THE FRED COLUMN -- fred martin

I should’ve listened to Doris Day. You know, when she sang:

o7 “Oh, the weather outside is frightful, And the fire is so delightful,

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”f7

It snowed, I’ll tell you. But I wasn’t smart enough to stay by the fire.

I went to the football game anyway.

My mother-in-law, Katy, and her husband, Stan Christopher, had come all

the way from their aerie in the hinterlands of San Diego County to be

here for the showdown between Colorado State and San Diego State.

They would be rooting for SDSU because Stan played football there in

1927. Yes, that would be 72 years ago. I’ll save you the bother of doing

the math: Stan will be 91 in December.

The weather-guessers forecast a high of 38 for game day with “a

possibility of light snow near the foothills.” As things turned out, the

high was 34, the snow was more than a possibility, more than light and

was all over the place.

My stepfather-in-law -- I guess that’s the title -- is in remarkable

physical and mental health for a nonagenarian. However, he does have

occasional bouts with pneumonia, so, in view of the nasty weather, Stan

wisely opted to watch the game on TV.

Katy decided her place that glum day was with her husband. My wife, of

course, said she wouldn’t feel right about leaving her mother and

stepfather all alone.

“Well, I’m not going to let a little snow stop me,” I announced

heroically.

“Enjoy,” my wife said sweetly, giving me one of those “poor fool” looks.

Then I began layering on the clothes to protect me from the frigid air

that had come all the way from Canada to screw up a crisp, autumn

football afternoon.

First layer on, of course, was T-shirt and boxers. Then the red, thermal

long-johns, the wool turtleneck and the khaki Dockers. Over that, the

green golf shirt, then the green and gold fleece pullover with “Colorado

State” embroidered on the front. I carried the knee-length greatcoat with

the fleece lining and the fake fur hat with the ear-and-forehead flaps.

In my bag were two pair of gloves and a balaclava.

This last item is heavily favored by bank robbers and other o7 heist

meisterf7 s for the way it covers your head, neck and face, except for a

narrow slit for the eyes. It also features a beaky little bulge for

comforting the nose.

While I was still able to bend over, I also pulled on thick, wool socks

and sheepskin-lined boots. I was ready for anything.

“Have a good time,” my wife said as I waddled out the door. I was so

layered that, had I toppled over, I would have had to yell, “Help! I’ve

fallen and I can’t get up!”

“Give my regrets to the Loners,” she added, referring to a neighbor

couple who host a legendary tailgate party and who had invited us to join

them.

Other than some booster-club tailgates, tenderfoot things with tents and

heaters, this was the first genuine tailgate I had attended since the

Dad’s Day affairs when our older daughter was at Iowa State University,

in the crossword-puzzle town of Ames.

Those weren’t real tough, even in the snow, because they were held on the

patio of the Theta house, which was only a five-minute walk to the

stadium.

But this was a o7 realf7 tailgate, right out there in the snow and

wind. You stood in the mud puddles around the grill and you ate brats or

German sausages, drank beer or sodas out of an ice chest and talked about

what a great day it was.

After a while, you began believing it -- especially when you took a

brownie and washed it down with a big swig of Fat Tire beer, a splendid

local brew.

Actually, there were only two things wrong with the day. The rugged Rams

of Colorado State played miserably. They were royally trounced by the

surfer dudes of San Diego State, most of whom had never seen it snow.

Then there was that excruciating moment at halftime when most of the

18,000 or so guys in the stadium discovered just how cold our fingers had

become.

* FRED MARTIN is a former Newport Beach resident who now writes from his

home in Fort Collins, Colo.