No films. No pressure. Just quiet conversation, a newspaper, maybe some toast and jelly.
You have received so many well-earned thanks and tributes from the Purple Nation you forged from all of those late nights when your car was the only one seen in the lot off Kimball Avenue.
We know you didn't do this alone, but as founding father, you deserve the most and you can share the thanks with all the others.
I speak only for my family, but I'm sure our experiences the past 17 years have been representative of thousands of families just like ours.
Simply, we thank you for having created this delightful reason for our family to have gathered, so many times, when we would not otherwise have.
The cumulative joy we have felt from all these gatherings, all these Saturdays, all these years, has been immeasurable. And we're just one family. We're just eight seats on the 35-yard line on the East side, and two more in the wheelchair section on the West side. We're just one spot in the parking lot.
Parents, children, grandparents, in-laws, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends.
Siblings traveling in from out of town with their families for a football weekend. Brothers, in their 30's, living a thousand miles apart, waking up in their parents' house on a football Saturday, feeling like 8-year-olds on Christmas morning.
Fathers, mothers, sons, daughters driving to the Westloop Dillons five hours before game time, hurry, there's not enough time, wearing purple and joining the masses of people filling grocery carts with staples like Oreos and Twizzlers and paper towels and hot dog buns, as if a hurricane is fast approaching.
Sitting and standing around the tailgate, eating junk, laughing, talking football, rankings, predictions, as well as jobs, children, music.
Crowding into packed bleachers, standing shoulder to shoulder. The seats are a little narrow after all these years, eating all that junk. Standing behind the guy who yells "Holding!" on every play when the other team has the ball.
Standing next to the guy who talks a little too loud because he's listening to the radio broadcast in one ear.
Yelling, cheering, jumping up and down, hugging, high-fives. First downs! You've got to get that "First Down" thing down, Coach. Point the right direction, or you might get unexpectedly clocked.
Sitting and standing around the tailgate again, eating junk, laughing, maybe happier or sadder than a few hours prior, but still together, still debating strategy, still talking football, and maybe politics.
Laying on the floor of our parents' living room on Saturday evening, exhausted, passively watching some other game on TV, eating some of Mom's good food, still talking football, or politics, or pop culture, or religion.
Occasionally traveling out of town together, driving the interstates in a crowded vehicle, crowding into hotel rooms, seeing new places but having the same, familiar conversations.
We did not do all of this before you came, Coach.
Oh, we went to some of the games. But it wasn't a very big deal. Certainly not something we would have traveled in from out of town, and gathered en masse, just to share together.
So, thanks, Coach. From our family to your family.
You all have a permanent invitation to our tailgate every home game day.
We're the ones with the flag.
