Wiston Papers

Is it tailgating or ...

“I see the football season has begun,” Beverly smiled as she poured the day’s coffee special and walked back to her counter.

“Yea, go Cyclones,” John pumped his fist in the air.

“You’re in a great mood,” I noted and took my first coffee sip.

“What’s to be unhappy about,” John enthused.  “It was a beautiful day, great crowds, cheerful noise, lots of enthusiasm,  plenty to eat and drink, great running, passing and catching.  Just perfect.”

“Wow you really liked the first game,” I acknowledged.

“What game?  No way, dude, I’m talking about the tailgating.”

“Wait a minute,” I reacted as my draw dropped. “The tailgating?  What about the game?

“Game?  Heck no.  We didn’t bother with that,” John explained as he gulped his coffee and leaned forward.  "The tailgate is where the action is, man.  You get to the stadium parking lot hours before kickoff wearing your school colors...”

“OK, but...”

“Everyone sets up their grills, hibachis or whatever new fangled cooking apparatus they have...”

“I’ve heard about the food, however,...”

“Out come the coolers with beer, soft drinks, wine, other liquid refreshments...”

“Heavy drinking,” I agreed, “but isn’t that a excessive before...”

“The kids grab their footballs and frisbees and start tossing them around...

“Yeah, the pre-game games sound like fun, but...”

“Then the big tents go up for receptions, alumni gatherings, all types of merchants selling game items.”

“Hm...money-making on the side,”  It dawned on me.  “Then the actual game starts in the stadium and...”

“Right,” John smiled, swallowed and leaned back, “then the real fun begins.”

“Real fun?”

“Sure, bro.  The crowds disappear and we real football tailgaters have the whole parking lot to ourselves."

“What do you mean...” I was afraid to ask.

“Do...do?” John sounded incredulous.  “Why we wonder from tent to tent, truck to truck, hatchback to hatchback.  We break open more brews, sample other people’s barbecued ribs, grilled chicken, hot dogs, you name it.”

“You don’t go to the actual football game?” I pressed.

“No, but...”

“You never enter the stadium?” I challenged

“Uh...well...” John retreated.

“You don’t even have a ticket do you?”  I advanced.

“You don’t understand, it’s...” John tried to recover.

“No, No.  I get it all right.  You just show up at a party or a wedding with no interest in the reason for it,” I saw my advantage.

“Wait...”

“You’re party crashers.”

“It’s not like that...” John weakly tried to counter.

“You’re hangers on with no real purpose.”

“Hey...”

“Leisure lizards who arrive for fun but no responsibility,”

“Now just a darn minute...”

“You’re dung beetles who drop in after the horses do their duty and the parade moves on.”

“Dung beetles?  How can you...”

“You arrive early, stay too long, and leave late.  Really, John, what in the world are you people doing there?  You show up, but never go to the game?

“It’s a tradition that...”

“It’s scary.  You people are scary. Really, scary.  You’re beverage beggars, hotdog hoboes, sports stalkers,” clearly feeling the effects of my caffeine rush.  "You're alumni aliases, fraud fans.  You people should really get a life.”

          “You don’t...”

“How’re we doing, sports fans?” Beverly asked as she brought a final round of coffee and the bill.

“John’s picking up this week’s tab,” I stood up “from the money he saved by not buying a ticket to the football game.”

Wait, that’s not fair...” John attempted.

“Don’t feel bad about it, John, “Beverly comforted.  “At least you know we won, right, right?  Oh, maybe not.  I forgot,”  Beverly joked  “you get all your news from CNN and FOX news.  OK, so here’s what really happened...”

Steve Coon

September 02, 2012