Some families go on beach trips and wear matching pajamas at Christmas.
We do stadium food, cold metal seats, overpriced foam fingers, and the kind of yelling that leaves your throat wrecked the next day.
Our sons grew up thinking a Saturday under stadium lights was as normal as dinner at the table.
So when we scored four seats for the championship game, my husband Dean acted like he’d won the lottery.
« Section 112, » he said, waving the tickets around in the kitchen.
« Good angle, close enough to feel the noise, not so close we get beer spilled on us. » He said that like it was an impossible dream.
By kickoff, the stadium was a living thing. Thirty thousand people packed into concrete and steel, all of them buzzing, stomping, and shouting.
The lights were so bright the field looked unreal, like something built just for television.
