The air is slightly cool. The grass still dewy. Sitting in such silence you can almost hear the blood pumping through your veins, a familiar gobble echoes in the distance. If luck is on our side this morning, he may just answer our call. He may answer us while still in his roost, or he may be heading straight for us, feeling that same wet grass. Then again, he may ignore us entirely and walk away, disinterested, with his hens. Regardless, it all happens in his woods. When our tired hands want to silence that alarm clock ringing, when the radar shows a green blob moving slowly in our direction, when our eyes feel impossibly heavy, he is out there; he’s waiting on us. Regardless of how we feel, the fact of the matter is that, there’s no place we’d rather be. Our passion fuels us through adversity, every day of the season, year after year. Knowing odds won’t always be in our favor, the tradition drives us. Few understand what we go through. Many think we’re crazy. Truth is: we’re obsessed.