradition and rivalry. We are there for the vodka in our flasks. And in the end, does it really matter who won the game?
The game is never about the game.
