The Champion’s Blog (You already know who dis is)

The sky, reddened by a typical Midwestern sunset, begins clouding over just before dusk.

But no threat of rain can stop the twenty thousand rock fans from flocking to Cincinnati’s River-front Coliseum to see and hear Pink Floyd.

The concert is still three hours off yet there are several thousand pumped up early birds decked out in faded jeans, and tie-dyed t-shirts.

There are obvious newcomers to the rock scene dressed conspicuously in pressed checked slacks and expensive shirts, wandering about gawking at the others.

There are loners, with their arms dangling at their sides, they weave aimlessly around in circles as they squint there eyes to steady themselves.

There are couples clinging to each other near fountains or in remote corners.

There are real police, not those rent-a-cops, these cops stride confidently in large groups amongst the crowd, twirling their billyclubs as they scan theirs eyes over the area looking for trouble.

Hawkers call out wherever there are crowds, trying to unload cheap t-shirts and pennants, but  draw laughter from most concert goers.

The numbers grow, there are circles of roamers, couples, and cops, all swarming confusedly over the acres of concrete that lead up to the auditorium.

The management realizes the hordes can no longer be contained peacefully, the doors finally open, waves of fans that are already tired and sweaty from waiting pour into the coliseum, just in time to wait out the final hour before the show.