Priority: Thanksgiving or Saturday

     Once still in high school, Dad took me to a college football game at his alma mater. We sat in the upper deck...heaven. Some 80,000 other idol-worshipers shared the same faith.  

     Attending college was not a priority. But when said school accepted my application...I knew where God wanted me! In a meeting for incoming freshmen, someone promised me seats on the 25-yard-line if I participated in a special cheering section. If I would? Did that for two seasons, while other underclassmen cheered from the end zone. 

     That season, after the first game, tuition paid, Dad told someone my game was his most expensive ever. I chose to remain on campus for the last game of the season, Thanksgiving weekend. I wasn't homesick. My religion mattered. 

     In Spring of my freshman year, friends in the Methodist Foundation convinced me to move into their rooming house. God would be pleased.

     Season No. 2. Methodist friends and I attended the final game, away, where our team beat the hated rival. I swiped a flag from their Methodist house. Dad somehow financed my train trip to the Rose Bowl and back. The parade was far better than the game, although we won. That Spring I volunteered to work for the baseball team. Had a locker in the football stadium. But I wasn't scoring in the classroom. 

     Season No. 3 was another shadow of heaven, but my fumbles in business school promised defeat. I quit before they could cancel my $12 season ticket. I returned home - didn't miss any games - and returned in the Spring to enter Journalism school. Now on the right team, my grades improved. Even challenged a professor to change a grade from B to A. Lost that one. 

     My substitute play meant sticking around for a fifth season - I mean fifth year. But wow. For two years, specializing in sports, I interviewed well-known coaches in other sports. One football game, I worked on the field spotting for a photographer. Can my old friends beat that?

     Another game, I sat high up in the press box. And I interviewed a photographer even higher - on the press box roof. Finally, on graduation day, like Dad, I accepted my diploma on the field of worship in the hallowed stadium, with Dad, Mom and my sister approving.  

     I could ask God how he judged my "works." But I think I know.

        Jimmy