Cemetary Ridge
I went to a football game this past weekend. Down at my alma mater. They aren't known for their football teams, I think it is safe to say. They also did not used to be known for their tailgates. I believe this has changed.
My college roommate and I drove down from the town in which she now lives, about an hour from the stadium. We dragged along another guy that she knew from her time as a grad student, which whom she now works. He cheerfully endured the backseat of a Mini Cooper, sitting next to a cooler filled with orange juice and cheap champagne that, for the most part, ended up coming back with us, unopened.
We drove into town with the usual collection of miscreants in traffic. No one was throwing up out of car windows, like I'd seen at the Indy 500 one year, but this was a noon game and it was only 10:30. There was still some time yet to get the drink on.
We parked. The best thing about a Mini? You can park anywhere. And pay nothing. Unless you live in the town where I live, whereupon the parking meter guys target you daily for tickets the minute the meter expires.
Mike wandered off to his tailgate, meeting friends of his from college. We promised to come find him. A promise we may not have meant at the time. However, when we found his keys in my car under the cooler, we pretty much had to go in search of.
Our first tailgate was fairly tame. Nice older married folks who all live in town. They know all of the coaches of our team for the past 30 years. They go to church with the soccer coach. They work at the university. They made breakfast casseroles and cookies and brought a grill. This is the tailgate I would plan and throw, if I was throwing one. Staid, quiet, relaxed. With garbage bags and a minimum of mess.
After a few beers, we went to find Mike. He was with his friends from school in the next lot over. They were located right on the corner, right next to the Port-O-Lets and across a small road separating their location from "the student area."
I don't recall a student area for tailgating, myself. I prided myself on getting drunk enough before the game that I didn't need to go before halftime. We'd just hang out in apartments and drink and use the bathrooms there. Why sit in a field with no toilet facilities when you can throw up off someone's deck and into a pool below?
Sitting at Mike's tailgate and looking over the student area, I was rather overwhelmed. Clouds of dust rose up from the dirt and floated above the crowds. Flags flew. People were running, sprinting, from aisle to aisle of cars. Beer cases littered the grounds. An intrepid group played a take-off of Bob Barker's Plinko, creatively called "Drinko." One guy, at about 11:45, threw up. Right on the street. His friends (I'm getting a bit choked up here) yelled my favorite slogan: "Boot and Rally!"
I turned to the group, assembled and looking down on this scene.
"I believe we've wandered upon a Civil War reinactment here, folks," I said. "Welcome to Pickett's Charge."
My college roommate and I drove down from the town in which she now lives, about an hour from the stadium. We dragged along another guy that she knew from her time as a grad student, which whom she now works. He cheerfully endured the backseat of a Mini Cooper, sitting next to a cooler filled with orange juice and cheap champagne that, for the most part, ended up coming back with us, unopened.
We drove into town with the usual collection of miscreants in traffic. No one was throwing up out of car windows, like I'd seen at the Indy 500 one year, but this was a noon game and it was only 10:30. There was still some time yet to get the drink on.
We parked. The best thing about a Mini? You can park anywhere. And pay nothing. Unless you live in the town where I live, whereupon the parking meter guys target you daily for tickets the minute the meter expires.
Mike wandered off to his tailgate, meeting friends of his from college. We promised to come find him. A promise we may not have meant at the time. However, when we found his keys in my car under the cooler, we pretty much had to go in search of.
Our first tailgate was fairly tame. Nice older married folks who all live in town. They know all of the coaches of our team for the past 30 years. They go to church with the soccer coach. They work at the university. They made breakfast casseroles and cookies and brought a grill. This is the tailgate I would plan and throw, if I was throwing one. Staid, quiet, relaxed. With garbage bags and a minimum of mess.
After a few beers, we went to find Mike. He was with his friends from school in the next lot over. They were located right on the corner, right next to the Port-O-Lets and across a small road separating their location from "the student area."
I don't recall a student area for tailgating, myself. I prided myself on getting drunk enough before the game that I didn't need to go before halftime. We'd just hang out in apartments and drink and use the bathrooms there. Why sit in a field with no toilet facilities when you can throw up off someone's deck and into a pool below?
Sitting at Mike's tailgate and looking over the student area, I was rather overwhelmed. Clouds of dust rose up from the dirt and floated above the crowds. Flags flew. People were running, sprinting, from aisle to aisle of cars. Beer cases littered the grounds. An intrepid group played a take-off of Bob Barker's Plinko, creatively called "Drinko." One guy, at about 11:45, threw up. Right on the street. His friends (I'm getting a bit choked up here) yelled my favorite slogan: "Boot and Rally!"
I turned to the group, assembled and looking down on this scene.
"I believe we've wandered upon a Civil War reinactment here, folks," I said. "Welcome to Pickett's Charge."
posted by Miss Head at
9:25 AM
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