Lemonade, Ducks and Beer

It was serendipitous to find myself in Denver, when my almamater, the University of Oregon Ducks were playing football against the University of Colorado. It seemed like fate that I should be available to root on my team, with a great excuse to explore the nearby town of Boulder. I soon realized that the timing of the game was the only serendipitous thing about my attending this event. The day was a fine example of my ability to, as they say, “make lemonade.”

Going to the game by myself was the first proverbial squeeze of the lemons. Patrick had to travel, a UO alum who lived in Denver had yoga, and all the Oregon friends I begged to come meet me for the game had scheduling or pricing or baby conflicts. My mental pep talk went like this: “When have I ever been to a game and NOT made friends with the fans around me? I will take the dogs and explore- that way I’ll have some buddies. I’m like 30 minutes away from a live Duck’s game- probably the only one I’ll attend this year- I CANNOT just sit in my living room and watch!! I’ll be able to see how Folsom Stadium compares to Autzen. It’s like going to a movie alone, but with beer and yelling!” Squeeze, drip, squeeze.

I searched for a single ticket online. I was shocked by the prices on a number of websites, even the ones that might offer bargains! I mentioned my outrage to my mom, including that I may not go, in order to save money. “If you want to go, just do it!” she encouraged. Her words supported my weighing of the opportunity/big picture and the dollars. So, I ended up buying a ticket that cost as much as two bags of Bender’s dog food. Or two pair of jeans. Or forty Americanos. Made me a little sick, but the feeling passed. Until Don (a Duck’s football season ticket holder) caught wind of it and called me. “Are you sitting on the 50 yard line?! That price is ridiculous!”

Ooh. Sick feeling.

And Patrick called and mentioned that I could probably sell my ticket online and buy one from a scalper at the game for a third of the price I had paid (if it weren’t the night before the game).

More icky feeling.

Squeezing again, the guilt rolled away: I'll have a priceless experience!

I was set to arrive in Boulder around 10am for 1:30pm kickoff. The early morning exit couldn’t have gone better. My dog walk to Starbucks in my Ducks’ t-shirt brought some surprising “Go Ducks!” from fellow green and yellow clad fans. At the dog park, a friendly University of Colorado alum made conversation about the smearing they were about to receive and even offered a tailgating invite. “Oh, that’s so kind of you. I plan to get to Boulder early today for a hike with the dogs, maybe a walk through the reputed town square and then just grab a beer and make some friends in the stands. Have a great day! Remember: you guys have an altitude advantage!”

The CU Buffaloes are known as a party school and Boulder is rumored to be run by the kids from campus. (CU is what they go by, not UC, as would seem the proper sequence for their initialism. [I found that if each letter is named, rather than creating a new word, it’s an initialism, not an acronym] Again, I’m a great pick for your Trivial Pursuit team.) Patrick and I actually tried to spend our Colorado stint in Boulder, but the cost of living out-priced us. It’s west of Denver, so as I approached the mountain town, I was able to inhale the view of the jagged Flat Irons, and in the distance, the powdered Rockies. Berkeley Dog Park had taken the edge off the quiet dogs in the back of the car. 

I drove through the parking lot of a grocery store near campus, smelling BBQ and waving at some tailgating Duck fans. The crisp, sunny morning was tinted with autumn. I swelled in anticipation of the marching band beats, the contagious rage of group mentality and light beer on my lips. I picked up some snacks for my pre-game hike. 

Get the dogs super tired and they’ll nap in the car while I’m at the game. Brought the dog bed... the leashes... Bender’s ball...ooops- forgot the water dish—and dear God--@*%$-- for the love of -- &*$#!—no !@&*ing way!—my forty Americano ticket is sitting next to the water dish. 

The lemonade dripped down my hand and into a cut as I drove fifty minutes back to Denver, watching game day traffic constipate my return trip on the opposite side of Highway 36. In Denver, I added some gas to the guzzling vehicle, grabbed some bones to keep the dogs busy while I was gone and sent a profane text out to loved ones, to rally support. Patrick told me there was a line in the budget for stupidity. A little more labored than the first time, I breathed in the view on the drive to Boulder. I missed the hike and people watching in town, but it seemed I would make kick-off. 

With no idea of where to park, (google maps doesn’t show you that) I unknowingly chose the furthest and highest priced lot and waited for the shuttle. With less sparkle to offer than that morning, I made small talk with other folks waiting. I learned that we may miss the Colorado team chasing a buffalo onto the field for their grand entrance into the game! Squeezing out my disappointment, I thought about the band and the beer.

On the shuttle, I was proud to sit among so much green and gold. The thick current of people flowed off the bus and up the hill to the stadium, reassuring me that I wouldn’t get lost. Even though it was late October, I only wore a t-shirt and shorts, working up a thirst-atite as I headed to the concession area. Diet Pepsi. Mountain Dew. Orange Crush. Lipton Iced Tea. Pretzel. Corn dog. Brautwurst. I leaned in quietly toward an ally with a UO jersey on, to inquire about the missing beer booth. “It’s a college game. They don’t allow any alcohol.” Squeeze, dribble, squeeeeeeze. I decided to go get a beer somewhere at half time. The day was gorgeous, the Ducks were well-represented and there were already eight points on the scoreboard for the good guys as I found my second tier seat. (on the 50 yard line!) The amicable gals on either side of me rooted for the Ducks and there was a sea of quackers across the field.

Quackers in Colorado.

 

I soaked up the sun and the view of the Rockies beyond the stadium. My ticket paid for an impeccable view of the game AND the countryside. Looking at the Rockies made me want a taste of the Rockies. Coors Light, that is. So when half time came around, a 35-0 lead brought back my sparkle and high hopes for generosity in the tailgating area. I walked around the grassy field, pretending I had somewhere to be, talking on the phone with my sister, mom, cousin, aunt, (my family ROCKS) looking for an opening. I don’t have any experience begging for beer, but I would gladly hand over a yellow beer to a sweet looking, lonely girl, so I figured, that alone, would bring me good karma. As I started my second loop of the field, suddenly, there he was. Hair to his neck, scraggly beard, bright green shirt, case of Bud Light. It was as if an angel from on high had descended him upon me. “Allisen, I’ll call you right back.” 

Making sure he could see my team allegiance, I approached him. “Hey, how's it goin? Could I buy a beer from you?” 

“Ummmmm. For like, um, how much?” his voice was angelically dopey. 

“Well, I have a ten, but I don’t really want to pay ten bucks for a Bud Light…?” I could have been more direct, I know. But just asking for the beer would have been rude.

“Ohhhhh. I totally don’t have any change. Sorry. I totally would if you had like a dollar though…sorrreeee” his voice was annoyingly dopey.

“Really???? Okay… um...thanks anyway…” 

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s in college-- every drop of alcohol is like gold. And every penny is scraped to buy it. He had every right to deny me, but I was still incredulous, irritated, embarrassed… and thirsty. It was the lowest point of my day. Lower than driving back to Denver.

Nothing dripped from the mutilated lemon rind as I bought a Diet Pepsi and headed back to my seat. I made no effort toward conversation-- just soaked up the sun on my skin, the fresh air in my lungs and crunched on soda infused ice cubes. We kept scoring and I felt sleepy toward the end of third quarter. Back on the shuttle, preparing for my 4^th trip across Highway 36 of the day, I realized something. Although I was certain I had made the right decision in going to the game, the lemonade had blurred my vision. What I like most about football games is going with friends. Sharing the excitement. Bringing more meaning through another perspective. Creating bond with a common experience. It’s like that for me with most things. The relationships and connection are at the core-- and what happens to be bringing us closer, is kinda just peanuts. 

And football is better with beer than with lemonade.

The final score was 45-2. It really was a beautiful day for football.