I love football more than anything. I think I’ll count the ways.

I love it more than waking up at 6 a.m. on Christmas morning, walking down the staircase and peaking over the railing to see the tree glowing in the early darkness. More than digging through a long red stocking. More than tearing away wrapping paper from presents.

Hell, I love it more than that feeling you get when you’re in a doorway with a cute little blonde, you glance up and notice the mistletoe twirling above. It’s better than spiked eggnog and gingerbread men.

The anticipation, the emotion, the competitive fire, the strategy – these are the things that football makes me crave. Plopping down on a couch, guzzling one cup of coffee after another, gnawing on wing after wing, screaming in agony and shouting in ecstasy.

These are the essentials to any football game – at home that is.

Watching football live, however, is a whole different ball game. A live game involves much more dedication. You become a participant in the action. As part of a crowd, you could be the difference between a life fulfilling false-start penalty and a game-breaking TD grab.

Getting ready for a game is about more than just turning on the tube and sticking your smelly digits in the air. It’s about one and only one thing.

It’s all about the tailgate.

If you are going to experience a true tailgate, you have to go to a place where the crowd is crazy and the freaks are fans. A place where the local sheriff would take a bullet in the gut for the town’s starting quarterback, just so he could start Saturday’s game. This place could be known as football-town – a place where people love winning football games more than breathing.

This place is in the heart of Big 10 country – State College, PA.

I must have woken up six times between the hours of 4 a.m. and 8 a.m. Sure, I was excited about gating some tail, but you try sleeping on a tiny loveseat with your feet propped up by luggage. Add to this, four or five inebriated people playing “beer pong” in the basement below and you have the makings for a tempestuous night of sleep to say the least.

I tossed and turned, my headphones blaring Tenacious D stylings to cover up the drunken noise below. My socks hung in the air, no longer pulled up around my ankles, but dangling from the end of my size 11’s. I tore off my headphones in frustration and sat up. My back creaked with the sudden jerk upward.

Sleep washed over me again as I slid to the icy wood floor. I dreamt of the ultimate tailgate. A ruby red charcoal grill the size of a small house cast a shadow over my SUV. My friend Mike stood with spatula in hand and a grin on his face. He was proportionate to the giant grill. Insane fans cheered at his feet with drinks in the air, while hotdogs and hamburgers rained down upon them.

The QB flew overhead on Santa Claus’ sleigh, only instead of reindeer his carriage was drawn by offensive linemen firing forward from a three-point stance. He looks at me from the cloudless sky, points and shoots a pass to me. I make a diving catch in the endzone of our tailgate and everyone goes insane.

I woke up delirious and full of myself – a hero in my own discombobulated head. The excitement of football welled up inside. My best bud Jeff was ready for some tailgating, as well. Piling into Mike’s car, we drove to the animal, I mean, frat house.

Something started falling from the sky, only this time it wasn’t grillable items, it was water. Then another problem popped up. The portable grill was crippled.

Then came even worse news. With a car full of dogs, burgers and taco dip (among other more alcoholic things) there was no room for me and Jeff, nor was there any room for the only working grill.

So in the rain we marched at 9 in the morning, the gray grilling machine in front and leading the way. We trekked through mud, puddles and “football traffic.” Other potential tailgaters guffawed at the image of two underdressed (for the weather that is) goofs, pushing a big plastic monstrosity in the gusting winds.

Seeing a couple of footballiers like ourselves, a cop in his mid-to-late 20s stopped traffic so we could cross onto the grass parking area. Mud bubbled up underneath my already brown (and soon to be ruined) leather shoes with each step.

Finally, we reached the top of the grassy knoll that was passing as a parking lot for the football extravaganza, after several slips and false-starts of our own. Then my dreams were filleted and fried to crispy mud brown.

“Guys,” Mike said, “since we don’t have a tent, we’re going to have to go back to the house for the tailgate.”

Everything turned red and I imagined what I’d do once I pulled out the knife firmly planted in my back. Mike was no longer the giant griller from my dream, he was the Freddy Krueger of my own personal Elm Street.

So grudgingly Jeff and I stomped our way back, muttering disdainful threats as we went. Then from our left, two drunkards in full football garb asked if we had any food.

“Nope,” I replied, “but if you have any, I don’t mind cookin’ it!”

“No food here,” he shouted back. “You want some beers?”

This took me by surprise. Two complete strangers offering a couple of wet shlubs pushing a grill some goodwill at 10 in the morning. He opened up the back of his tiny hatchback to reveal case upon case of beer. Then he pulled two bottles of Miller Lite and motioned for us to leave the grill in the middle of the lot.

About an hour later, we stumbled up the front stoop of the frat house. It took a little longer getting back, but hey, when in State College, do as the tailgaters do.