My small university town is virtually next door to a much larger university town. Running errands on a fall Saturday, one must be mindful of the zillion cars shuttling partisans to the big football game in our neighboring city. Traffic like that reminds me of my Los Angeles home, but it's not what you want to be in while picking up milk and eggs.
My small university town is virtually next door to a much larger university town. Running errands on a fall Saturday, one must be mindful of the zillion cars shuttling partisans to the big football game in our neighboring city. Traffic like that reminds me of my Los Angeles home, but it's not what you want to be in while picking up milk and eggs.
Still, I found myself on game day motoring toward the big stadium, searching out a parking place, and preparing to see a gridiron clash between two nationally ranked teams, the Stalwart Locals and their Cunning Rivals. Said preparations included food and beverages at a friend’s house as well as some pregame nonsense on TV.
It is easy to be jaded about big-time collegiate sports. Those amateur athletes earn millions of dollars for their schools by working essentially full time hours to practice and condition. Sometimes they are steered toward easier academic paths, ones that will not interfere with their first responsibility, excelling as football players.
True, a small percentage of players receive scholarships, but that is slight recompense compared to what schools rake in for ticket sales and generous endorsement deals with major shoe and sports gear manufacturers.
There’s an entire industry built on the sweat and toil of these unpaid youngsters. The television spills forth ceaseless chatter between countless commercials for snacks, soda, and beer. Unbelievable sums of money are exchanged.
My contingent joined in the teeming masses parading toward the massive arena. The crowd is overwhelmingly decked out in the local squad's jerseys, hats, necklaces, earrings, and face paint.
These folks must have a lot of disposable income, I muse, to purchase all that swag in addition to the almost $100 ticket. While I am fond of the Locals, it strikes me their tribe goes a little overboard. It’s all part of the “there's money to be made” culture surrounding college football.
But the in-person game day tempers my cynicism. Before jostling into my section and wedging into the assigned bench space, I witness native tailgaters extending hospitality to fans in the opposing team’s colors. Strangers a few moments ago, they part with heartfelt wishes to each other to “have a good game.”
Inside the stadium, multiple generations of season-ticket holders cheer the home team. Tiny cheerleaders gleefully toddle up and down the stairs, clutching a family member's finger and ignoring the action on the field. Grandparents get the same assistance to and from their seats.
As the Locals prevail throughout the contest, my voice joins the crescendo of strangers around me; when our team scores, we exchange high-fives like longtime best friends. The final score proves pleasing to the home crowd; in the shuffle toward the exits, smiles are plastered across the mass of humanity.
The experience sinks in as genuinely pleasant. There in that very large room, 100,000 of us forgot our everyday worries, sharing ample energy and enthusiasm over something as trivial as football. It was nice to spend the day with them.
Sure, it’s a big business, but it's more than that. What you see on TV isn’t the whole picture.
Pat Grimes, a former South Bay resident, writes from Ypsilanti, Mich. He can be reached at pgwriter@inbox.com
