The parking lot is already packed when I arrive, cars lined up in haphazard rows that spill onto the grass. I have to park near the back, which gives me too much time to reconsider as I walk toward the stadium. The lights are visible from here, massive towers that turn night into artificial day, casting everything in stark white brilliance.
I can hear the crowd before I see it. The roar of voices, the clash of the marching band warming up, the tinny crackle of the announcer's voice over the speakers. It's overwhelming in a way that makes my chest tight, makes me want to turn around and get back in my car.
But I don't.
I pay the five dollars at the gate, get my hand stamped, and climb the metal bleachers that shake with every step. I find a spot near the top, away from the thick clusters
