We interrupt this regularly-scheduled football game...

I was awake at 3 am on the morning of the Bills game.

My husband's low voice filled the darkness. "You don't want to go, do you?"

Who...me? The girl who goes fetal in a crowded grocery store? Who needs to be tranquilized before being stuffed into an MRI machine? Who is overly stimulated by bright lights, loud sounds, and sudden movement? Why on earth wouldn't I want to spend Thursday night with 70,000 adrenaline-filled fans at an event scored by pyrotechnics, screaming, chanting, stomping, and the maddening melee of metal bleachers being ripped out of cement by a crazed crowd?  Me? Don't be silly! I couldn't WAIT to go to this pleasant evening of meditative maneuvers as competitive comrades met on a mutual field of respect and sportsmanship. 

It turns out that the only real challenge was navigating the rapid flood of fans streaming in and out of the stadium.  Brad Mosiman steered me with great skill through these murky waters. Before we found our seats, I ducked into the restroom first...attempting to get my act together before I embarrassed myself in front of my 70,000 new friends. I dashed off a quick text to my friend Katriel:  I hate this. Cried in the bathroom. Whining done...I then applied some cold water. Took a deep breath. Game-face on. 

Once I was safely ensconced in my assigned seating area (on a bleacher, smooshed next to 70,000 of my dearest friends), I felt better. I spent some time trying to determine my evacuation route in the case of a catastrophic event but gave up and just resigned myself to my inevitable demise. Tossed off another text to Katriel:  At my seat. Go Bills.

Brad Mosiman and I were located at the end of the field by the touch-down poles ("Goal posts," my husband corrected, gently.). My friend, Allison, is a seasoned Bills fan.
She had me practice accessing my tickets on my cellular device and looked up exactly where I was sitting. "Are they good seats?" I asked. She paused, contemplatively. "It depends. The action will either be directly in front of you...or not." Based on this assessment, I made Brad Mosiman bring binoculars. They came in super-handy during the Half-Time Corgi Races. Other than that, we could see perfectly.

As I finally got my wits about me, I realized the other advantageous part of where we were located. We were framed within the yellow upraised arms of the touch-down poles. Our kids, who had generously gotten these tickets for Brad Mosiman to celebrate his birthday, were home (Savannah and Lisa in Austin with Sydney and Douglas in San Diego) watching the game. I understood the challenge of picking us out among the 70,000 fans all dressed in identical colors but we were literally in a yellow box. 

And...I had a confusing sign of contrasting colors.

My son-in-law, Douglas, is a Miami Dolphins fan. 

I know.

We love him anyway.

I designed my poster for him. My dream was to record fellow Bills fans holding my sign and offering their opinions of Douglas's poor life choices (other than marrying Sydney...his one redemptive quality...that and he is the nicest, most grounded, moral native Californian we have ever encountered) but, obviously, I lacked the social bravado necessary in this environment to pull off that particular maneuver. It was a dolphin...wearing a helmet sporting Douglas's handsome face. The poster, a bright teal and orange, read:  My son-in-law has no porpoise. Real cerebral stuff.

What a waste.

Until I realized the poster actually HAD a purpose.

As a teal and orange-colored red flag.

A waving cursor, pinpointing our exact location, on the screen.

Communication with our kids was frustratingly spotty. Pictures, from our end, were a no-go. We sent a written description of the sign and, with each field goal kicked, I raised our paper pin.

Not only did they find us...they were able to take note of my wardrobe change in the 4th quarter when I slipped on a sweatshirt.

We had a great time. 

I was emotionally moved as both Miami and Bills players knelt to pray before the game. I was amazed that I could feel so personally connected to my kids while lost in a sea of humanity. I was caught up in the mesmerizingly tribal experience where 70,000 people shared a collective pulse. I was humbled as an individual but elevated as one of tens of thousands of protons working together within this NFL nucleus. 

And I learned a lot.

"There hasn't been an interruption yet," I yelled to Brad Mosiman at the beginning of the 4th quarter. He turned my way, confused. "What are you talking about?" I patiently explained this football-related term to him of when the team without the ball interrupts the play of the team with the ball by catching the ball. Brad Mosiman and the fifty people smooshed around us stared at me. "INTERCEPTION," Brad Mosiman yelled back as the stadium suddenly exploded. The ball had just been interrupted. Obviously the Bills knew what I meant.

By the end of the 4th quarter, I was feeling it.

I did not have the endurance necessary to be a true, in-the-trenches,  Bills fan.

My legs and feet ached from standing on concrete. My back hurt from the bleachers. I had strained my "The Bills Make Me Want to Shout" arm.  My ears were ringing. My tummy was empty because there were no walking vendors ("Peanuts! Get yer fresh peanuts !"...ahhh! The simple pleasures of a baseball stadium...so wholesome. More likely to hear "Penis" rather than "Peanuts" shouted at a football game.) and my anxiety kept me rooted to my assigned spot on the bleacher. And it was past my sleepy-time. 

And then...

Mr. Brightside. 

The familiar-to-every-Bills-fan Killers song began and, again, I underwent an out-of-body experience. The entire stadium belted out the lyrics, bouncing to the beat in unison. Destiny was calling and we enthusiastically responded.

I was awake at 2 am, the morning after the Bills game.

My husband's low voice filled the darkness, "Are you glad you went?'

I smiled at my husband as he drove us carefully home.

"I had a ball."