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Our Daddy-Daughter trips to Fayetteville for Razorback basketball games have been my most long-held and cherished tradition from as far back as my memory goes. My dad says he started taking me at three years old, when the Hogs still played in the old Barn Hill Arena, although I have no memories of going until I was a little older. But I remember climbing into Daddy’s red ’94 Chevy and thinking nothing of making the four-hour trip upstate two or three times a year. Razorback basketball was at its prime and so was our devotion as fans. Though we lived hours away in east central Arkansas, my dad was a season ticket holder and he alternated taking me, my sister, and my mom to the games with his two tickets.
During our trip, there were a few markers along the way I looked forward to. About two hours in, my dad would point out the “big Hog sign” on the side of a mountain in Atkins. Looking up and seeing that Razorback above the highway was the perfect induction to our game day trips. We were officially headed to see the Hogs! We always seemed to need gas about the time we got to Alma, so we’d stop at our favorite Phillips 66 to fill up the tank and pilfer through the assortment of “Hillbilly gadgets” the station had. We’d giggle at the “Hillbilly Bubble Bath” (a sack of beans) and make faces at the thought of using the “Hillbilly Toilet Paper” (a corn cob) and then eventually get back on the road.
Back then there was no 540 Interstate, so we traveled the highway all the way to Hog Country. Another favorite stop of ours was the Ozark Smokehouse, a rustic café nestled in the hills where they crafted their own cheese and fried their own chips. The place smelled delicious and tasted just as good. We’d devour our smoked meat sandwiches and usually purchase something to take home as well. When we finally arrived in Fayetteville, we’d spend an hour or so at the mall, followed by dinner at AQ Chicken. I, of course, ordered the chicken and dumplings and weighed my options carefully when choosing a toy from the kids’ “treasure chest.”
After that, it was time for the game! We parked the car in our usual lot and bundled up for the walk inside with a mob of other red and white fans. I knew the way to our seats like the back of my hand. Section 122, Row 20, Seats 1 and 2. It was always the same. And as a kid, a teen, and even an adult, those seats, our seats, inside Bud Walton Arena have been an anchor for me. Several times throughout the years my dad has had the opportunity to move his tickets, but my sister and I will have none of it. There are few things in life you can count on, but knowing exactly where we sit at Razorback basketball games is one of them.
A few minutes before the game was over (if we were ahead by a comfortable margin, which we usually were in those days) we would skip out to beat the crowd. After all, we had a longer drive ahead of us than everyone else, we felt sure. My dad, who is known for being in a hurry, would scoop me up, put me on his back, and run back to the truck. And then we were off for the long drive home, post-game show blaring on the radio. It didn’t take me long to fall asleep on those drives home. In a moment’s time, four hours had passed, and my dad was carrying me inside and tucking me into bed. I think back about my childlike trust in my dad and I wish every child had the same. I fell asleep confidently and securely on those nighttime truck-rides, knowing that my dad would get us home safely, carry me inside, and put me in my bed where I belonged. It was a sure thing.
Throughout the years, some details of our story changed but the title remained the same. Daddy-Daughter Trips to Fayetteville would endure as a staple for (now going on) 25 years. Eventually they opened the interstate making the trip a little easier. There were times we stayed in a hotel instead of making the late drive home. We sometimes visited “Locomotion,” a local arcade that opened. And somewhere along the way we traded our loyalty from AQ Chicken to The Catfish Hole. But the good conversation in the truck, the daddy-daughter bonding, and the childlike trust in my dad – that’s all stayed the same. Because as much as we love the hogs, these trips weren’t really about them. They were about a dad and his daughter, building a mountain of memories together. And the connection between us that those memories formed – well, it’s still a sure thing.
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