Commentary: A fan of comfort

With time, definition of supporting team shifts

Just to give you an idea of how the football season is going for me ...

The Hogs lost to a school from a conference whose abbreviation is half a comfort food. And no, there's no "SEC and cheese."

My alma mater tried to kill me by waiting about three and a half quarters to decide that, since they'd gone all the way to Tennessee with the expressed purpose of playing football, they might as well start.

And my favorite NFL team elected to show the collection of talking heads, who were otherwise certain, that, no, the team could not rush for a yard anytime it wanted to. Frankly, that seemed like a pretty silly way to prove a point.

In other words, since the only thing worse than Saturday was Sunday and the best thing you can say about Saturday was I only lost my religion a half dozen times, this season has not been kind, with the exception of one fact: I'm 1-0 at the tailgate.

You measure success your way, I'll measure it mine. And mine includes ice and a nugget tray.

That's because I've reached the age where commitment and comfort need to intersect to a very significant degree to even get me out of the house. And if the Hog hat-wearing, face-painting, die-a-little-every-time-a-pass-sails-high-in-the-end-zone fan wants to contend I'm not supporting the team because I'm not there with them, well, I beg to differ.

I am there. I'm just under the tent, with a cold drink and ribs.

I didn't used to be this way. My dad was a come-early, stay-late kind of fan, and for years, I followed that practice. OK, some would say obsession, but, for now, practice.

I've sat in snow, bitter cold, intense heat and freezing rain (not all at the same time, though I remember an Arkansas-SMU game in Little Rock when I was looking for frogs and locusts, because all the other plagues seem to have shown up). Now, I sit in a bag chair. A big one, with cup holders and a clear view of the TV.

And I'll admit, when I was younger, say, actually in college, I would have scoffed at me. If I had recognized me. Or any of the other blurry shapes barely visible through the cheap sunglasses covering my bloodshot eyes.

Back then, getting ready for the game meant waking up, trying to remember where I was (at my college, we started early -- say, Wednesday -- and stayed late -- say, the next Wednesday), putting on the reddest thing I owned that had been washed the most recently, scrapping the last peanut butter from a care package from home out of the jar, having some pre-game "punch" (FYI: nothing ever ends well that starts with, "and then we added the Everclear"), and staggering off to watch the home team do battle.

Many times there was actually a football game being played. I tended to lose track of the schedule. I was, however, there for them. Which was important.

Now, I start early ... loading the car with ice chests, bag chairs, veggie trays, extension cords, the two life-sized blow-up Razorbacks (assuming, of course, that hogs would actually approach about six feet in height if they learned to stand on their hind feet and wear sweaters with big "A"'s on them), rain jackets in case it does rain, electric fans in case it doesn't and assorted other tent decorations (did I mention the chandelier? Perhaps best not to go into details).

Now, instead of some mysterious and potentially illegal concoction mixed by the gallon in a probably clean trash can, our tailgate has a wine list and diet drinks. Because ... you know, calories.

And instead of the last bites of a candy bar that had been in your room for an indeterminate amount of time, there's a pretty impressive spread that covers two tables.

A note about tailgate food: best efforts at coordinating a meal aside, it's going to wind up looking like Food Day at work. This is fine, as long as you're comfortable with a plate bearing cheesy bean dip, ribs, two doughnuts, egg rolls, bacon-wrapped bacon, cupcakes with small plastic footballs stuck in them (don't eat the footballs), some kind of mix-and-match snack stuff and a whole lot of Ranch dressing/Sriracha/sweet and sour sauce. All at 10:30 a.m.

Strangely, it all works...

As does the whole tailgating experience for me. To such a degree, in fact, that I may not actually make it into the game itself. In fact, now that we've added the TV package to the tent, I can almost guarantee it.

You see, the thing about athletics is, on the field, at least, you're going to lose more than you win. To be a fan is to come to terms with the fact that, more times than not, you're going to be disappointed. That's why, after a few laps around the old track of life, you begin to understand the key is enjoying yourself along the way. Friends, food and laughter become increasingly more important than the final score.

You may not win the game, but you can always win the pre-game. Make that pre/post/during game.

Just don't forget the Sriracha.

Commentary on 09/18/2015

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