If It Can Happen to Me...

It all started innocently enough. Early August, a summer breeze, optimism in the air — the kind of day where you confidently tell your wife, “I’m heading to the opener, and I’m taking our son.” That’s when she calmly informed me that she had already made plans. Pennsylvania. To visit her best friend. And her brother. And also, we were going to Hershey Park.

Let me be clear: I am a grown man. I have my own calendar. I am also, apparently, not in charge of my own calendar.

So instead of heading to Charlottesville for kickoff, I was cruising up I-83 toward a hotel in York County, Pennsylvania, with a child in the backseat talking about inverted corkscrews and G-force like he’s prepping for a NASA internship. I was also tuning in to John Freeman and Ballhawk on the radio — the only two men who can make driving through central PA feel like I’m tailgating at Scott Stadium.

I think we made it to the second quarter before Ballhawk delivered the first Coach Welsh impersonation of “Christ, catch the ball!” — a rite of fall in its own right. That’s when I knew football season had officially begun. My wife, unfazed by my growing agitation, had her earbuds in — wisely shielding herself from the rising volume of my football-related displeasure.

Meanwhile, my 12-year-old son wasn’t listening to the game. He was in the backseat watching a YouTube POV of Candymonium — Hershey Park’s signature coaster — narrating every twist and turn like he was doing game film breakdown: “Dad, look at that drop. That airtime hill? We are gonna fly tomorrow.”

Feeling like a terrible Wahoo, we pulled off and found a sports bar in York called Crimson’s American Grill — a place that sounds like it serves burgers with a side of Big Ten bias. But credit where it’s due: they got the game on TV for me without hesitation. Hospitality still lives, even 200 miles from Charlottesville.

I caught most of the second quarter and the first touchdown of the third. UVa was up 35–0 at that point, and we figured we were safe to head for the hotel. Not exactly how I’d imagined spending my Saturday night — but I’d seen enough to settle the nerves, and just enough to start quietly praying for Chandler Morris’s shoulder after that scary-looking hit.

The next day? Hershey delivered. Candymonium was as good as advertised (even if I was questioning my life choices), my son had the time of his life, and the chocolate… well, I don’t need to tell you what chocolate does for the soul.

I may have won a few brownie points for being a good sport about going to PA instead of VA. And while I missed being in the stands — surrounded by orange and blue, screaming at refs and singing The Good Ol Song, I didn’t miss everything. Just enough to remind me what I love about it.

So yes — I missed the game. But I gained a memory. And a small cavity.

If it can happen to me — a guy who lives for fall Saturdays in Scott — it can happen to you. So be careful when you start declaring your football travel plans with confidence. Somewhere, someone is already booking a hotel room in candy country.

Just remember: my heart never leaves Charlottesville, even when my GPS does.