Each year as August begins to flow into September and the air becomes a little bit cooler, I begin to dream about portable grills, an assortment of unidentifiable dips and towers of red Solo cups.

Football season: The most exciting time of year.

KU football has been a part of my life since I was negative nine months old. Being a Jayhawk was encoded in my DNA by my die-hard-fan father. Growing up in Lawrence my dad started going to KU football games with his buddies in junior high some 40-plus years ago, a tradition they carried on through high school, their college careers as Jayhawks, all the way to present day. We Johnsons have been going to basketball games equally as long but there is nothing quite like a football game. This is probably because you don’t just go to the game, you spend your entire day basking in it.

Growing up I had to pretty much block out all day every Saturday from September through November from my social calendar. What, Susie’s having a slumber party Friday night? Oh sorry, KU has Nebraska at home that Saturday so I need to be well rested. Because if KU was playing at 1 p.m., we needed to be in the parking lot at 8 a.m., which meant my dad wanted us in the car buckled-up at 7 a.m..

The weather didn’t matter either. Whether there was blistering heat, rain, shine, sleet, snow or hurricane, Drill Sergeant Dad had us in that car ready to go. Then some 12 hours later he would lead the troops home exhausted, cranky, and with severe stomachaches from eating too much.

Even though waking up that early on a Saturday during my prime sleeping-in years sometimes made me want to punch something, it was absolutely worth it once the tailgate started to get going. My dad’s whole clan of high school buddies practice the exact same ritual with their families: Up at dawn, tailgate all day, don’t leave until the clock runs out. Plus there would always be swarms of people who would come and go throughout the day grazing on our food. On warm days we’d consume mass quantities of chips in every variety, homemade seven layer bean dip, what I can only assume was last year’s Halloween candy, and assorted meats fresh off the grill. Soda and water filled the giant red cooler, and cases of Bud Light — Miller Light when we played MU (Anheuser-Busch has roots in St. Louis) — filled the blue cooler that I was banned from until recently. And on cold days we’d step away from the tiny space heater just long enough to eat a bowl of chili, or fill a styrofoam cup full of burn-your-tongue hot chocolate.

Despite the food and festivities, I have to say the best part about my family’s football Saturday tradition was logging all that quality father-daughter time, because I absolutely loved hanging out with my dad all day. To know game-day Bob is to know the true Bob, because only on game days is he truly in his element. He steps out of his suit and into his royal blue polo. He turns off the insurance sales pitch and reminisces on the shenanigans of his youth instead of buzzing on his blackberry. That man loves nothing more than some good daytime beer-drinking and joking around with his best pals.

Five hours of running around the tailgate with my cousins later, we would weave our way through the herd of people heading into the stadium. I always tried to snag a seat next to him, throwing elbows at my sisters on the bleachers and yelling, "Dibs!"

He’d put his arm around me and proudly but quietly (he’s no American Idol) sing the alma mater. Then he’d talk to regulars around our seats about players, and what the team needed to do this season to finally come out of it’s slump. I’d sit there nodding my head as he rattled off players' t names and stats, thinking, "my God, my dad must be a friggen’ genius." And with a kick, the game would start. When he yelled, I yelled. When he booed, I booed. As the clock ticked he’d teach me about the game, sometimes inadvertently while yelling at the referees. Memorial Stadium is where I first felt true disappointment, where I first felt a true state of ecstatic happiness, and where I learned the A-to-Z dictionary of swear words.

As I’ve gotten older, the family aspect of our tailgate has started to thin out. One of my sisters moved after graduating from KU, the other went to K-State and was cut out of our lives (just kidding, we forgave her), and my mom decided she’d rather watch the games on television. But my dad has never left, and neither have I. Every Saturday I’m in the exact same spot, sitting around the tailgate with my dad and his friends begging to hear the one when they snuck flasks into the stadium in their tube socks one more time.

As I embark on my final football season before I become an official alum, I’ve become nostalgic about the past 21 years my dad and I have spent cheering on our favorite team together. I now know that during our times together at the stadium he did more than teach me about football; he passed a piece of himself onto me. KU football has been a huge part of his life and he wanted to share that with me. The Saturdays we’ve spent together have been some of the most defining moments of our relationship and my life.

Come the first game day this year, I’ll be right where I’ve always been, sitting by my dad, watching the game.