Moving when you’re in middle school is never easy. Moving from the only home you knew to an area far far away, to a school full of strangers is never easy. But at 13 I had no choice but to go where my parents wanted to go, and in 1985 that “go” was Kansas City (Overland Park, KS to be exact).
As a parent, a father, and someone who has a career I understand the difficult decision my parents faced.
Sometime within that first year dad decided that it might be good for he and I to have some time to bond. So he got Chiefs season tickets. At the time I remember not caring, but the chance to skip out on church early was appealing.
I would watch the clock all through the service of our little, rather in-grown church we attended (which met in a daycare building), just waiting for 11am. Then dad would glance over at me, nod his head to the back and we\’d stand and duck out. We’d go to the bathroom and change into warm clothes – long underwear, turtlenecks, sweaters. We’d jump in the car, head down Route 50 to I-435 to the Stadium. On the way we’d listen to the radio and get pumped up for the game. By the time we pulled into the field of cars the smell of barbecue and smoke was saturated in my head and my veins pumped with excitement.
Something I used as a means to escape I came to love more than anything. In those times my dad and I were fans. Men. Screaming and yelling and freezing our toes.
To this day, in fall, when 11am comes around on Sunday mornings my heart skips. I hear the roar of crowds. The biting cold on my chin. The smell of hot dogs and pretzels and beer. These memories will stay with me forever, and I could not be more grateful to my Dad for that. Thanks Dad.