re: Share some of your experiences you had with your father

Hmmm.... a lot of weird shite here, compared to my experience, in my opinion. We've had season tickets since 1982. We started in USEZ, now on east side. We went to most home games together between then and 2004, along with assorted family members... SO's, brothers, sisters, etc.

Since I moved away in 2004, we typically meet up for a game or two in BR, and at least 1 road game.

This year, we went to UO, and are going to Tuscaloosa. I also plan on attending the BCSNCG which LSU will be in, in New Orleans. We attended '03 and '07 NCG's, as well. He rolls as hard as I do, and drinks hard and yells all game.

This year before the UO game, we were in a bar in Dallas, near the stadium which had a lot of ducks in it. He stood up on a chair, and divided the room in 2. He made half the room "duck" and half the room "gumbo" then proceeded to start a chant similar to the "geaux" .... "tigers" cheer and response with the "duck" and "gumbo". The whole while I had my duck call, whailing away a mallard hail call.

I could come up with as many stories as games. He'd tiger bait your grandmother.

My dad walked out on my mom with two little girls-- I was maybe two, my sister just a year--when he got the 16 year old babysitter pregnant. Never fooled with us. I tried to call him when I was in college, thinking he might be open to a relationship since I was 18 and he didn't have to go through my mom. I wished him Merry Christmas over the phone, and he hung up on me when I identified myself. He has 11 season tickets to LSU games and is a huge LSU fan. That's the only thing we have in common--I hope.

Great story; Did we win??

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Share some of your experiences you had with your father

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Not a lot of time for sports but did catch at leas part of a few games on the radio.

It's time to put hay out , feed the chickens, eat supper (dinner) get your homework a bath then to bed. Got to get up early tend to the chickens and cows before breakfast and school.

saw shaq, CJ, and Stanley play with my dad in the P-mac.

I still recall bits of my first LSU game vs. FLA when I was 4 years old. Father graduated LSU but died at 38 years old. He named me after Billy Cannon. I was in Louisiana last week and put purple and yellow flowers on his grave for him. Life with him would have been incredible. I'll see him again some day.

I like to think that my father gave me the gift of Tiger football, though not in the conventional manner.

I was raised a thousand miles from Baton Rouge, in a place where Billy Cannon's run never echoed on the airwaves. Purple and gold heralded only a visit from the Minnesota Vikings. I was expected to follow in my father's footsteps and attend a small liberal arts college. Perhaps that is even what my father wanted, though he would never burden me with his own hopes. But my dad also knew me in that way unique to fathers and the sons they make. He saw this prematurely somber young man needed some leavening, some lightening, an era of abandon, a few loyal friends, maybe the affections of those mystical southern girls, so he encouraged me to seek out a very different undergraduate experience at LSU.

He drove me to spring testing, fourteen hours in a beaten Toyota: the father driving, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with time, the sullen son staring out the window, watching the miles unspool. We stayed at Pleasant Hall. When the pencils were down and the tests were over, he took my arm and told me he wanted to show me something. We walked through a landscape of heat and ruddled tile and sagging oaks as alien to me then as it is familiar now. I can't even tell you the route we took, but we emerged at last in the shadow of Tiger Stadium, beneath that sheer concrete cliff with its dingy colonnade. At that age, I was habitually jaded, unimpressed with everything as only a naive sixteen year old can be, but there was no denying the immovable power of that towering bowl. For reasons I never knew, a gate along the east side hung open. We walked right in, trotted down a side tunnel, and approached the chain link fence that encircled the unlined field. We stood for a moment and just marvelled as the sun poured down onto that infinite space. My dad smiled and raised his arm, pointing at the "Welcome to Death Valley" sign that adorned the western stands. Our shadows were long and lean. The light glinted on the metal bleachers. It was quiet and warm. No sound but my breathing, a father and son shoulder to shoulder, dwarfed by immensity of that place. My father smiles and points, points the way, and I stand beside him, with the whole damned glory of my youth stretching out ahead of me.

Thanks dad.

(P.S. I really enjoyed everyone's stories in this thread.)