With little time to spare before the start of the shortened season, once the schedule was announced, we quickly swung into action with the draft of the new tickets.  With conflicting schedules, we executed over email – which was a good way to proceed. 

It didn’t take long for the games to be snatched up.

And then, all that was left was going to a game.

I’ll admit, the game has changed a bit from the last one that I went too.  The foods changed, the beer changed, the players have changed.  Perhaps most sad is the placement of the Wild Anthem, a song that spurs my Minnesota pride, has been moved from the start of the game and the youngster planting the Wild flag on the ice to the time in between the second and third period.

But the excitement and the thrills are still there – and the Wild, while starting a little slow, are waking up, and working well together.

I have yet to determine which jersey I should splurge on (my old Gaborik Jersey, which I wore with pride when he scored five – count them five – goals against the New York Rangers seems to have lost its luster…now that he is scoring goals for the same New York Rangers…  Will it be Parise?  Suter?  Cullen? 

I’ve still got some time to figure it out…the old one might have to suffice until next year.

As luck would have it, as I type this, the US Mail delivered yet another gift from my Wild team – an invitation to buy tickets for the playoffs.  While my team has made some missteps, they are still performing well enough to be at the top of their division.

Most Minnesota sports teams best part of their season is before it starts – before the hopes are dashed.  For the Wild, well, they just might have what it takes to bring home that Stanley Cup.

Here’s hope for a re-write of this ending in about two months time…

Sign they did.  The owners signed off on January 9^th, and the players on January 12^th.  Hockey would return.

There was rejoicing in the State of Hockey and indeed, everywhere that hockey fans gathered, well, at least in North America.  I’m sure that the European leagues were not happy to lose all of the stars that they had playing for them as the strike wore on.

I received a letter in the mail that about made me want to cry with joy…

“At long last, the news we’ve all been waiting for – the NHL Board of Governors and the NHLPA have ratified a new Collective Bargaining Agreement.  On behalf of the entire Wild organization, I want to thank you for your patience and your passion for our sport……”

And the news that no one needed to be reminded about was in the second paragraph:

“July 4^th, the day we transformed our team, now seems like a lifetime ago.  On that day, NHL stars Zach Parise and Ryan Suter joined Mikko Koivu, Dany Heatley and the rest of our established core of solid players.  In addition, a number of our top prospects, like Mikael Granlund, Jason Zucker and Charlie Coyle, have gained valuable experience this fall playing with our AHL club….”

In short, the excitement reached a fever pitch.  The players, management, the fans, and the local businesses were ready to get the season underway.  With the season now almost half over, the season would be played but on a shortened basis.

Enclosed with the letter were my tickets.  It was a great day.

The season would start on January 19^th and end on April 27^th and would be a shortened 48 game scheduled.

In short, the season would be short and intense.

Needless to say, the small group of us that shared the season tickets were relieved.  It was about bloody time.

Out for a walk as the season approached, two of the most rabid fans in our group were discussing the prospects of the upcoming season, and I tried to chime in.

Now, before I proceed, I must confess that being relatively fresh back from 2 ½ years in Australia, part of the major challenges is that I’ve got a 2 ½ year gap in memories from everyone else.  While they were enjoying Wild games (and everything else back in the states for that matter), I was going to Australian Rules Football games, Rugby matches, and an occasional Cricket match.

The same could be said for all facets of life.  It remains frustrating…but at times, can be kind of fun…

“I hope Mitchell performs.” Bill said.

“We got Willie Mitchell back!” I proclaimed.

“Dude, no…where have you been?” Charlie said.

“In Australia.” I replied.  “How do you think Shepard will play this season?”

“Shepard?  Who are you…wait…we traded him like two years ago…what are you talking about!” Bill said with heightening frustration…which for me is like a red cape to a bull…

“Well, I’m sure Burns will be on top of his game for this.” I said.

“Alright!  Just…just stop it…right now…you are freaking me out….” Charlie said…the annoyance factor stepping up to fever pitch.

“Alright!  Alright!  I just hope I get to see my old favorite Skoula play, he’s a fellow Czech you know…” I said.

“Just…just…just get away from us.  I can’t…no…I can’t have this conversation….” Said Bill.

“Un…#%#$%#…believable.” Said Charlie as they both stormed off.

Mission accomplished.

As we ushered in the New Year and said goodbye to 2012, most hockey fans were confident that their sport was finished.  The season would be, effectively, cancelled.  All reports were that the owners and the players were too far apart.  Their love of the game was subverted by money and greed on both sides.  They wouldn’t reconcile, and the fans would be holding the bag.

This is not to mention all of the businesses that depend upon the fans to come out and support their teams.  My favorite hangout spots on West 7^th Street in St. Paul were slowly dying with no fans packing in a couple of times a week and running up food and bar tabs.  That time from September through to April – or however long the team kept on winning – was their gravy train, it paid the bills and keep their staff’s employed. 

I’d still make it to West 7^th when visiting that side of town for business and stop at one of my old haunts.  Talking to the bartenders and owners, it was ripping them apart.  They were having to lay off staff that had been with them for years.  “It’s like trying to choose between my kids.” One confessed.

The Wild did an excellent job of keeping fans in the loop and engaged.  They had open skates in the hallowed Excel Energy Center.  They sent out Christmas Cards to season ticket holders with a simple, “Warmest Wishes for a wonderful holiday and a Happy New Year” with the artwork courtesy of Horace Mann Elementary School in St. Paul.  The card was personally signed by my account representative, complete with a smiley face.  They would send out emails and mail out updates occasionally.  I even received my much anticipated 2013 Wild Calendar.  Their 2009 Calendar was a reminder of the ice when I was down in Australia.

But most folks were nervous.  As the calendar ticked over, there seemed little hope for resolution.

The partners in my season ticket endeavor were getting restless.  The Wild had graciously offered to pay a whopping 8% interest on any money spent on tickets that didn’t get used.  To me that was a powerful incentive to keep our ticket money in the kiddy.

For others, it wasn’t.  Some were banging the drum that since there wasn’t going to be a season, they just wanted their money back.  The clamor was reaching a fever pitch from a few, and I wasn’t sure how to divert the crisis.  It would need to be dealt with.

After my vacation.

“Listen, let’s sit down and discuss when I’m back.” I said matter of factly.  “I’m going down to watch my Bison play in the NCAA FCS championship game, I’ll be back on Monday – we can take it up then.”

A few grumbled, they wanted the pain to end.  The season was over anyway.  They wanted their money back.  Even those that hadn’t paid in yet.

I went on vacation – flying to Dallas and watching my North Dakota State Bison trounce Sam Houston State Bearkats to win the national Championship.  As we packed for the flight back to the north country, we listened to the news in the background.

Wonders of wonders…there were rumors – more than rumors – that a deal had been reached.  They players and the owners were settling, and now all they needed to do was sign it.  It wasn’t over, but it was close.

I remember getting back on the plane that morning and thinking what a great weekend it was -  my Bison win, hockey was back on, and my Minnesota Wild were well positioned for a run for the Stanley Cup.

All they needed to do was sign…

The thought of the upcoming hockey season for me was almost bliss.  It was the one bright spot on an extremely stressful summer.  And nothing was going to get in the way.

Little did I know that the problems started almost on the day that I booked the tickets.  On July 13, 2012, the owners sent over new contract terms for the players as their old contract was expiring on September 16^th, 2012.  Included in the contract were an overall reduction in revenue sharing, elimination of signing bonuses, shorten contracts, and other items that were less than agreeable to the players.

While I moved along in blissful ignorance, those more in tuned to the situation and the history were well away of the storm that was brewing.  This wasn’t the first time that there had been a contract dispute.  The 2004-05 season had been completely cancelled.  The 1994-95 season was shortened due to the owners locking out the players union.

The same man in charge for both of those seasons was still in charge.  Gary Bettman, while no Frick in regards to unions (the famous man that busted Carnegies Unions during the infamouse Homestead Strike of 1892), was none the less a tough negotiator and the players, well represented, and no strangers to taking their gloves off.  It was set up for a classic battle.

Though in the end – all parties shared one common thread – they loved hockey.

As the days ticked by, we did all of the things that season ticket holders would do for any normal season, we drafted for games.  There were many suggestions on how to get games fairly – in the end, our names went into a hat in an equal proportion to the number of games that we had bought, and we decided on draft order – then, with a quick meeting, we selected our games.

Now all we had to do was wait for the tickets.

As the summer wore on, the rumors and rumblings continued.  Some saying that the players would never strike and the owners would never lock them out.

But on at 11:59 pm on September 15^th, it was official, the players were locked out.  The entire 2012-13 NHL Hockey Season was in doubt.

A letter dated September 17^th arrived at my home shortly thereafter – very impartial and very conciliatory, but saying the words that none of us wanted to hear – the season may not start on time.

And that’s when the trouble started.

Suddenly, the questions started from the folks that I shared my tickets with, but in truth, there was no news.  The players and the owners would negotiate until they reached a reasonable conclusion.

Problem was, no one knew exactly when that would be.

On September 19^th, all of the preseason games scheduled for September were cancelled.  That was bad, but not horrible – there weren’t many games.  Then they cancelled the balance of the preseason.

That wasn’t a good sign.

On October 26^th, it was announced that all November games would be cancelled…and this was followed on November 22^nd, by the cancellation of all games up to December 14^th.  On November 26^th, Federal mediators tried to resolve the dispute – and they quickly decided that the parties were so far apart – there was nothing to mediate.

It wasn’t long before all of the games until December 30^th were cancelled.

Merry Christmas indeed.

With the signing of Parise and Suter, I was one of probably thousands of people calling and inquiring, trying to get season tickets to the Minnesota Wild.  Regardless if they would have signed the two stars or not, I would have bought them anyway, the tickets would have probably been just a little better.

I made the call.

Now, I have to admit, that was a stressful step for me.  I’m not one for commitment as a few former girlfriends could probably attest to.  This would be my first time buying season tickets for anything.  This was the first time crossing that line from a participant to a lead player.

It was more than a little stressful.

The guest services representative was a great.  We talked a little hockey.  He laughed at my jokes.  He convinced me that tickets were going fast…I would have to buy fast.  He carefully outlined the different options before me.

I had fond memories of the prior seats that I had – on the far end of the arena from the main entrance.  The end where the Wild only shoot once, but the seats were down close to the action and on a corner, giving us extra leg room and fewer people making us stand to, putting it gently, take care of business or get a beverage.

More than once, people had come with me to the game when I had those seats and I’d warn them if they were novices, “Don’t expect great seats.  They aren’t on the glass and they are up in the corner.”

Which, for the record, was true.  The tickets weren’t on the glass and they were in a corner.  I just never told them that it was row six.

It was always met with a hearty, “It doesn’t matter – it is a ticket into the excitement!”

It was fun to turn around and see their mouths gapping open as we made our way down to row and find our seats. 

I think that is where my good friend Jeff began to refer to me as “The Master of the Understatement.”

Alas, this time around, there were no go options that low and in my price range.  The helpful young gentleman on the other end of the phone made a few helpful suggestions before I made my selection, and truth be told, the seats were pretty picked over.  Alas, the seats this time were far from the original, but they’d do.

It didn’t take long for the mail to start arriving at my house.  Within a week, a ‘welcome package’ showed up talking about all of the benefits of membership.  From the ability to trade tickets, to great deals at “The Hockey Lodge” to advanced tickets for concerts at the hallowed Excel Energy Center.

Membership had its privileges.

In short, I was in – I was a member.  With the backing of a handful of good friends who would take a good chunk of tickets from me, I bought my first season tickets to a sporting event.

Nothing was going to get in the way of me and a great welcome back hockey season!

Almost…

Living in Australia for 2 ½ years, one thing that I missed was my Minnesota Wild.  Nothing could quite take away that feeling of seeing a good live hockey game.  Sitting in the stands and watching the fast action on the ice with a good friend or female beside me always was a good way to take minds off any trouble.

And the team knew how to draw you into the action.  The entire experience seemed to be choreographed to draw you in – from the organ music, to the kid skating out to center ice to plant to wild flag, to the enthralling Wild Anthem (the games in our blood and our bloods in the game…in the state…the state of hockey…).

When I moved back, I knew that I was going to have to get season tickets again.

Living in the cities before, my good friend Mike had organized the tickets, and I had gotten a handful.  Mike, now with one kid in tow, and one on the way, was not planning on going to any hockey games until his lovely and understanding wife was fully rested and child #2 arrived and as rambunctious as child #1.

Now a lot of people talked about wanting tickets, about how much fun the games were, and about how they would like to go to some games.  But not one was willing to coordinate.

There was only one thing to be done – I’d have to organize.

The Wild’s performance the last season was lackluster at best.  When I left, they were sold out games and people that wanted season tickets had to wait, ‘in the warming house’ as it was called.

Not when I stepped up to buy.

I hummed and hawed a bit as I got settled in.  With the 4^th of July approaching, I figured there would be plenty of times to get tickets. 

But then the surprise came. 

In one fell swoop, the Minnesota Wild signed contracts with the top two free agents, players looking for a home, and the fans went wild.  In one of the hottest 4^th of July’s in recent memories, Minnesota was celebrating not just Independence Day, but the joys of being in the state of hockey.

Zach Parise, a forward who had just finished a great season with the New Jersey Devil’s, decided it was time to come closer to home.  A Minnesota native, at the age of 27, decided it was time to come home.  A rising star in hockey and a much sought after player – in the end, his roots got him home.  He has only one known weakness…he attended school at the University of North Dakota, but that is a flaw that I can forgive…especially if he is a good player, and a good man. 

Ryan Suter, also 27, is a defenseman, and while he is not native to Minnesota, he is a close neighbor having grown up in Madison, Wisconsin, and the son of Bob Suter, member of the 1980 “Miracle on Ice” team that beat the Soviet Union and won Olympic Gold.  Ryan was a star defenseman for the Nashville Predators and contemplating resigning when his friend Zach Parise suggested that they both sign in Minnesota, where it would be a homecoming for Ryan’s wife, who is a Minnesotan.

As someone who had left off and on over the years, I could sympathize with their desire to move back to Minnesota.  After all, what isn’t to love – the warm summers, the long spring and falls, and the cold, snow filled winters.  It doesn’t sound that good until you’ve lived somewhere else, then you understand what Minnesota – and home – is all about.

As it turns out, there is always a back story, and the needless to say, the Wild lobbied hard to get the two to sign.  Including getting Twins greats including hometown hero Joe Mauer to send a video encouraging them to come on home.

And come home they did – making it a memorable 4^th of July in the state of hockey…but just a little more difficult to get my season tickets.

The game itself was an intense first half, with NDSU scoring three first with a 32 yard field goal the only score in the first quarter.  The drizzle and clouds of the morning were giving way to broken clouds as the second quarter rolled around.

Though it didn’t look much better for the Bison.

Sam Houston State tied it up early in the second quarter, the Bison scored a touchdown with only about three minutes left – and Sam Houston didn’t waste anytime tying it up in time for halftime.

The Bison were playing well…but so were the Bearkats.

It was a great first half of football played by two teams that deserved to be here, at the National Championship game.  But for us 15,000 Bison fans in the stands and the thousands of more outside, we were hoping for a good second half…and a Bison victory.

The sun came out at halftime to the delight of those of us in the stands – the Bison side of the stadium basked in the sunlight of a Texas winter day – and temperatures warmed enough to let us take off our jackets.  The Bearkat stands (filled with more Bison fans than Bearkats) were still shaded thanks to the stadium configuration and location of the sun.

It was a good sign.

The first play of the second half did not start well for the Bison, as the Bearkats ran in for a touchdown…but wait…the stands erupted as the yellow flag was spotted well back on the field…no touchdown after all thanks to a holding penalty.

And it was almost all over from there.

The Bison scored a touchdown halfway through the third quarter after a long march down the field.  It was pretty clear that the Bearkats were starting to falter, it might have been the emotional blow of the lost touchdown, or just that the Bison were that physical.  With only minutes left in the third quarter, the Bison were all set up for a field goal – and instead kicked in a little razzle dazzle with a trick play – and scoring another touchdown. 

That play will remain burned in the memories of every Bison fan in the stands.  Officially, it was a simple trick play where the kicker, Keller, threw to Hardie for a touchdown.  Though I swear the field goal attempt was blocked and caught by Keller….impossible, yes, but not on this day!

The game was done at that point.  True Sam Houston State scored three points on a field goal again early in the 4^th, but it was clear on the field – they were defeated.  The Bison could do no wrong, and coach Bohl rotated in the second and third strings – letting everyone have a chance to play in the historic game.

With minutes left, my good friend Dave turned to me and said, “Are you planning on going down on the field?”

Darn right I was.

When the final horn sounded, the Bison were victorious – 39 to 13, and fifteen thousand fans rushed the field in a flood of green and gold that churned and screamed like a raging sea.  If there was one word for it – it would be jubilation.

Screams, yells, chants, high fives, and hugs were the order of the day as players, fans, officials, and the band met in one solid mass on the field.  Old friends that I hadn’t seen at the tailgating, or other pregame festivities were suddenly surrounding me – it was like some old war movie ending, where all of the cast from earlier in the movie somehow reunite on the field of battle.

And here we were.

With some rousing words from the quarterback, the coach, and the university president – the fans continued to go wild.

Then as quickly as it started, it ended – the flow of fans reversed, they quietly and patiently made for the exits without pushing or shoving or coarse words.

“Only North Dakota State!” Said one guard…amazing at the enthusiasm…and the politeness of it all.

The celebration continued in the parking lot, as we gathered one last time, and proceeded to chat and visit for several more hours, before finally heading back to the hotel (perhaps…if it is legal…with a few of us packed in the luggage section of a friend’s suburban).

I wish I could say that the celebration that night went on until the wee hours of the next day.  But quite frankly, we were tired.  We found a sports bar – that was packed, ate a little, drank a little, watch the Vikings loose to the Packers, and headed back for a long needed sleep.

In the grey dawn of Texas winter, packed our bags and headed for the airport the next morning.  Tired.  Exhausted.  Maybe a little dehydrated…but happy for a Bison victory, and a great time with friends.

There we stood, in the middle of almost twenty score of Bison faithful and a small but dedicated band of Sam Houston state backers.  Screaming, chanting, and making merry.  The school songs were played.  All stood at attention as our colors were presented and the Star Spangled banner was sung.

I was surrounded by about a dozen friends that have been with me through thick and thin for well over a decade.  Over the last twenty-four hours, we had celebrated, we had visited, we had played and joked and made merry.

The sky overhead thundered as the national anthem came to an end and a mighty bomber lumbered through the sky to the cheers and applause of the throngs of fans that had come out to see this, the National Championship Football game in near perfect football weather, cool, but not cold.  Partly cloudy, but with hints of sun.

All of us were hoping, praying, and thinking about what a wonderful thing this game – and how grand it would be should our Bison (or Bearcats for the Sam Houston fans) win the title.

Except me.  I was thinking about my socks.

The weekend before, we were cleaning out the farmhouse – the place where two generations of our family had called home.  The place that my great grandfather had built (well, mainly my great uncle) and my parents had expanded.

That weekend before the big game, my oldest brother was cleaning out my Dad’s dresser and had given me a pile of Dad’s socks.  In the hurried midst of packing up the night before, I had grabbed a pair of those socks and thrown them in my bag.  That morning as I put on my shoes…I chose that pair of socks.  As I pulled them onto my feet, I realized that this pair was Dad’s…

Three of his five children attended North Dakota State.  Though one of his loves was teasing, and I’m sure he would have told me I was a fool for traveling across the country for a football game, he would have liked the pageantry.  He would have liked the national anthem being played.  He would have liked the fly over.  He would have told stories about grandpa being in the Legion Band.  About his own time in the service.  He liked to watch the Bison when they were on television.  He liked to chide me when they lost.  But I also know he liked it when they won.  The last weekend I was home before he passed away, we had discussed the prospects for the balance of the Bison season, we were dismayed that the game wasn’t on television – and we were discussed the blowout that happened at South Dakota (Bison won 54-0).

He would not have liked the crowd.  He would have been happy to watch the game on television rather than fight the crowds.  He would have teased me fore ‘stealing his socks’ – but at the same time, he too was sentimental about those types of things.  Sometimes quietly making comments about some little item like, ‘your mother got me that shirt’ or ‘your mother liked it when I wore that.’

So though there were neigh on twenty thousand fans screaming around me, despite the fireworks and the bands, and the pageantry, my mind was two thousand miles away and were thinking about that stupid pair of socks.

But with a whistle, play was started.  The Bison and the Bearkats took the field.  The game began – and the socks did what they were suppose to do – keep me grounded while I watched a great game of football.

The alarm went off about 7am.  We wandered down for breakfast a little after 8am, and after feasting in the hotel buffet surrounded with an uneasy peace from both NDSU and Sam Houston State fans, we made our way outside.

Now, they told us that there was a shuttle bus that would run starting about 8am.  We waited a while, and finally inquired at the front desk.  “Well, it serves all the hotels..and we are the last stop…” was the reply.

That was an ominous sign to us.

We stood out in the cool Texas morning, debating our next move, when a taxi van pulled up.  Two older gentlemen walked towards the van.  With no school colors to identify them, we hung back until one of them looked at us and asked, “You guys going to the game?”

“Yes sir!” We replied.

“So are we, we might as well share a cab!” He replied.

Originally farmers near Breckinridge and now involved in off shore oil drilling…I’m not sure how that works either…based out of Arizona, they came over for the game.  We split the taxi fare four ways, said thanks to the driver, and bailed out in the middle of the street when the coast was clear, heading for the tailgating area.

Now on the one side of the stadium, all seemed relatively quiet.  On the other side of the stadium, the majority of the people in North Dakota had set up a camp.  It truly looked like something out of Middle Age literature with tents, flags, signs, and banners waving in the wind.  Though the motorhomes, buses, trailers, and semi’s painted in Bison green and gold were a little out of place for Chaucer.

We were awe struck by the sheer vastness of it.  It was like someone had transplanted tailgating outside of the Fargodome to Frisco, TX.  Twenty thousand people moved 1500 miles farther south, grills, face paint, and all.

And of course between Matt and I, we knew a fair number of them.  Matt was greeting friends and neighbors at every turn.  We both kept running into friends from our college days.

Finally, we found our ticket connect and more importantly, our good friends, and proceeded to visit, discuss the prospects for the game, and overall do what good friends do.  We wandered the tailgate area with some interest.  There was a wide area of vehicles and people scattered throughout.

And we continued to run into people that we knew.

It was on a trek to the bathroom, or rather bank of port-a-potty’s, the bank of them an improvement over the four from the year before, but still inadequate for the crowd, that yielded a pretty spectacular sight.  A friend from North Dakota, the father of one of my old college fraternity brother’s, decked out in full Bison regalia – full Bison robe, and a real Bison head on his brow – in short, he looked like a member of a real Thundering Herd.

After watching a few other astonishing sights (people giving up on the long line and heading for the parking lot, guys and gals sharing port-a-potty’s, I got my business done, and headed back.

Coming back, the two giant motorhomes behind us were hosting dance parties on their top, with fans dancing and shaking to the Bison beat in all their green and gold.  It was an awesome sight…but also a scary one as people seemed to totter near the edges.

But we packed the car and battened down the hatches, it was almost time to make our way in.

We fought our way in through the throng of people – a good natured crew of people, laughing and joking, that would eventually fill the stadium from various estimates of  11,000 to almost 15,000 in the stadium that held 21,000.  Some people became members of the Sam Houston State Boosters Club and paid the $50 to get a seat (their fans were filled with smatterings of green and gold) and thousands more with no ticket, where they would continue the celebration in the parking lot.

We left 3^rd Base with about 30 minutes to spare before the NDSU pep rally.  Last year, the City of Frisco and the Dallas-Fort Worth Convention and Visitors Bureau gave us a 500 person hotel ball room to have our night before pepfest.

And NDSU, true to form, had about 3000 people show up.

While I wasn’t there, I heard it was an event that made the administration proud.  First for the sheer number of people.  Second because the fans, dispite the insanity acted very nobly, even helping to unload the beer trucks as they arrived and making sure that they made it to the necessary bars.

This year, there would be no taking chances.  They had given us Dr. Pepper Ballpark, home of the Frisco Rough Riders Baseball team to rally in.  With seating for almost 9000 people, almost half the size of the football stadium, this is something that not even NDSU could fill.

But fill it we did. 

After selling 8500 tickets, they turned people away at the gate.  The Bison had arrived.

The ballpark is top notch.  Seemingly brand new, but with a classic look and feel about it.  White siding, interesting architecture, and overall, it seems like it would be a great place to watch a ball game…or better yet, go to a pep rally for the NDSU Bison.

It was a great place to catch up with friends as well.  There was a whole host of friends from back home.  It was one of those times when I was scratching my head and wondering what I ever would have done had I not joined a fraternity.  Here were six guys, and in some cases their wives and kids that I lived with during college.  Through in a few other alumni, and we had quite a crew of dedicated Bison fans – and more than that, good friends.

We had come a long way since that time back on College Street.

The pep rally was impressive.  The mayor of Frisco welcomed us all to the city, and proceeded to start the chant of ‘Three-peat!  Three-peat!”

I think that the city of Frisco likes it when we come to town.

We heard from the administration, coaches, and some of the players.  The NDSU band performed in all of their glory.

It was like a little piece of the upper Great Plains right here in Texas.

The fans  were kicked into a fever pitch.  At this point it time, for anyone that doubted the move to Division I, all of those doubts should have left.  Here were 9000 people that loved their University.  Here were 9000 people that had travelled for hours and hours, by plane, by train, and by automobile.  They had spent a small fortune for tickets, for hotel rooms, for food, for all of the trimmings and trappings.

Few schools in any division can claim that.  I would think it would be on par with some of the big schools in the Big 10 and Big 12.

And we were just little old NDSU.

Truth be told, I spend most of my time catching up with friends and meeting new ones.  We were too busy celebrating to listen to a lot of the speeches.

The whole spectacle ended with a triumphant fireworks display.  Win or lose at the game, it was clear, that this little old school called NDSU was here to play, and here to stay.

Following the celebration, we headed back to our hotel.  A couple of mile walk, we took the assistance of some friends and hopped in the back of their vehicle for the ride back to our hotel.

Not content to call it a night, we went in and proceeded to continue the visiting, the memories, and catching up.