As I sat in the concrete theme park, staring into the disappointment of cheese sauce, I thought I had slipped from this reality into a television show. I found myself day-dreaming of the years I’d given over to American films which were now being played out in front of me, the processed hot dogs and pretty faces.

I envisaged all the crimson couples sneaking off to drive-ins, breaking into the darkened stadium when the sun had gone down, when it is vulnerable and naked, not knowing what to do without players or fans, to sit together and quietly caress. These couples would end up in a chain restaurant where the lights never turn off and then they would get married and have children and inhabit the suburbs, silently submissing to a life of lawns and school plays.

I was numb with imagination, thinking of all the testosterone and beer, all the chants and rituals and saw it all tailing off into the night like a distant dream. The American dream. The crimson dream.

This is not simply a sport, but a way to live, a religion and very unique. I have never been to a sporting event at which the match itself bows to the demand of television, stopping for commercial breaks as if we have momentarily suspended the life we knew before and given ourselves up to the world of billboards and discount furniture.

I’ll give it to you, you know how to entertain. For a girl who doesn’t like football, I never once felt bored. In fact I didn’t know where to look; the band, the cheerleaders, the spectators or the game itself. Alabama has put on a performance, timed to perfection. How many hours of practice this takes I cannot begin to understand, but in this culture of dedication to the game I can believe it.

As the drunk guy behind me shouts, “Football, we live it! Everyday of every year! Three hundred and sixty-five” I think, yes, that’s how many days are in a year and yes, I do wonder at times how you can gain an education untouched by this game in a town that runs on Saturday tailgates and the anticipation of the next match. Football fuel.

A real life crimson tide had drowned the town. And, as my still slightly drunk self stumbled through the quad on Saturday morning to find a T-shirt for the game, I almost felt swept away. It had the atmosphere of a circus. I was wearing black and I had to get a crimson T-shirt. People were everywhere and, in my usual efficient fashion, I chose the first mildly unobtrusive and subtle shirt I could find.

With the T-shirt down, I picked a solitary shaker up off the floor, and I was half way to looking like I belonged there. I’m not normally one to get caught up in things but it’s nearly inevitable in a town that silences all other voices except those singing the fight song.

Even the political and religious junkies played their part as I saw homemade, felt-tip pen enthused republican banners backing one of the tailgates, professing “Romney,” “Ryan,” “Roll Tide,” a tent of polo shirts and golf memberships. Every aspect of life in this town is filtered through the lens of this sport. It’s as if I’m wearing crimson-tinted glasses, a world high on football pride.

I appreciate that pride can be a beautiful thing, but near fear hit me as I felt that I would never see the world in real-time color again.

One woman I met was frantically reeling off statistics about last season. She had clearly been paying close attention to the team’s every move and wanted to make sure I was up to scratch. “You know,” she said, “some people here in Tuscaloosa have never been to a game before, so you should appreciate this opportunity.”

And I did, with every part of my body and mind. I indulged. I flirted with the game and, for a while, I felt like we might be getting somewhere, but after walking away from the field and seeing the blue sky again, I felt a small relief that it hadn’t turned crimson and questioned how much longer this romance could last.

Lucy Cheseldine is an English international exchange student studying English literature. Her column runs on Tuesday.