How To Support Your Team Without Being There: Remote Tailgating
I wasn’t really planning on grilling. It’s not like I have to do it every day or anything. But if your wife brings home some meat and asks you to grill it, well, isn’t it then our manly privilege to make it so. To ignite fire and lay the meat to it with a caveman-like ease born of the ebbing seasons, hunkered over a smoldering pit. No, it is no hardship to grill if called upon by the fairer species. To ply our craft upon unruly meats with the sweeping efficiency of a chess grand master. No meat is out range for an accomplished keeper of the flame. No cut too challenging. “Bring it on!”, I yammered. And she did. My bride henceforth pulled from the grocery bag a lowly pack of ball park franks. Beef franks, as it were. Well, leastwise that’s what it said on the package. Not what I was expecting really, but fair enough. I was not above roasting the humble wiener if need be, to secure supper upon my plate. In some ways I was rather looking forward to it. I was feeling nostalgic you could say.
Once upon a time, you see, in every grill junkie’s past, he had to start somewhere. That first step unto a brighter future, and a meatier ideal. And for many of us, that point of embarkation into the BBQ sciences started with the lowly hot dog. And make no mistake, it was an event. It gave us reason to cater to a particular need, seeded deeply within our man psyche. The need to occasionally put meat to flame, and declare that is good. The poetry here has less to do with the meat, if you can call a tube steak – meat, but more to do with the soul engaging still, over a beautiful bed of coals, and the freshened air out there, and the gentle sunbeams which wax upon thy face. Hot dogs are OK, but the real joy is in the journey. If after all, our only goal was to eat them, then we might as well nuke them in the microwave, and be done in 30 seconds. But we’re partial to the scenic path around here. The slower ways. Come with us now, won’t you, and let’s go back to BBQ kindergarten and roast some weenies on the grill!
Residing pit side whilst supper cooks is one of my most favorite things to do. I love to tip back in my BBQ chair, legs crossed like a gentleman of leisure, and simply watch the day turn by. To enjoy how the clouds slowly idle overhead, and the tweety birds make their acrobatic sorties to the feeders brimming with seed. If there is a fairer way to roast a wiener, I’ve not heard of it. To up the ante a tad, I dialed in the Twins game on the little radio I keep by the pit. Figured if I was going to do some dogs, I might as well do it right, and partake in a little tailgating too. The conditions begged for it. Remote tailgating, I call it. That lofty, yet abiding gesture to the sporting gods, when you’d like to be there supporting your team with your grill all fired up, but you lack the honest desire to drive down to the stadium, and pay for parking there. A little remote tailgating is thus you’re next best option, and couldn’t be more pleasant, out on your own private patio, the serenade of song birds, and a homey bathroom harboring a few back issues of your favorite periodicals. Some thing not privy to a cold stadium parking lot.
Glory be to the remote tailgater, for you are a curious lot indeed. Nary leaving the house, feet kicked up by a smoking pit, listening to the play-by-play banter on the radio. Hark, you can almost hear the crack of the bat, and the leathery thwack of a fastball to the catcher’s mitt. The murmur of the crowds morphing into a boiling frenzy, at a crack deep to the warning track. Indeed, it’s almost like being there. Almost. The aromas of ball park franks drifting past your nose don’t hurt the illusion none either. And the same golden sunlight that is cast upon the field of dreams yonder, falls with great poetry upon your fair patio too, miles removed, where the chickadees cavort in the fragrant spruce, and the wood smoke lingers in the shafts of a pastel sun. Man.
So next time you can’t make it to the big game, why not whip up some dogs on the grill, whilst partaking in a little remote tailgating. There are other ways to support your team I guess, but none quite so pleasant, nor privileged, than these the glories, patron to the pit. Amen.