My husband and I share an alma mater, and we will be cheering on our South Carolina Gamecocks when they kick-off at midnight our time against the Clemson Tigers. Another huge game in my stratosphere is the Auburn/Alabama game, or the Iron Bowl. Both of my parents are alums. I, like Jimmy Buffett, attended Auburn for a brief period of time. Both Jimmy and I seem to also share a love of margaritas. This might explain why neither of us graduated from said esteemed university. But, I digress.
My football indoctrination began at an early age. My Dad was no athlete, I can assure you. His brief stint hunting was cut short by my birth, and the fact that he went hunting in the first place while said birth was imminent probably had something to do with his hunting career ending so abruptly. He broke his nose playing softball, mistaking a palmetto tree for third base. He tried sailing and ended up capsized in Lake Murray. He was destined to be a brainiac. And let me tell you, intellectually he was a Decathlon gold medallist. Anyhoo, this appeared rather contradictory to his love for Auburn football.
We would typically spend our Thanksgivings in the loving, joyous warmth of our grandparents home in Panama City, Florida. Our 350 mile return journey usually occurred on the Saturday following our family feast day. This worked well logistically; we could have Sunday to recover and wash clothes and get ready for a return to school and work on Monday. This was not, however, the best way to watch the most anticipated game of the year. Former pig paths turned rural two-laned highways formed our route home. If the skies were clear and the planets aligned we could get scattered radio broadcasts of the game interrupted by piercing static just as the 4th down 1 yard line play that could turn the tide of the game was happening. Those rides could be stressful.
If we were lucky, the game would be squeaky tight, and Dad's nerves frayed just to the breaking point when we got about two hours from home. We could stop at the HoJo's between Madison and Greensboro out in the middle of nowhere land and get ice cream while Mom and Dad watched the last few minutes of football greatness. And the closer the game, the more distracted the parents. Therefore, and ergo, and so it would seem, the sizes of our ice cream sundaes directly corresponded to the scoreboard. It's no wonder I have a sudden intense craving for hot fudge and vanilla ice cream in the fourth quarter of a football game...
Today, John is as excited as a child waiting to see what Santa left under the Christmas tree. He is decked out in his garnet and black school colours, and will proudly proclaim GO COCKS! to all who will listen. This is a particularly awkward thing to say in a country with absolutely no reference other than a euphemism that requires no further explanation from me. I am quite sure our neighbours have decided John has the most unusual mating call on the planet. They may indeed wonder why it is in the plural....
But, I digress.
We will return from a loverly day sight-seeing in Canterbury, otherwise known to our family and friends as the home of the McDonald's John worked at when he last lived over the big pond, ready to stay up until the wee hours of the morning to watch our beloved sports teams. We will Skype and text with my sister, the second biggest fan of the Gamecocks behind John. We will WAR EAGLE! with my Mom, and look forward - we hope- to the ceremonial plaque placement proclaiming Carolina's win over John's brother's alma mater, Clemson, when we arrive in the States.
I close with a picture taken on our last trip to Canterbury nearly ten years ago. I am not sure, but I think the girls are praying for Carolina and Auburn to win....
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