Jean Ann asked the question last night that didn’t need to be asked. Was I going to Little Rock on Thursday for Arkansas’ football opener against Arkansas-Pine Bluff? After almost 50 years of marriage, she knew the answer.

I have not missed many Little Rock games in the last 60 years. Going to War Memorial Stadium is just in my DNA.

I began going to Razorback games in War Memorial Stadium in the second grade when we lived at 18th and Fair Park. I walked to games with my brothers.

If I’m able, I’ll always make that trip. There are just too many great memories.

Don’t bother me with the list of why Arkansas should not play there. I’ll feel great walking from the now grown over golf course up the hill to War Memorial Stadium.

I probably started going to games — mostly sitting in the end zone — when I was 8. I recall the first one I missed after that. I was in a hospital bed high on the hill to the west at St. Vincent’s Infirmary.

That day started with a junior high scrimmage at Pulaski Heights, only one mile from the stadium. Playing safety in a goal line drill, I tried to blow up tailback Steve Moore in the A-gap hole. I put my shoulder pad on his thigh pad and wrapped my arms around his waist. He hit me as much as I hit him.

At the same time, the tight end blocked down from the left. We all went down in a wad of players just short of the goal line. I didn’t find that out until my coach told me in fourth period social studies on Monday. I’d been in the hospital for two days after doctors reset a dislocated hip.

The pain was intense as the bodies were pulled off of me. I’d never hurt like that. I looked at my foot. It was pointing the wrong direction.

My oldest brother, Butch, was home from college and was at the scrimmage. He brought the family station wagon onto the field. Coaches lifted me off the field, slid me in the back and my brother took me straight to the emergency room just a few blocks away. They quickly put me to sleep and popped my hip into place about the time my parents arrived. This all happened before noon.

I woke up in recovery with my father standing above me. My first words, “I’m not missing tonight’s game. I want to see how we do against Mean Joe Greene.”

Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen. My legs and hips were sand bagged in place for two days so my hip wouldn’t pop out again. I listened to the game on the radio, a 17-15 squeaker won by the Hogs.

Orville Henry, my dad, finished his story and got to my room about midnight. He laughed about sliding past security at the front desk. It was past visiting hours, but he said he dodged security about the way Greene did Arkansas blockers. My dad just kept coming.

My dad and I had not really talked about the scrimmage. I wanted to discuss the Arkansas game. He wanted to know if I got Moore down. I did, but I wasn’t sure if it was short of the goal line until class on Monday. He said that was a significant part of the story, if I did. He said Steve’s older brothers, Billy and Henry, were rarely stopped short of the goal line as Razorbacks.

Turns out, I did and it was my greatest and last play on a football field. I’d concentrate on baseball, basketball and golf going forward.

Woody Jolley, our coach, told our class that I gave up 30 pounds to Moore, but I got him down. I did my job, Coach Jolley told my classmates. I always loved him for that. Coach Jolley, who died last August, crossed paths with me several times over the last 60 years and always mentioned that tackle.

It would be the last time I played football. Doctors told my mother my left hip could pop out of joint at any time. She said, “Not if I don’t let him play.”

That might have soured some on football. Not me. It was just enough of a taste – an eighth grader scrimmaging against ninth graders – to make me love the game for the intense hitting. I loved taking hits when I played catcher that next summer. I had a few try to run over me. I never lost the baseball on collisions at home plate. I think I could have survived on a football field.

The hitting may not be what makes us tune in for a football game. It may be the wide-open flair that has been the rage over the last 25 years. The change in rules to allow holding by linemen has changed the game.

We love the art of a deep pass or the long runs in space by a scatback. But really it’s a mean, nasty game. Blood and guts are more important than strategy.

The idea that you could dislocate a hip, shoulder or ruin a knee on any play is always in my mind as I watch the blocking and tackling. I know that there is pain involved every play.

It’s a dangerous game. I’ve stood on the sideline inches away from vicious hitting drills. That part of the game is never far out of my mind. It’s not for everyone.

Oh, there is strategy. It’s the ultimate team game with 22 players going at it on every play. The head coach has 10 assistants helping him orchestrate his 11 players. One man draws up something cool and another man has to put out the fire.

I’m reminded of a Tulsa-Arkansas game when the visitors were moving the ball on the Hogs almost at will. Head coach Frank Broyles high stepped it to defensive coach Wilson Matthews, plugged into another coach via headset in the press box. Broyles demanded, “Get that stopped.”

One adjustment with the rush and it was done. It’s not always that easy. Maybe a player or two needs a rest and some encouragement.

That night spent in the hospital – the only time since birth — I listened to that close call against North Texas wishing I was in the stadium. I told myself that night they were struggling against North Texas that if the Hogs played, I’d do my best to be there. I could see the lights of the stadium from my hospital bed and listen to Bud Campbell’s voice. That was as painful as the tackle.

I’ll make the drive from Norfork on Thursday. I know many care little about going to a game at War Memorial Stadium. But for me, it’s about parking on that golf course – now in mothballs – that was for two generations the home course for my family. I think about playing those three par threes closest to the stadium and making all twos one day in the Fourth of July Tournament. I think about walking the course playing with my dad, the happiest kid in Little Rock.

I want to be there. I want to see if the Hogs are tough enough up front on both sides of the ball. Can they run the ball and stop the run? I know it’s just UAPB, but if they can’t run the ball against this bunch, they probably can’t against Oklahoma State or in the SEC.

And, yes, I’ll look at that hospital on the hill where I found out my football was done.