It’s that time of year, my friends. A crisp chill is in the air and everything sparkles with the glistening sheen of icy frost. It’s time to bundle up in our warmest clothes: the arctic parka that you can bounce bullets off of and the pullover cap in bright colors with the big puffy ball on top. Yes. It’s time to go to the stadium and watch The Football.
It’s not easy waking up on a Sunday morning after a night of serious drinking to catch a 1:00 game. It’s best to force yourself to puke the night before so that the hangover isn’t too terrible. If you’re like me (and don’t you think it’s probably about time that you take a serious look deep inside your soul and realize that you are?) you’ll finally stumble out of bed to the sound of your friend pounding on your door. You can’t invite him in because your place looks something out of Se7en.
So while he goes to get a cup of coffee, you jump in the shower. Of course, you’re in such a hurry (and still a little fucked up) you forget to rinse the soap out of your crotch, discovering your error as you’re putting on your underwear. No amount of soaking wash cloth is going to get that rinsed off. You might as well get back in the shower and try only to get wet from the waist down, so you do. And fail.
Your friend’s been waiting twenty minutes for your useless ass by the time you get in the car. An hour later, you’ve finally found parking (way off the beaten path because you’re both too damn cheap to spend four bucks a piece on a pay spot close to the stadium). Now you at long last make it to the bar. You don’t really want to drink–shit, your head is throbbing and you just threw up in your mouth when you walked in the place–but you order a beer and a shot of Jack. The first one goes down hard, but it gets easier, and in no time you’re feeling warm enough to brave the elements and make your way to the game.
At the gate you proudly hand the tickettaker your $60 back row, 300 level ticket with the mysterious letters “Obs. Vw.” on it and then make your way up roughly 400 miles of ramp. The incline is so gradual that you’re required to circumnavigate the stadium 47 times. Exhausted, you get to a vendor and buy a $10 hot dog and a $15 beer. You leave the concession area and enter the stadium, getting your first look at the field and stands. You glance up to where you’ll be sitting. And up. And up. You brace yourself with a long sip of beer for the brutal climb to yours seats. There are approximately 70 rows in the upper level, which could probably comfortably hold 40 rows max. You’re in row 70, which is 130,000 beer-slicked steps up. Sweating and gasping, you reach your seats and spend the next 10 minutes in a hazy fog as your brain fights to stay alive from the lack of oxygen and the unexpected and unwelcomed exercise.
Finally, the game. You get your binoculars out and focus in on the field. Even with the powerful glasses, you can still barely make out colors, let alone forms. Ahh. A blurry blob that is probably a cheerleader. Sweet. You focus in on the game just in time for the start of half time.
Your team sucks ass this year, but somehow miraculously pulls off what will laughingly go down in the books as a win, but by then you’re too drunk to care, blathering on to your friend about last Monday’s episode of Gossip Girl. And then it’s the slow descent back to sea level. This time you’re moving as an amorphous hive-like organism with about 30,000 extremely drunk, obnoxious frat guys. Then it’s home to pass out and check out the late replay to see if by some weird act of God you were on tv.
Ah, The Football.