Alright, folks talk about Wake Forest vs Ole Miss, the strategies, the players, all that. For me, when I hear that matchup, it throws me back to a whole different kind of game I played – the game of actually trying to get to one of their big showdowns a while back. It became a real test, a practice in patience, let me tell you.
It all started simple enough. Me and a couple of old friends, we figured, “Hey, this is the one! Let’s do it right.” The plan was a classic weekend trip. Seemed straightforward on paper. First step: tickets. That’s where the fun began. We jumped online the second they went on sale. Gone. Poof. Faster than free beer at a barbecue. So, we waded into the murky waters of resale sites. Man, that was a minefield. Every other listing felt like a scam, and the prices were just nuts. I must have spent a solid week, coffee on tap, just sifting through, trying to find something that wouldn’t mean eating instant noodles for a month.
Eventually, we snagged a few. Pricey, but we had ’em. Felt like we’d won the first round. Next up, hotel. Trying to find a decent place that wasn’t already booked solid or charging a king’s ransom was another marathon. More phone calls, more websites. We finally found a spot, a bit out of the way, but hey, we had beds.
Then, like clockwork, life started throwing curveballs. Here’s how the ‘perfect plan’ started to unravel:
- One week out: My buddy, Tom, his boss suddenly scheduled a “can’t miss” weekend workshop. He was out. Bummer.
- Three days out: Dave, the other guy, his ancient car decided it was the perfect time to impersonate a lawn ornament. Dead. Stranded. He tried to find a last-minute rental, but everything was either booked or ridiculously expensive.
- The day before: The weather forecast turned ugly. Heavy rain predicted for the whole weekend. Just fantastic.
So there I was, with an extra ticket, a hotel room partially paid for by friends who couldn’t make it, and the prospect of a soggy solo trip. I genuinely thought about just calling it quits. Sell the ticket, eat the loss on the hotel, and spend the weekend grumbling on the couch. It felt like all that “practice” in planning was for nothing.
But then I thought, heck, I’ve come this far. The effort was already spent. So, I packed my rain gear, grabbed my one ticket, and just went. It wasn’t the epic friends’ weekend I’d pictured. Not even close. The drive was wet, finding parking was a nightmare, and I ended up next to some overly enthusiastic folks who spilled their soda on me twice.
But you know what? Standing there, in the rain, watching the game, even by myself, there was something to it. It was a different kind of experience. The game itself was pretty good, from what I remember through the drizzle. The “practice” turned out not to be about perfect planning, but about what you do when the plans fall apart. Sometimes, just showing up, adapting, and making the best of a messy situation is its own kind of win. That whole trip was a lesson, a practical exercise in just rolling with it. And honestly, those are the kinds of lessons that stick with you longer than the final score of any game.
