This past weekend we drove up to Iowa City to watch the Hawkeyes play Purdue. They won, but it was a little close there at the end. I haven't been inside my alma mater's stadium, Kinnick, in probably three years.
It was snowing. And cold. Beloved, Kristin, Steph and I crammed our multi-layered behinds onto a frigid aluminum bench for the privelage of ... what? I tried to put my finger on what it is exactly that compells sane adults to sit outside in frigid weather and pay $50 a butt for the privelage of doing so.
It's escapism. As I sat there, caring actually whether or not the ball moved ten yards up or down the field, I didn't think about anything else. I didn't think about my daughter or whether or not she was having fun playing with Kristin and Cindy's kids. I didn't worry about the $50 I'd spent on the ticket or work on Monday. I just thought about the ball carrier and the interesting hats in the crowd and the fact that the hand warmers I'd stuffed in my back pockets were not making my ass as toasty as I'd like.
And it was nice.
Yelling over a game was nice. Having my team win was nice. Remembering college and how fun it was with the girls who lived with me through it was nice. Seeing my husband get all jacked over a touchdown was nice. Being inside Kinnick and seeing how life went on at Iowa long after I moved away was nice -- knowing other kids are living my former life doesn't actually make me sad. I'm glad someone is sleeping in the places I've been. Maybe they've seen the walls I carved my name into. Maybe they carved their names there, too.
Maybe that's what sports does -- it connects generations in a way. It gives a bunch of people who don't understand each other a common vernacular.
Or maybe we were all just drunk.
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Posting on paying the sitters over at BlogHer today.
