You Can’t Quell the Tide

The sun’s a little brighter, the sky’s a little bluer, and the air smells a little sweeter today. I’m a little giddy. It’s Friday morning, January 9, 2009, and the University of Florida football team are the National Champions for the second time in three years.
I’m kinda glad my voice is gone, that way I have to write what I saw, felt, and experienced yesterday with the rest of the Gator faithful.
The number of hearty souls at Dolphins Stadium in Carol City, Florida was guesstimated to be in the neighborhood of 120,000, of which 79,000 held tickets granting them admission to witness the game first hand. The rest were left in the surrounding parking lots to carry on with their revelry, and watch the titanic contest via satellite for those who brought televisions.
The five mile journey to football country began early yesterday morning, 9:00AM to be precise. After some minor preparations were taken care of prior to our departing from our homestead; Cory and I made our way to pick up two Gator brethren, P. Scott and Dan, the latter who had flown in from NYC for the game. The vehicle now carried all Gator alumni save me, though I’m still an active member, through association, of the Gator Nation. We headed off to the nearby Publix supermarket to purchase libations. As we made our way up and down the aisles, periodically we’d espy other UF faithful. We’d exchange goofy half-assed grins, like we were in on the same secret. However, several employees were completely oblivious to the game and its magnitude. One even inquired where the game was being played. I owed this to her recent arrival from the planet Zoog, and obvious unfamiliarity with the ways of our society. I found myself silently pitying all of these poor lost souls. We completed our purchases, and headed to the car, acknowledging all those wearing orange and blue.
You could feel the tension in the vehicle. Conversations seemed stifled, as if the wrong word would trigger some sort of synaptic catastrophe, thereby rendering further discussion unrecognizable. I urged my son to stop by Aficionado’s Cigar Shop to pick up celebratory stogies just in case. That request dashed what little serenity was left in the vehicle. Cory was wound pretty tight at that point, I feared for his emotional well being. It was ten hours till game time. The gates wouldn’t open for another hour. Cory yielded to my wishes, I was grateful. My gratitude mattered little. There was places to go, people to meet, partying to coordinate.
Other friends, and friends of friends were gathering at a local Wal-Mart parking lot, the rendezvous point. On our arrival we were greeted with the sight of no fewer than four congregations of Gator fans. We headed toward one, realized it wasn’t whom we sought, corrected our mistake, and backtracked. Once everyone was assembled, the caravan was off to Dolphins Stadium. It was nearing 11:00AM.
Signs ominously foretold of the upcoming traffic conditions that were anticipated. We encountered them the moment we entered the stadium facility. Unbeknownst to us, Gate 6, our intended entrance was closed; we were rerouted much to everyone’s chagrin. We began to lament such a travesty, tempers were rising, and they were exacerbated by the behavior of the pseudo-authority parking Nazis.
For some bizarre and unknown reason, it seemed as if there was some sort of master parking plan from which, under penalty of death, they were not to deviate. Countless man hours were undoubtedly devoted to this strategy. What resulted was a situation that went FUBAR almost immediately. Imagine putting ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag. All passengers tried calmly to assist Cory in his quest to negotiate the labyrinth parking area. Amid the constant phone requests for guidance, and our well meaning prodding, Cory understandably short circuited, albeit for a brief moment. Once parked, and while unloading the afternoons supplies, Cory’s mental equilibrium returned.
Weather-wise, it was a Chamber of Commerce Day, clear skies with a high around 80. The game was afoot! Vehicles emptied as if from a clown car. The Gator Nation had descended en masse and oh what a glorious sight indeed. Gator tents, Inflatable Gators, Gator flags, Gator chairs, Gator coolers, and Gator tablecloths for the more civilized. Oh yeah, there were a couple of Oklahoma Sooner fans. The partying had commenced, a controlled chaos would ensue, and continue for the next eight hours. It brought back fond memories of a time when I considered intoxication a sport, but this was of epic proportions. The picture postcard day faded into a moonlit mid-50s night. It was time to take our places.
As you may or may not already know, I was one of the fortunate few who possessed a ticket to this extraordinary event thanks to my son Cory, and his friends, who I now also consider my friends, Danny and Sara. I would enter shortly after 8:00PM, head to my seat, and not once from there on out would you find my ass in it.
Four bodies occupied the space allocated for the three seats where I was. I knew not a soul standing in my general vicinity. That point was moot; we shared a kinship that collectively would be the driving force behind a Gator victory.
I “Gator Chomped” with them, I waved my hat shaming a Sooner penalty. When the band broke into “Call Me Al,” I kept time as Dolphin Stadium physically rocked. I felt a tear roll down my cheek when we threw are arms around each other and swayed to and fro for the 3rd quarter rendition of “We Are The Boys From Old Florida.” When a late Gator touchdown iced the outcome I buried my face in my hands to try and grasp what I had been fortunate enough to observe. I raised my head in time to see my son lift up his splayed arms toward the sky in exultation. A vision that we be forever etched in my memory. We made eye contact and I felt for a brief moment what he was feeling, albeit on a lesser scale.
I stayed by my seat long enough to see the awards presentation. More significantly, I stayed long enough to hear the playing of Florida’s alma mater, the importance of which my son has conveyed to me on more than one occasion. When the echoes of the word “victorious” reverberated throughout the ¾ full stadium, the hairs stood erect on my arms. It was time for me to get back to the car and the victory cigars.
As I made my way through the ground zero of refuse, my back and legs protested in agony that I would request my 50 year old body to stay in lockstep with those 30 years my junior. But for this night, emotionally I felt 25, and that washed away my physical pain. Because on this night of nights the Florida Gators were victorious, just like the song declares. On this night, I was magically transformed, I somehow had cheated time. Thank you all who sat around me and made me feel like I was one of you. Thank you Cory. Thank you Danny and Sara. Can we do it again next year please?