Fall is my favorite season. The summer heat finally packs up and leaves, and cooler weather slides in like a welcome relief. Hoodies return, pumpkins appear everywhere (sometimes in places they really don’t belong), and—most importantly—football season takes over.

Sure, Major League Baseball is making its late-season push. Division rivals square off, playoff spots are on the line, and commentators remind us that “every game matters now.” But baseball is like a slow-cooked stew—delicious, but you’ve got to be patient. Football, on the other hand, is a deep fryer on overdrive: loud, messy, and guaranteed to burn your eyebrows off if you stand too close.

Football isn’t just a game. It’s a cultural event that arrives like a traveling circus—complete with spectacle, drama, overpriced snacks, and at least one clown. And it doesn’t stop at the NFL. The phenomenon trickles down through NCAA Saturdays, Friday night high school lights, Pop Warner weekends, and even flag football leagues where parents scream at referees like their seven-year-old is auditioning for the Super Bowl.

Take tailgating, for example. Parking lots magically transform into open-air kitchens. Pickup trucks sprout grills, coolers, and folding chairs that have seen better days. People spend hours setting up tents, speakers, and enough food to survive a natural disaster—all before stepping foot in the stadium. It’s less about football and more about proving who can turn a parking space into a five-star dining experience. Nobody remembers the score, but everyone remembers who brought the queso dip that disappeared in five minutes flat.

Tailgating isn’t just for the big leagues. It happens in backyards, garages, and man caves in virtually every town. You don’t need a ticket or parking pass—just a grill, a cooler, and maybe a neighbor who doesn’t mind smoke drifting over the fence. Sometimes the pre-game party is the game, especially when your team’s record suggests the highlight of the season might actually be the nachos.

Grilling is less about food and more about showing dominance. One hand grips a pair of tongs like a conductor’s baton; the other holds a beverage you swear makes you “more focused.” Timing is loose, temperature is subjective, and food safety… negotiable. If it’s not still mooing or clucking, it’s probably fine.

Yet somehow, those burgers taste better than anything in a restaurant. Maybe it’s the smoke, maybe the atmosphere, or maybe nothing pairs with charred hot dogs like the roar of fans and the occasional smell of radiator fluid wafting through the parking lot. Grilling is the great equalizer—pro stadium, high school lot, or driveway with a tiny charcoal grill—once the meat hits the fire, you’re part of the tradition.

Football season brings the timeless tradition of trash talking. This isn’t casual banter—it’s full-blown performance art. Your buddy’s team loses one game and suddenly they’re “the worst franchise in history” and “should be demoted to playing against high schoolers.” Logic is optional; exaggeration is mandatory.

Trash talk thrives on group texts, social media, and living rooms where someone dares to root for the visiting team. The game clock hits zero, but the conversation doesn’t. Someone will bring up that fumble from three years ago like it happened yesterday.

At its core, trash talking is an equal-opportunity sport. You don’t need tickets, encyclopedic stats, or even the rules memorized. All you need is confidence, a loud voice, and the ability to declare that your 2–6 team is “just getting warmed up.”

Team jerseys are a pageantry must. Dropping $150 to wear another grown man’s name on your back? Nothing says loyalty like it. Bonus points if you own multiple jerseys so you can switch at halftime when your team starts losing—that’s strategy, not disloyalty. Throwbacks? Pure confidence, reliving glory days from the dial-up era.

And the real MVPs? Fans in full uniform—pads, helmet, eye black—the works. Spoiler: Coach won’t call them in from Section 342. But the commitment is admirable.

Living room legends with nachos in hand, armchair quarterbacks outthink professional coaches. “Why’d they call that play?” they scoff, as if they didn’t just lose fantasy football because they benched the wrong kicker.

In reality, they’re yelling at the TV like it will make a difference—because clearly the quarterback can hear them from three states away. Wives complain we get too intense. ESPN commentators? Why are they yelling so much? Can’t they talk like normal people? The irony: the same folks who roll their eyes at football yelling match the volume when The View debates wallpaper trends or a red carpet dress “violation.” Everyone has their arena; football fans just use chips and dip.

But in that moment, the armchair quarterback is the undisputed genius. Every bad throw, every missed tackle, every questionable punt is obvious to them—as if the players on the field should’ve consulted the guy who hasn’t sprinted farther than the fridge in years. Oh, and don’t get us started on the officials… Suddenly, every flag thrown—or not thrown—is proof that the entire league is conspiring against them.

Finally, football season wouldn’t be complete without office betting pools. Karen from accounting becomes best friends with Dave from IT because they both need the underdog to cover the spread. Alliances form and dissolve in hours, rivalries flare over a missed touchdown, and office politics revolve around fantasy points rather than quarterly reports.

HR pretends not to notice, as long as they’re invited to the potluck at season’s end. The five-dollar buy-in isn’t just for winning—it’s bragging rights that last until next season, long after spreadsheets and deadlines vanish. Office betting pools are chaotic, competitive, and way louder than anyone should be at work. And yet, like the games themselves, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

So yes, fall is my favorite season. I have my Paul Crew Mean Machine jersey ready (seems like the most appropriate neutral option for when my team isn’t on TV), and I keep cold drinks in the fridge. The cooler weather is nice, sure, but the real joy is in the rituals: the tailgating, the grilling, the trash talking, the jerseys, the armchair quarterbacks, and the office betting pools. It’s the way football takes over our weekends—and sometimes our sanity. Messy, loud, occasionally ridiculous—and somehow, it all just works.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.