The poetry of college football

I know you're out there, clutching your season tickets, counting the days, deciding what to wear, wondering if it'll be hot or cold, if it will rain, waiting, somewhat impatiently, for the college football season to finally begin.

From big towns and small, all at once, you'll emerge from the back roads, onto the interstates, like migrating herds, dogged, determined, flying the colors, caravans of cars and vans, stocked to the gills with potato salad and fried chicken, sweet tea by the gallon, soft drinks, hard drinks and just enough deviled eggs to go around twice.

It's an ageless procession of frat boys and pretty girls, sorority sisters, old and young, near and dear, distinguished alumns, loud mouth louts, children in cheerleader uniforms, drunks in T-shirts and ties, tossing footballs and talking trash.

Then with folding chairs, tightly circled, in dusty lots and grassy fields, perfectly parked, acre upon endless acre, color coordinated, anxious and antsy, fiddling with satellite dishes and scraping paper plates while waiting for shadows to fall and stadium lights to illuminate the dark sky, officially turning game day into night.

Smoke and fire

Once inside, stacked to the stars, elbow to elbow, buying programs and popcorn, stepping over each other, excuse me, excuse me, please and thank you, what a night, what a sight, sure hope the home team wins.

And they might, or not, depending on the truth, and rumors, about sophomore tackles and redshirt quarterbacks and what the coach had to say about so-and-so last week.

A few boos for the visiting varmints, jumping jacks and leg lifts, practice punts that hang high in the lights, falling softly onto it cool wet grass, chewed up by the cleats of cutting cornerbacks, double checking coverage, assignments, and girlfriends gabbing in the grandstands.

Then down the hill and through the tunnel they come, smoke and

cannon fire, combined to thrill and quicken pulses, gladiators in the arena, trotting, taunting, to the beat of a drum major, high-stepping, bringing the band and its audience to a chilling crescendo.

Pain and passion

Awash in the ebb and flow, a touchdown here, a field goal there, the game unfolds, the good, the bad, for better or worse, damn the luck, and the referees, not to mention the tailback who fumbled on the one.

Screaming helps, but you've got to pee, too much sweet tea, maybe later, in the second half, when the lines aren't long, when only true believers are left, holding hands, singing alma maters, in the rain.

Win or lose the traffic's tough, sitting still, inching nowhere, as the coach comes on the radio, explaining himself, finding victory in defeat, looking ahead to next week, next year, when things will be better, or worse, he really doesn't know.

But it's all brought to you by somebody's hot dog chili, perfect for tailgating, and the local bank that loves the home team, and you, the faithful fan, whose family's needs are always met by a former field goal kicker turned insurance salesman.

In the aftermath comes analysis, talk of change, pain, promise and passion, for the game, the team, the common cause.

Back home the flags are stowed and pretty pennants put away, for another day, of hope and heartbreak, in those precious hours of fun, fashion and fancy called college football.

Reach Ken Burger at 937-5598 kburger@ postandcourier.com.