I’m gonna tell y’all the straight-up truth: I used to be a tailgate champion.
I still have my moments. You’d be hard-pressed to beat me at a Steeplechase. If I take time and preparations for a football game potluck, don’t bet against me. But week-in, week-out tailgating has passed me by. It might have something to do with the fact that the fallout usually takes as many hours to recover from as years you are old (my own personal algorithm) and that’s pushing two days now, and by then it’s Tuesday and almost time to think about doing it again and no thank you. So, I’m nowhere near my glory days. Gone are the 7a.m. Burger King double cheeseburgers for breakfast, packing every available cooler inch with the perfect blend of ice and liquid refreshment, and trips for wings on the way to Death Valley. They’ve been replaced by intricate smoker recipes and the comfort of my own couch, both climate controlled and steps away from both the aforementioned food, my personal restroom and, not occasionally, delicious whiskey. More on that. It’s an acquired taste, and one I’ve acquired in my fourth decade shuffling the coil. Some, including many of my former tailgating partners, acquired it long before me. You might know that my other bloggers and I host a radio show/podcast during football season. You might also remember the infamous episode (woohooohoooohoooo) during which one of my long-ago tailgate partners, emboldened by several nips of the substance, proclaimed something I still hold true. “Crown,” he said, “is the best brown liquor they is.” Fast forward to last year’s Louisville game. My lovely bride was out of town, and my buddy (and devoted Pick’em Show listener) Mike had two tickets to see the Cardinals invade Death Valley. So, we put together a last-minute tailgate. A very last-minute tailgate. As in, we stopped at a grocery store on our way for some brats to grill last-minute. We forgot a lot of things. Things like a bottle opener. And charcoal. But we remembered the Crown! Lord, yes, we remembered the Crown. Then, within a few short moments of arriving in Lot 4, there was no more Crown to remember. Fortified by my ration of Canadian goodness, I sauntered over and borrowed some charcoal, loaded it into our grill, and immediately wondered “What am I gonna start this charcoal with.” Nary a match. Nary a fire source of any kind, not even a car lighter. So, we grabbed another beverage (but not Crown, sadly) and we decided we’d walk a while and give it a think. We came upon a tent full of the nicest folks, and I surveyed their setup. Grill. Charcoal. Smoke emanating from said grill. Ribs. Now, I’m not claiming to be a genius (and if you’ve read the above you’ll realize that), but I know enough to know that where there’s charcoal and cooked ribs, there’s a fire source. So we asked the gentleman who’d greeted us if we could borrow his lighter. “Naw,” he said. “Just take it. We’re not using it after. If you bring it back and leave it and we’re not here, that’s fine, but if you forget and take it home with you, that’s fine too.” As we turned to leave, Mike noticed a lady and walked over to speak to her. He’s a little more observant than I am, and knew right away who we were talking to. I was wandering oblivious to my situation, talking ribs with the nice man, and he was learning all about Clemson’s freshman quarterback. It was Deshaun Watson’s mama, is who it was. And if you haven’t heard her story, you will this week. It’s touching, and heartbreaking, and heartwarming, and fantastic all at once. I won’t recount it here, because as you may have heard, Mr. Watson is up for a fairly prestigious award, and you’ll get the story better than I could tell it if you pay attention to those proceedings. But that Saturday last October, the Heisman Trophy presentation was a long way away. Heck, in a few minutes, Deshaun would suffer the first of a pair of injuries that would see him miss significant time last season. But just then, Watson’s family was content to talk about his journey to Clemson, and his mom’s courageous battle, and football, and yes, barbecue. We shuffled back to our tailgate, lit the fire, ate the brats, and went in to watch the game. We actually stopped back by to leave the lighter as we left Memorial Stadium, but the tailgate was gone, presumably to check on Deshaun’s injury. So, the lighter that belonged to Deshaun Watson’s uncle resides in a drawer in my house. It lights the fire for special meals on the smoker, and the occasional cigar. I don’t know how many folks I’ll have at my house on New Year’s Eve, but they’ll dine on food cooked on a fire produced by that lighter. Maybe Watson will win this Saturday, and I can bill it as “Heisman-fired barbecue” or some such. But if not, I’ll be glad that his mother will share her story with the sports-watching world. And I’m forever grateful his family shared their lighter with a couple of hungry drunk guys. And I’m ecstatic that they shared their prodigiously talented son, brother, and nephew with Clemson University.
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JedAward-winning journalist. Frustrated pitmaster. Whiskey enthusiast. Lover of all things cheeseburger-related. Unapologetically proud Sandlapper. Archives
July 2017
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