THE THIRD QUARTER IS A DEAD ZONE.

Photo Editor Juan Villa and I watch with one of the Sports editors, Logan Hopkins, from the press box. From up high, it̢۪s easier to see how little is happening. The crowd is out of it, and we are too, but whoever is in charge of trying to entertain the fans is pulling out all the stops.

The Jumbo-tron cuts to the Kiss Cam, because the crowd knows that when the Kiss Cam targets you, you must kiss the person beside you.

“Besides free stuff, the Kiss Cam is the one thing that can pull everybody’s attention from the game,â€Â Juan told me earlier, when stuff was still happening on the field.

And so the Kiss Cam goes on the hunt. Today, though, the stadium isn’t buying in. Some older couples play along, but only with the obligatory pecks on the lips, staccato and dry. The gesture is half-hearted — “Yes,â€Â they say, “We can still play along.â€Â

Younger fans from the student section, though, are not as willing to be coerced. One girl extends her arm to push away the friend sitting beside her, her face scrunched in distaste.

“No way,â€Â she says. “No way.â€Â

On the field, gameplay is at a standstill. The score is 17-17, and doesn̢۪t appear to be going anywhere any time soon.

From the looks of it, you would think the Fresno State Bulldogs and the New Mexico State Aggies don’t know that there’s a field beyond the 35-yard lines. I turn to Logan: “You could put them on half a field and still nobody would be scoring.â€Â He scoffs.

The ball is snapped, and quarterback Tom Brandstater hands it off for a run that will, as all the fans already know, end up netting minimal yardage. In front of him, the offensive and defensive lines push against one another, their arms extended.

“No way,â€Â they say. “No way.â€Â

The game is at an impasse.

Anybody who has watched the ’Dogs play this season — and really, even those of us who haven’t (and really — even further — anybody who’s ever watched them play any season in the last decade) — know that this is how the game goes when you’re playing on Jim Sweeney Field.

The year will begin with promise, but by the third quarter of the season, it becomes clear that the ̢۪Dogs are going to have trouble pushing past that 35-yard line.

Just another mediocre season.

As for me, I haven̢۪t been on this field in years. The last time I was here wasn̢۪t even for a football game, but an annual marching band competition back in high school. Even that was more than four years ago now.

As I sit in the press box, I̢۪m not entirely sure how it is I got here, though it is, perhaps fittingly, Band Day, with marching bands from across the Valley who all joined the Fresno State Marching Band for an enormous half-time field show. They sit at the north end of the stadium, and from what I can see, they̢۪re out of it too.

All I can really say about how I arrived at this point is that early in the day, Juan sent me a text message letting me know that we had an extra field pass for reporters.

I’ve never reported on a sports event before, and don’t even really feel like I know enough about sports to act as a reporter, but the prospect of standing feet away from all the action — as much action as one can expect, anyway — is enough to convince me.

Juan and I come down the stairs and back onto the field. Coming toward the sideline, I hear a coordinator shouting at his players. “This is a simple f***in’ game!â€Â

One of the players protests. All I hear is the response.

“I gotta keep sayin’ it because you’re not doin’ it.â€Â

And then, finally, somebody does it.

It is several minutes into the fourth quarter, and running back Anthony Harding rushes for 32 yards, a play that brings the crowd to their feet. Juan and I run down to the other end of the field. The drive culminates in a tie-breaking touchdown, and now, with less than 11 minutes left, the game throttles toward its close.

The excitement is palpable now, and all the dullness of the preceding 20 minutes is forgiven.

The crowd buys in. They are shouting, and there are even a few boyfriends bringing in their respective girlfriends for long kisses. Kisses they don̢۪t have to give.

When the clock runs out, Juan and Bryan, another staff photographer, run onto the field for some post-game photos. After some hesitation, I follow them.

I don̢۪t know what I̢۪m looking for.

After the tumult of what seems like hundreds of players filing off the field, I follow them, with Juan close by.

I walk from the field, just paces away from Brandstater, and I find, I think, what I̢۪ve been looking for.
The reason for being here.

Because the crowd has bought in to the game, I am invisible to them, but I am close enough to touch their fingers as they lean over the railings. They are fans old and young, all along the ramp down to the field and down the Red Mile.

“I’m kind of surprised there was no booing,â€Â Juan tells me after we arrive back at the parking lot.

No: there are only smiles and there is only cheering, and it comes from seniors and students, husbands with their arms wrapped around their wives and their children, their arms all extended in hopes of a high five from the team quarterback.

And for that long walk back out to Bulldog Lane, I hear the snaps of cameras and the voices of fans, shouting.

“Tom! Hey Tom!â€Â

Mathew Gomes is a senior at Fresno State majoring in English and music composition.