Long Game — The Night Columbus Wakes Up

I've been waiting since January.

I watched you put me away after the championship. I heard the city go quiet the way it only does after something enormous. And then I waited — through the gray of February, through the screened porch opening, through the al fresco dinners and the July 4th golf carts and the date nights — I waited for this exact morning.

Christmas morning in September. You said it yourself.

I watched you leave for coffee before the rest of the house was awake. I saw the scarlet and gray everywhere — on every corner, every car, every person who caught your eye and nodded like you were in on the same beautiful secret.

I felt the city converge. Campus filling up at 8am like the game time was irrelevant, like showing up early was its own kind of devotion. The grocery stores. The tailgates. The nervous hiccup of excitement in the air that only Columbus gets to feel on a day like this.

The world's best and worst fans. You know who you are. You're not sorry.

Neither am I.

So tell me — what does that first game day feel like in your chest? What are you wearing? Who are you with? And what does it mean to you that this city — your city — shows up like this every single year without fail?

It's going to be a long season.

That's not a warning. That's a promise.

Championship weather. Obviously.