'Tis the season

Like children pining for Santa Claus, Trey and I eagerly await his arrival every year.

We know he'll darken our doorstep on some steamy summer day, bearing a special delivery, but we don't know exactly when. We have a pretty good idea of what's coming, but there's always the potential for surprise.

And then: oh, the joy. The doorbell rings. The package arrives. We squeal with glee, join hands and dance around the room while the muppers regard us with skepticism. They don't get it, and they won't for some time, but we know.

The season, it has begun.

It's college football season, and Dave, our mailman, capably plays the role of Santa in a faded blue suit.

In exchange for our signature and some polite banter about the weather, he hands us a large Priority Mail envelope containing about a half-dozen color-coded tickets to Texas Longhorn home games.

And it really is a bit like Christmas morning: we spend so much of the year in giddy anticipation... and then, before we know it, we're sitting in the middle of a room filled with crumpled wrapping paper, stunned that it's all over till next year.

Tonight, we opened the last present under the tree, and it was exactly what we wanted: a thrilling victory over our rivals from the west, Texas Tech.

It really couldn't have been more perfect: it was a gorgeous day, warm enough for shorts and t-shirts and sunscreen, but with a nice breeze blowing from the Hill Country. Texas in November, y'all.

Before the clock started ticking, we were treated to a flyover of Apache helicopters, a grateful Veterans Day nod to those who've served our country, and enthusiastic recognition of the seniors on and around the field.

And once the game began, there was lots of action and just enough suspense to keep things interesting until the very end.

But some of my favorite moments and memories happened, as they so often do, in the stands.

This is the sixth year Trey and I have held season tickets, with the last five years spent in the same seats. Our corner of Memorial Stadium is like a neighborhood in miniature. We might not have hand-picked the people around us, but for the most part, we respect and look out for each other.

We collectively roll our eyes at the guy who always seems to be looking for a fight. Or the two women who chatter from beginning to end about anything under the sun that's not related to football.

Or that loud-mouthed girl who yells and hoots and hollers and stands up when all around her are seated. (Hey: I am my father's daughter.)

We trade tickets to games we know we can't attend. We high-five after a big play. We ask after children and grandchildren, proudly displaying pictures when prompted. We celebrate birthdays. We share our peanuts.

And after Smokey the Cannon fires for the last time, and the Texas faithful join together to sing The Eyes of Texas, we pat each other on the back and say, "Next year. You take care, and we'll see you next year."

This year isn't really over, of course. We still have our final regularly scheduled game, and we certainly hope we'll have some postseason football to enjoy. But the last home game is always a bittersweet reflection of the year that was.

Football players linger on the field, high-fiving the fans before they finally make that walk through the tunnel and into the locker room. Cheerleaders gather on the fifty for group portraits and hugs all around. Band members hold their instruments aloft and savor their view of the stadium.

And we mentally begin the countdown till our blue-suited Santa rings the doorbell to kick off a brand-new season.

Hook 'em, Horns.