The only thing worse, as the saying goes, than a sentimental old fool, is a sentimental young one. At 42, I am unsure which camp I am in anymore. But I reside in one of them, because, for me, on the first Saturday in October the world takes on an absolutely Rockwellian cast. I've evolved (devolved?) to the point where I love watching the early Big Ten games. The stadiums are beautiful-especially the new one at Minnesota-the uniforms are classic (Phil Knight being the great patron of, say, Indiana, simply doesn't work), and they play rivalry games to determine ownership of all kinds of crazy kitsch that could be purchased in miniature at your local Stuckey's (which presents a fine alternative to the quest for all fifty state spoons). The fans even attend games wearing long pants, which they still refer to as trousers. Americana, my good man.

My wife gave me a Martin guitar as a wedding gift. I can't really bring it to life; I lack talent and work ethic, if not passion. The leather Spalding NBA in my garage has never improved my jump shot. The New Balance running shoes have never completed a marathon and would post a time of somewhere between ten hours and "please send a search party" if they ever did. I brandish my Wusthof chef's knife with some authority in the kitchen on game days, but it ain't ever made me Emeril Lagasse. Some things in life, I know just enough about to be dangerous. Some days, I know even less than that.

My run today serves two purposes. I need to wear out the Boxer, otherwise she will pace the living room in search of affection for the next four hours. I can't have that. The other purpose is guilt reduction before Mangia shows up with the pizza. That works for both the pizza and for the Dos Equis, which may turn into Cuatro or Cinco or Seis Dos Equis, depending on how the game goes tonight: "I don't always turn into a raving lunatic in front of the television set, but when I do, I prefer Dos Equis." I need absolute concentration, self-criticism over my personal habits while my team plays in the prime-time slot on ABC won't do it all. You only have so many of these nights in your life. Focus. Commitment. Especially on a day that went coffee, soccer game, breakfast, birthday party, basketball game, home. They say that when the third child arrives, parents need to revert from man-to-man and play zone. But that's not the problem. The problem comes when kid three joins the active society. The birthday invitations and sporting contests do not subside. You must simply hold on until the oldest begins to drive himself. That, of course, brings with it a whole host of other problems, most having to do with girls.

I make sandwiches. Every day I make sandwiches. I connect as a modern day parent this way. And as a modern day chef: hand-made food, or hand-assembled, anyway. Peanut butter, jelly, no jelly, honey, honey and jelly, cheese, ham and cheese, peanut butter and cheese-all very complex, especially when dealing with the thirteen-year-old with the sophisticated palate. I swear to you all that the kid came right out of the womb and asked to see the wine list.

But the dividing is the best part for an anal-retentive dad. One in quarters, one in halves, one full. Perfect little segments, in one part or in four, with only a simple rule binding the recipients when the lunch boxes are open and the task revealed. You must finish.

Never understate the importance of a working downstairs toilet on opening day of college football season. Never. You can go without HD, drink off-brand beer, admire Dave Lapham's enthusiasm for football players playing the game of football, skip the 11:00 Big Ten games on ESPN because you figure nothing interesting will happen, overcook the steaks, unwittingly insult the company and screw up the pizza order. You can even do all of this and cheer for Temple. But you can't be without basic plumbing, which I did not have at dawn on 5 September. Although, admittedly, the tiny pools of water periodically appearing in the downstairs guest bathroom were starkly beautiful, like a collection of miniature reflecting ponds. Perhaps I could buy some Koi.

Ben shouts to me that I am losing, 109-89. I never have bowled well and I am not bowling well now. Actually, I am not bowling at all; I'm in the kitchen, drinking coffee. We live in a world where fathers and sons can play without messy physical interaction, courtesy of the Wii. Ben's not bowling against me; he's bowling against "mii"-a computer-generated avatar, virtual dad, reasonably handsome and complete with authentic receding hairline. Apparently my avatar needs work at avoiding the 6-10 split.

Switching to Wii baseball, virtual dad does play a pretty good shortstop, far better than the real me ever did. So all hope is not lost. If virtual dad could only speak to my sons honestly about the dangers of drugs, alcohol and broken hearts, then we would really have something. Perhaps there's a software update coming.

"How can you come here and not drink beer?"

I am assuming this question is either theoretical or rhetorical; it certainly wasn't thrown out to seek any relevant information. But that's the kind of place this is. "This" of course could be any place in America, but in this case it is the bar in which I typically watch the national title game. A place I once saw two grown men in Red Sox jerseys escape to their car to sing "Sweet Caroline" by Neil Diamond at concert hall volume to induce a rally for the home team. They prevailed. Two years ago, this place hosted a delirious Gator fan who went to the car and returned in an orange jumpsuit to celebrate his team's second national title. He wasn't here for the third. He was there.