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From across the Old Line State they rise. Hearty, hungry, hung-over, they begin the final stages of preparation that began months in advance during preseason meetings when livers were not as swollen and vocal chords could still hit a high note. Provisions are properly prepared and loaded into the vehicles, which will bear them back to the hallowed grounds of their glorious youth.  Long before more sensible people wake up for the weekend, these few robust fans begin filling the parking lot.

Their arrival is marked with little fanfare but their presence is obvious. The colors go up, shelters are erected, and folding canvass chairs are strategically arranged around the coolers, which are treated more carefully and revered more than chests of treasure. For the next six hours, these will be their thrones. By the time the grill is ignited and the flesh of cute farm animals is being seared, the game is but a mere twinkle in the eyes of most fans. For those of the Six Hour Rule, however, the contest begins at dawn.

Against the elements and most notions of common decency, they occupy the lot for six hours until kickoff. They feast, they drink, and they debate heady issues of the time: recruiting, defense, special teams…They do not intimidate visitors, but outsiders who are foolish enough to don the wrong colors are made aware of their lowly status. Song and feats of strength are in order while general revelry breaks out as the clock ticks closer to game time. 

When bellies are full of food and hearts with spirit, they march on to the stadium and glory. They disperse amongst the crowd, leaders of sections like heads of city-states from the days of yore. The time honored songs and battle cries ring out for the duration of the game. Never admitting defeat, never wavering, they leave when the job is done...or the hangover returns.

At season's end, though the smoke and song have gone, their legend remains. It lingers until the fall leaves turn once more and they begin anew.

They are: The Maryland Iceholes.