My Pigskin Odyssey

Standing in the baggage claim, I could swear that I could feel the power surging back into my tired, old Broncos windshirt. The altitude was probably part of it, but it was my son who began to point out, "Hey dad, that guy's got a Broncos jacket too." I had returned to the Mile High City, and all was right with the world, or at least that's the way it seemed.
The next day, having traveled up the road to my hometown, I settled in to listen to the University of Colorado Buffaloes take on the Texas A&M Aggies. Listen on the radio, since the Buffaloes' season hasn't been the prime-time-ABC-ESPN kind. Just the opposite. But still, there I sat, glancing periodically out the window to gaze at the front range of the Rocky Mountains, as my mother and I listened to every minute of a back-and-forth Big Twelve battle that the Buffs eventually won, thirty-five to thirty-four. It wasn't the same as sitting in the stands, but the intimacy of radio play-by-play and color brought to us by long-time Colorado broadcaster Larry Zimmer provided us with plenty of home-team insight.
The following morning, I packed my son into my mother's car and the two of us drove around town, taking in the local sights. We stopped at my high school, and I showed him the band room, where I met his mother the first time. Then we went back behind the school to the football field. He kicked at the snow that was still melting on the track behind the benches, and at one point, he looked up and asked, "Did you play football here, dad?"
"No," I confessed, "I did play in the band though."
"I thought so," he replied and went back to kicking at the icy patch.
"But I did play in junior high. I was a lineman."
"Oh," he said, brightening a little. He stopped kicking. I offered him my gloves so he could pack a snowball or two with the slush that he had knocked loose.
Driving up to the university, we passed my father's junior high. I told my son the apocryphal tale of how he had heroically blocked what would have been the winning field goal against their arch rivals, Casey, with his face. My mother was attending Casey at the time.
I pulled into the parking lot across from Folsom Field, and was happy to see that the gates were open, since the clean-up crews were busy clearing the filth from the crowd that had witnessed the Golden Buffalo victory the day before. My son and I went inside, and looked out on the field. Ted Nugent was pouring out of the speakers, and I was immediately flooded with a mix of memories of football and concerts. Days and weeks and hours of my life spend in that stadium, sometimes watching, sometimes selling concessions, soaking up sports and concerts, including the Motor City Madman himself. "Whaddya think?" I asked.
"Pretty cool," he said, soaking it all in. Then we walked around the end of the horseshoe, and out another gate, where we encountered the life-size Buffalo statue that now dominates the entrance to the stadium. My twelve-year old son climbed up on its back in his black and gold sweatshirt and announced, "You've got to grab by the horns, dad," and that's exactly what he did.