Not the ones who look the picture of spring, but the ones freezing their asses off on metal bleachers in negative 20 wind chill.

Not the ones who arrive with freshly cut orange slices, but the ones who arrive with an open pack of Oreos and a jug of powdered lemonade.

Not the ones who come with words of encouragement, but the ones who curse by accident, I mean, it’s so f ing cold.

Not the ones who bring chairs and hot cocoa, but the ones who can’t stop thinking about how good a hot buttered rum would taste.

Not the ones who plan ahead and dress warmly, but the ones adorned in blankets, who cuddle up to strangers because Tretorns may as well be flip flops.

Not the ones who made dinner before the game, but the ones who ponder fish taco takeout as a reward for copious windburn.

Not the ones who eagerly look for amazing plays, but the ones who stop the referees to ask how much time could possibly be left.

Not the ones who long to hug their injured children, but the ones who hide from the injured to ward off howls.

Not the ones who dreamt of jersey clad children, but the ones who remember playing so they could leave school early, ride a charter bus and eat at Hardee’s, all under the guise of athleticism.