This article originally appeared in TechSideLine, September, 2001
The Routine
by Bill Glose
Less than twenty-four hours before the opening kickoff, my gameday routine was altered.
The Routine had been developed over many years of game-watching through trial and error. Buy the snacks and drinks the night before. Clip the weekend TV schedule from the sports section and attach it to The Clipboard, right above the Top 25 printout with all the key match-ups highlighted. Scan the TV listing and plan out the day’s schedule: 11:00 pregame show, noon game, 3:30 game, evening game, and left coast night game. The routine extends through Sunday, when the new polls are released. Then, print them out and highlight the following week’s critical match-ups. Repeat as necessary.
I’ve heard that "Consistency is the Hobgoblin of little minds." But, I’ve also heard, "Don’t mess with success," "If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it," and "All your base are belong to us." The Routine is a good one, one that’s been proven to work time and time again, one that has taken years to develop. I eliminated ideas that sounded good on the surface that I later found were impractical for one reason or anther. Dressing the pets in cheerleader outfits, strapping on the elastic nacho tray kit (great, until nature calls), and experimentation with homemade surround sound systems (i.e. sitting in a semicircle of 5 TVs tuned to the same show). All of these had been whittled from the routine until it was perfect.
But, this year, my local cable company shattered my Utopia. The day before the first full weekend of college football, they temporarily discontinued service to upgrade the lines. Sure, if I’d read the mail they sent earlier in the week announcing the service interruption, I could have been better prepared. But, darn it, it just looked too much like the rest of the junk mail I receive. If it doesn’t have a hand-written address or a brown wrapper with ‘adult content’ emblazoned on the outside, it goes straight into the circular file. So, when snow hissed at me from every channel the night before the game, I was confused.
I was in a quandary. I could go to one of the local sports bars. Hooters has several TVs to cover multiple games. But, I wouldn’t feel comfortable lugging all my paraphernalia to the restaurant and occupying a booth for the entire day. They might guilt me into a steady order of food and beer to compensate for use of the tabletop, leaving me either too soused to make it home or too broke to afford a tank of gas. I wouldn’t mind if that meant staying at Hooters indefinitely as their lovable mascot. But, they weren’t receptive to that idea last year, so I figured I’d need another plan.
Unfortunately, I’d also worn out my welcome at various friend’s houses. One by one, I’d overrun their dens, usurped their remote controls, and ransacked their fridges. A man’s house is his castle, unless I’m invited over for the big game. Then, I lay siege to his palace with screams of triumph, cries of anguish, and gobbles aplenty. It’s seldom a pretty sight.
Since all of my football friends had blacklisted me, I turned to my non-football watching friends and begged for help. I was nervous when I called my best friend, Dawn. "Help me Obi-Dawn-Kenobe," I said. "You are my only hope."
That is when she spoke those three little words that take relationships to the next level: “Use my house.” Then she added, "Just don't ever do that lousy impression again. Ever!"
Dawn knows I’m a Hokie, and I’d warned her that once football season started, I would disappear on Saturdays. I don’t have many other vices, so she acquiesced graciously, allowing me to enjoy my ritual without interruption. But, I’d never explained the extent of my fanaticism—how involved I become, how the screen transfixes me so that I’m oblivious to all else. Would she understand if I exposed this side of me to her? Or would a full day of pigskin-crazed intensity reduce her to a quivering pool of goo and blacklist me as well? I was willing to take that chance. Kickoff was less than 24 hours away dammit!
The next morning, I arrived dressed in the appropriate garb—Hokie jacket, ’96 Orange Bowl T-shirt, and VT cap. I carried a shopping bag in each hand. “You brought munchies,” she exclaimed. But, then she peeked inside and saw the stacks of media guides, gameday rosters, tapes, and log books. Her shocked expression said she knew it would be a long day. While she was still dazed, I pushed her toward my car to grab the other bags from the back seat.
I assailed the living room, setting up my center of operations, and she busied herself with chores in other areas as Corso and Herbstreit made their predictions. However, Dawn felt duty-bound to attend at least part of the big game, and braved passage into my lair to join the festivities. I also made amends, clearing a spot for her to sit down—a small spot.
I soon thought this might have been a mistake. Her first question was, “Why did they just kick the ball? I thought they only threw it.”
I grimaced and closed my eyes in prayer, promising a years worth of good behavior if only her neighbor Gina would stop by, requesting her assistance with a three-hour task. There was no knock on the door, so I opened my eyes and gave her my Football: 101 speech, explaining the fundamentals. Moments later, her eyes became glassy and if I had to guess, I’d say she offered at least two years in her silent prayer requesting I shut up.
She didn’t stay for the whole game, but did come by the couch every so often to check on the progress. Occasionally during commercial breaks, I'd leave the den to say thanks again and let her know how much I appreciated the use of her home. At halftime, I asked her if we had just developed the role model for peaceful coexistence on this planet, but I never heard her answer. My watch alarm rang and I sprinted back to the recliner, ready for the second half to commence.
In the end, our friendship survived. Partly because I cleaned up my mess—some of it anyway—but mostly because Dawn was strong. She’ll need that strength, because now it’s time for the next step in our relationship—a road trip to Blacksburg. She made it through a weekend with one crazed Hokie, but could the Chicago transplant survive 50,000 of ‘em? That’s another chance I’m willing to take. It’s football season, and Lane stadium’s calling.
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