Sept. 17, 1999

So there I was, wandering around the stadium parking lot last Saturday, talking to Taylor on Eddie’s cell phone, when she gave me a few simple directions as to how to find her family’s tailgate.

“Turn around, take 20 steps, sit down and fix yourself a plate.”

It was just like the last scene in “Smokey and the Bandit” when Burt Reynolds calls Jackie Gleason on the CB and has him turn over his left shoulder before Burt, Sally and Jerry drive off to Boston for some clam chowder. The sad part is that while Bandit and the gang get the last laugh, I’m stuck looking like Sheriff Buford T. Justice.

So, once I took my 20 steps and grabbed myself a bratwurst, I was introduced to Taylor’s entire family.

When my family gets together, it’s for a weeklong fishing trip on the Canadian border. When her family gathers, it’s because there’s a football game to attend. Luckily, both involve a lot of cheap beer and unhealthy food.

What I wasn’t prepared for, though, were the colors her family would be sporting. Unbeknownst to me, Taylor comes from a long line of Hawkeye lovers. Needless to say, they weren’t impressed with my cardinal and gold polyester leisure suit. To each their own.

So there I was, sipping some Olympia with Taylor’s mom as she filled me in on all the embarrassing high school stories — Taylor’s, not hers — when the family started raising a ruckus that broke up our conversation.

Taylor grabbed my arm and screamed in my ear, “Here comes my little brother.”

I have to admit it. I got nervous.

When a guy meets his girlfriend’s brother, it’s a make-or-break situation for the relationship. Granted, Taylor and I are still working back toward the whole couple thing, but these next few minutes would play a big part of it.

I asked myself, “Self, what do little brothers like?”

I drew a blank. My future with this girl depends on how well I can entertain her little brother for the next several hours, and I can’t think of a damn thing except Power Rangers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’m so out of it.

My worries took a drastic turn, however, when I looked up and saw him walking up toward the group.

Instead of a snot-nosed little 12-year-old who would be tugging on my sleeve all day, I saw a hulking silhouette emerging from the horizon that nearly blocked out the sun behind him.

Oh my Lord, Taylor’s related to Stone Cold Steve Austin.

When she introduced me to him, his hand swallowed mine, and he looked down at me as if to say, “How’s it going, little man?”

It turns out that Taylor’s brother is 6′ 4″ and 290 pounds and could slap me into tomorrow with the flick of his wrist.

I still hadn’t said a word.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

“All good, I hope,” I replied as prayers raced through my head.

“Yeah. So you go to Iowa State? I was a Peacock.”

Where is this conversation going? I didn’t know whether to ask if that was in a former life or a high school play or if he just likes pretty birds.

“You know, Upper Iowa Peacocks. I played noseguard for two years.”

I nodded. Of course, the Upper Iowa Peacocks. My new favorite team. I still didn’t know what to say.

“But I’ve always been a Hawk fan at heart.”

It was then that I realized that I could just trade my outfit from Goodwill for a $2 can of whoop ass and save him the trouble.

But it wasn’t like that.

Glenn and I actually got along beautifully. We didn’t discuss the game at all, choosing instead to focus our efforts on the cooler that he and his buddy Larry had carried from north of Hilton.

And as cars filed out of the stadium, he didn’t complain about his team, and I didn’t brag about our win. We just finished off the last of the Pabst, cranked up the radio, and sang Pearl Jam’s “Last Kiss” at the top of our lungs.

Because boys will be boys regardless of whether it’s bocce ball or football, Bud Light or Keystone, a Cyclone or a Hawkeye. Or, in some extreme cases, a Peacock.