This is fantastic.
It's the smell that hits you first. The aroma of fresh popcorn overpowers the senses the moment the door opens, producing a welcoming tailgating fragrance in one of the most sterile environments you can imagine. These game-day scents are not uncommon on an autumn Saturday here in America's heartland, where football is played and celebrated in ways outsiders couldn't possibly understand.
Then it's the sounds. The bustling Saturday soundtrack plays inside a room they call the Press Box, located on the 12th floor of the Iowa Stead Family Children's Hospital. There is the rapid-fire popping of kernels. The clash of Jenga pieces falling to the floor and the reactions that follow. The applause of parents. The excited voices of children—some patients of the hospital, some siblings. And the beeping and buzzing of the machinery they're hooked up to—IVs pumping fluids intended to hopefully cure or at least treat what's ailing them.
Then you see the wheelchairs and the tubes and the little faces radiating pure happiness. You see small children pressed up against windows, sitting on the laps of parents whose faces bear, for a few fleeting moments, the same blissful expression.
There is a football game going on down below. It's September 16, and Iowa is playing North Texas in Kinnick Stadium, which is a sight to be seen from up above. It is near the end of the first quarter.
In a few moments, more than 65,000 people will wave in unison to this room of fierce, fragile children, many of whom are sick, injured or recovering. Perhaps you've seen the videos and photos of the greatest new tradition in sports—an idea that began organically through social media before it sprung to life.