I’m headed to Salem, Virginia to watch a football game. Really, I am.
I’m going by myself. But, my daughter, Cortney, who lives in the Washington D.C. area, will be coming by to visit with me. This wasn’t planned, but it certainly is a bonus, a big bonus.
A while ago, I decided I was going to do things. My life has revolved around work for such a long time and things were passing me by, mostly without me. I was a spectator on the outer edges, a voyeur to life. That isn’t going to happen anymore.
So, why this football game? I don’t know. It’s the national championship of two small college football teams, teams very few people know. I think that’s part of the appeal to me, going to an event that feels personal, not dominated by outside forces to make it an “event”, sort of “hometownish”.
I like football, not in a rah-rah, loudmouth way. I don’t drink. I don’t wear the jerseys. I don’t paint my face. Hell, I don’t even cheer. I just watch and think about the game. I like the drama, the strategy, the chess part. I guess I just like to figure out stuff.
And, while I’m watching a game, I’m not thinking about how to fit a sofa in a box, or fabric content, or why something is or isn’t selling. I’m just a guy sitting out there in a cold place, in Michelin man clothing, solitary in my thoughts. That feels good to me.
So, I’m going to board a plane, fly 700 miles and watch a football game. For some, that sounds foolhardy. For me, it’s necessary.