The Big Game

Newsletter 2025-01-09

Social media ruins everything. While that statement is true in general, in this case, it’s also specific to surprises. In my last newsletter, which I wrote on Saturday but scheduled for Monday, I ended with a cliffhanger about whether or not we’d make it to my kids’ first ever NFL game. Sunday, I shared a picture of us at the stadium. I ruined the suspense of my own story, and not for the first time. I’m the world’s leading expert at self-sabotage. What that email didn’t tell you is whether or not we made it home safely in the blizzard. Actually, the start of this newsletter spoils that part as well. If you’re reading this, we must have survived. I couldn’t have emailed you otherwise. Substack discriminates against ghosts.

As with all our outings, this one was fraught with peril. Sunday, my wife Lola refreshed the radar every five minutes to monitor the approaching storm. Earlier forecasts had the snow starting at 10 a.m., but the projection was gradually pushed back to noon. Kickoff was scheduled for 1 p.m.. If we were going to make it on time, we’d be on the road when the blizzard began its initial assault. I said in the last newsletter that I’d consider calling off the trip if the weather was too bad. My bar for “too bad” is pretty high—or low, depending on which direction is worse. If there were a glacier directly in our way or white walkers were on the march, I’d be willing to stay home. Otherwise, I absolutely intended to use those twelve-dollar tickets (well, twenty-three-dollar tickets after exorbitant fees.) Someday, my tombstone will say, “He got his money’s worth.”

I did save in one area. Before we left, I looked up the cushy thirty-five dollar parking garage a fellow dad told me about. If we used it, we could make it from the garage to the stadium without ever going outside. Leaving nothing to chance, I went online to reserve a spot. I nearly clicked the button to pay when I noticed a startling fact: Only “standard-size” spaces were available. Despite being the gold standard for vehicles, minivans weren’t considered standard at all. This parking garage put them in the same oversized circus category as boats, RVs, and space shuttles. Those spots cost an extra ninety dollars each and were sold out. The garage already had all the space shuttles it could handle.

I looked into other paid parking options but was quickly overwhelmed. Everything was expensive and half a mile from the stadium. There wasn’t much difference between that and my free parking spot at my former employer, which was just over a mile and way. How much is seven-tenths of a mile worth in convenience, factoring in the frostbite? I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. If I couldn’t pay for a total indoor walking experience, I wasn’t going to pay at all. I summoned my family around the map on my computer and laid out the day’s plans like a commanding general. I would drop off my squad at the northeast corner of the stadium, getting them as close as possible to minimize outdoor time. Then I would drive back to the hinterlands to park at my free spot. I would walk back to the stadium alone, hopefully arriving there by the start of the game. After the game, I would walk to the spot alone to retrieve the van. My family, meanwhile, would move away from the stadium through any available tunnels and skyways. I would pick them up when they ran out of indoor trails. I pointed out the primary pickup spot as well as a backup location. A final option was to make everyone walk the whole way to the parking spot with me. That was only intended as a last resort. With me in charge, how could our better options fail? We hit the road. It started to snow.