OXFORD, Miss. -- Two friends, both unhinged football fans, got married earlier this year. During the wedding reception, the bride's father somehow got the Ole Miss band to march into the room, a blaring chorus of starched uniforms and shining brass. The groom conducted. The crowd stomped and cheered. You'd have thought folks were celebrating a 12-play scoring drive, not holy matrimony.
Soon after the wedding, I watched video of this event. Immediately, I recognized the feeling deep down in my gut. It's something I've felt in so many cathedral-like stadiums. I closed my eyes, and the familiar notes sent me rushing months into the future, longing for a tailgate that escalates from simmer to burn, for the chill bumps that always come in the moments before kickoff, for the evening breezes rustling the white oaks when the game is done. My body sat in front of a computer screen. My mind was in a stadium. It was only April, and I longed for September.
I missed football season.
Read the rest of Pulled Pork & Pigskin by Wright Thompson.