(Oh, my God.)
 
I am surprised my head is still on straight this morning. The story started to write itself last night. I woke up just after two; that was a simple function of being so groggy by nine that there was no point in trying to stay up any longer.
 
I knew I would stir early, but c’est la vie, or la guerre, as the case may be. Down I went.
 
As you know, the morning started gray and misty. I raced over to get the dry cleaning and a bag of ice to start the preparations for packing the food, and resolved to dress in water-proof garb.
 
The weather reports said things would clear, later, as the Nor’easter blew it itself out against the Blue Ridge, and east of town things would be acceptable later. But the prospect of both being in Maryland and wet for hours was daunting. Extra preparations were called for.
 
The sandwiches and sushi and chips and spinach dip went into the cooler stop the ice; a flask of vodka, a plastic cup, a jug of lime juice and a bottle of Schweppes Diet Tonic made the top of the cooler bulge up, but I figured the levels would come down as the ice melted.
 
I lugged the cooler and coat down to the parking lot just in time for the Admiral to drive up in the Outback, which is the official tailgate car. Unobtrusive, rugged and spacious on the inside, the Outback has for years been known as the official lesbian transportation vehicle, which disconcerted the Admiral when I told him, but with a shrug he said that a good idea was a good idea, regardless of orientation.
 
We hooked up with the Irishman and Tony in the spare lot by Pentagon City, and the four of us piled into the Outback for the journey across the district. The Irishman felt like an early Harp lager for the trip, and I joined him in a breakfast Guinness.
 
The rules are suspended for these normally earnest men of national defense and commerce on Game Day
 
Admiral went to school at College Park, so he knows (or at least the Outback does) all the narrow ways through the staid three and four-story row home with the queer peaks and gables of another time. Some are down at the heels, others being refurbished. The way to the tailgate is through the meanest of the District’s mean streets, and it is sobering and uplifting to see that despite the hard economic times things are getting better in town.
 
We entered the parking complex around the stadium from the rear, and slid neatly into the traditional parking place on the end of the row in lot D1. It is an excellent location, and the Admiral has had it reserved by the terms of his arrival time for years. Easy access to the lines for the porta-potties; plenty of space to stretch out.
 
Flags flew from improvised staffs all over the lot; there were as many Hokies in Orange as Terrapins in crimson. The atmosphere of the crowd was light and casual; this deep in the season, all the false bravado was gone. The season is what it is.
 
There was nothing on the line in this game except a good time.
 
“Whoa,” I said as we wheeled in. At the next slot four men were erecting a large awning and unpacking two full Weber kettle grills. On a long card table a bar had been established, with four tall towers of red plastic cups and imposing jugs of dark caramel-colored liquor: Crown Royal on one side and Jack Daniels on the other.
 
“There’s trouble,” said Tony, and the Admiral said they were an interesting crew who had first made an appearance at the North Carolina game, or something.
 
We got in gear with a vengeance as the lot began to fill up and the clouds began to lighten. We were drawn inadvertently into the circle of the wild men adjacent to us when, despite all their extensive preparation, it developed that they had forgotten matches. I am a reprobate, and had my lighter in the pocket of my jeans, and this became an inadvertent but essential accessory to the grilling, and to the smoking of the dark cigars.
 
Tony set up his folding table behind the tailgate of the Outback and the food started to come out, and it was impressive, since the Irishman had entertained a hundred close friends at his estate in Loudoun the night before. All the fancy deserts and veggies and elegant deserts looked incongruous on the folding table: a circular tray of Thai shrimp, with cocktail sauce, my salmon sushi, the tub of spinach dip, a container of chips all crowded together.
 
And the beer, of course. I’m a contrarian and went to vodka immediately, my system perking up immediately by the unexpected infusion of cocktails before luncheon. We began to swap tails, at first professional, explaining the back side of what had transpired that week, and then personal as the multi-colored auras around us began to expand and grow their wings.
 
We had no grill, so our repast was picnic-style. Certainly acceptable and with a long tail-gate history. Not so with the boys next door. They were in the grip of a wild passion. One of the younger was slicing vegetables to sauté; the fire from the newly-lit charcoal roared up, closer to the awning than I would have liked, but everyman to his own fire, I always say.
 
The kicker for this was that there were no sedate brats and buns; the boys had full cap gear and were soon stir-frying with great skillets. The air was filled with the delicious aroma of spice and searing steak.
 
Not all were cooking. One tall intense man with a Cuban cigar clenched in his jaw was offering up shots of caramel liquid to all passers-by, and if he tended to concentrate on the young and lovely, who is to blame him?
 
A motor scooter cruised up the aisle between the cars, piloted by a young blonde woman with an accomplice on the back, hawking glossy programs. They got our attention as the Stogie smoker negotiated a condition for a purchase- if they took a shot of whiskey he would buy what they were selling.
 
The girl on the back bravely slugged on down and looked alarmed. The driver drank hers and then spat several times, hoping to clear her palate, before motoring on. We became a bit of a cheering section for the open bar, and I blush to say that I might have enjoyed a potent sip or two of Jack Daniels along the way.
 
There was a wild swirl of people; the woman from Liberia with the intricately woven tresses whose son (#88) played for Tech is one of them. She left with the card of a Brigadier of my acquaintance, since it was the only one I had in my wallet.
 
There was Stephanie, the bold one who was first attracted to the Irishman’s chocolate cheesecake and then determined to master the art of the whiskey shooter.
 
“You weigh 138 pounds?” we said in amazement.
 
“No way!” She was adamant about it, and I wondered at how the world had changed.
 
Later there was Sammie who had some candid comments about one of the companies we work for, from the bottom up, and Anna, who looks like Cher and played center for her college basketball team and towered over us.
 
I have absolutely no doubt that later they all said what fun and interesting grandfathers they had met in the lot, but damn, it was fun to be a kid again for a while.
 
I think there was a game in there somewhere, but the home team was in the process of having its collective butt kicked by half-time, and by the third quarter we were back at the outback, setting up for round two that lasted into the darkness.
 
It was a delightful afternoon completely unencumbered by any purpose except pure animal enjoyment.
 
There is another home game this season, and while it is possible that there might be a good time lurking there, this one defined the season.
 
OMG, what a great freaking time. Bring on the holidays, it does not get better than this and there is no point in trying.

Copyright 2009 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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