One of the highlights of my year is going into the living room early Christmas morning, setting up the video camera, aiming it at the hallway, and watching as my wife leads our kids into the room. Their faces light up with wonder at the very notion that all this glorious bounty is theirs.
I suspect I will have something like that kind of look on my face shortly before noon today, as I am seated in Sanford Stadium beside my son, watching the players warm up between the hedges, spotting the coaches as they stride across the field, arms crossed. I will glance at the scoreboard, awaiting the montage; I will look over my shoulder at the southwest corner of the upper deck, anxious for the arrival of the Battle Hymn soloist.
There will be sunshine splayed across a sea of red, and the team will retreat into the locker room. The band will play, a banner will be unfurled, and the voice of Brook Whitmire will cascade over the crowd. The players, clad in red jerseys and silver britches, will burst through, leaping and running, and the stadium will explode with sound.
Man, I love football.
Your thoughts on this occasion are welcome in the comments below.
Go ‘Dawgs!