The cold metal signs weighed 50 lbs a piece. It was the mad scramble to get them out in perfectly measured insane increments that put us in a pinch. We needed to get inside before they showed up to disrobe. Sally and Jed Winger’s space was not close enough to leave their fur coats in the Navigator. Every year, the big wigs put us somewhere different. So, the first few games of each season, we fielded the same question from each perturbed athletic program donor.

“Why’d they put ya down here? Thought I’d never find y’ guys!”

We took the fluffy minks, bomber jackets, windbreakers, and umbrellas — handing them carnival claim tickets. How were my classes? How was their yaucht and/or local sports bar? Did I want a jar of peanuts? Were the girls giving me any trouble? Were we every going to graduate? Wink. Smiles of wealth; chuckles of privilege; and shoulder pats rained down. Tipping was a grand tradition — bonus points for name or coat recall.

One of us at a time would throw on our press passes and head into the seats. We knew all the ushers; they always made room. Each deafening roar of the crowd flooded my veins with nostalgic hysteria. But, the schedule was tight — and with five minutes remaining in the second half, I was to head up to my connection in concessions. All of the Papa John’s leftovers were mine for the price of nodding conversation. Meanwhile, my loyal coat watcher in crime waited for the early exiters: the fair weather fans; the frazzled emergency cell phone wielding stock brokers; the early-to-bed-early-to-risers.

After schmoozing our last schmooze and handing over the last of the coats, lugging brutish parking signs into the trailer was non-cerebral, physical labor framed by freezing December Indiana nights. In January, gloves did little as cold soaked stiff fingers to stubs. I bundled up tight: athletic department issue pin stripe sweater, worse for wear puffy coat, stocking cap, two pairs of wool socks, and my holey good luck cords.

One of us would drive the nine seater Ford van, while the other heaved and stacked the mammoth parking markers. BONT! The bottom heavy monsters would invariably slam and sway into a domino tangle — the wooden trailer planks creaking under their massive weight. But, we’d figure that out next weekend. In the moment, it was the rush to drive home and celebrate victory with cold pizza and good drink — strut-staggering from bar to bar with singles bulging out of our wallets like engorged Chip and Dale dancers.