As an American living far away form the Land of the Free and the Home of the Supersized McMenu, I am often asked what I miss most from America. I can tell you lots of things that I don’t miss (tipping, picking up after my dog, paying for gas), but there are few things that I miss so, so dearly. If I want a hamburger, I cough up the money and go to Friday’s. If I want an American brew, they sell Sam Adams at the supermarket next door. En fin, I’ve learned to adapt and still retain my Americaness.
But if I want this, well, I just have to remember that college football is only three months of the year.
There are few things I love more than hearing “Touchdown, Iowa!” and screaming IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII as the black and gold flag is waved at the student section. No better way to start a football Saturday than cracking a beer to the darlings of the Hawkeye State on Melrose Avenue at 6am. For a state with no professional teams, the Hawks are about as close as they’ve got, and fans pour into Iowa City during every home game. So, yes, I miss Hawkeye Football and everything that comes along with it (Kirk Ferentz’s trastero included).
My elementary school gym teacher had a yellow and black bumper sticker on the door to his office, 80s-style old-school, that read: It’s great to be a Hawkeye! I got a postcard announcing my acceptance into my first-choice school which proclaimed the same. Damn, it feels good to be a Hawkeye.