September is here, and you know what that means: we pretend it’s fall, crank up the football, and pray we don’t pass out walking to the mailbox.
As a lifelong Alabamian, I’ve made peace with the fact that our version of autumn is basically summer with football. The thermometer still says 94°, but by golly, I’m drinking pumpkin coffee, lighting a cinnamon candle, and sweating through a long-sleeve shirt like it’s mid-October in Vermont. It’s called commitment to the season—look it up.
Of course, nothing says September in Alabama quite like the return of SEC football. Suddenly, otherwise mild-mannered adults are yelling “Roll Tide!” or “War Eagle!” at complete strangers in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot like it’s a secret handshake for the emotionally unstable. You see a man pacing outside a Mexican restaurant on a Saturday night? He’s not on the phone with a surgeon—he’s yelling at a backup quarterback through his AirPods.
At our house, football season means three things: high hopes, high blood pressure, and high-calorie appetizers. My wife has wisely stopped asking me to do anything on Saturdays between noon and midnight. I call it sacred time. She calls it “twelve hours of grown men chasing a ball while you ignore the laundry.”
We host watch parties that start out wholesome enough—chips and dips, a friendly wager, maybe someone’s deviled eggs if they’re feeling fancy. But by halftime, someone’s yelling at the TV, the deviled eggs are sweating like sinners in church, and I’m on my second helping of Rotel dip wondering how we got here.
And while I grumble about officiating, yell at instant replays, and swear I’m done watching forever (until next week), there’s this sweet undercurrent to it all: family.
There’s something sacred about the routine of gathering around the screen, groaning together when the refs blow the call, and high-fiving when our team scores. It’s not really about football—it’s about belonging. My kids might roll their eyes at my commentary (“Dad, they can’t hear you”), but they still show up. My grandkids sneak chips when they think no one’s looking. My wife hums in the kitchen while the game roars. These are the moments I’ll miss when the nest is truly empty and the house gets too quiet.
This time of year also stirs up a strange optimism. We tell ourselves it’s finally cooling off—when in fact it’s 89° instead of 99°. We pretend we’re going to cook more dinners at home and get back into routines. We dream of walks in crisp air while still swatting mosquitoes. September is the month of make-believe for adults: football dreams, weather delusions, and the belief that this year, we’ll actually keep that mums plant alive on the porch.
But I’ll take it.
Because for all the heat, the heartbreak, and the hangry third quarters—September gives us a reason to gather. To care. To shout and cheer and gripe and laugh. To wrap ourselves in old traditions and new memories.
So yes, I’m grumpy. I’m hot, I’m full, I’m yelling at teenagers on TV who don’t know I exist. But I’m grateful. Grateful for my people, for the porch fan that almost cools me down, for buffalo chicken dip and grandkids in team onesies. Grateful for every messy, imperfect, beautiful game day we share.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to change shirts. This one’s soaked through—and the game hasn’t even kicked off.