Saturday: Part II
10:30 a.m.: Imagine if you will, a clown car packed to the brim with those circus funny mean, all piling in and out of an inexplicably small vehicle. That is the best way to describe a ride to the tailgate in Bo’s van. Stuffed to the gills with students and parents and children alike, all singing the Backstreet Boys at the top of their lungs as they scoot down the road. “IIIIIIIIII WANT IT THAT WAAAAAAYYYYY….” We swear when the van rounds corners, two wheels leave the ground. But this is how it is in Bo’s van, which frequently finds itself home to 15 or 20 people at least a few times during the school week. The singing and joking and laughing continues all the way to the Soccer Field, where the usher
guarding the entrance to the parking gives the party van a long hard look but simply shakes his head while laughing, takes our ten dollars, and allows us to pass through to the grassy lawn beyond. We finally park, dislodge ourselves from the van, and hike over to tailgate central. Along the way, we meet up with Spider and the rest of the crew which hiked from the Donkey. Spider regales us with a very amusing story of being called a “Muppet” by a little girl standing up outside the passenger window of a passing car.
10:35 a.m.: Ahhhh….the old tailgate grounds of the soccer fields. The sun shining, the footballs flying, the grills smoking, and as much cheap beer as you can possibly keep on ice at one time. As we pass the groups of Irish faithful, flying their orange-green-and white flags on their makeshift flag poles, eating brats and burgers and seven-layer dip off of white folding tables, all while passing a quarter-full bottle of Jamison’s around the family circle to dear old Grandma for her swig, we yell “GO IRISH!” We are greeted with cheers and high-fives. As we pass the tailgates of the pockets of opposing fans, who are still trying to get their grills lit, listening to their school’s fight songs on low volume from their car windows, and sitting back relaxing in their lawn chairs, jean shorts, and cut-off t-shirts, we yell “YOU S
UCK!” They respond by giving us the single-finger salute and chucking empties (or fulls) at us from point-blank range. No problem—the sun is shining, the Fight Song is humming all around us, and we’re buzzing by fueled by a mixture of maple syrup, Advil, and Michelob Light. And we won’t rest today until we can’t feel our fingers or toes. On to the tailgate!
10:45 a.m.: Arrive at our spot nearest “the moon tower,” the radio antenna in the center of tailgate central. Immediately the gear is pulled out, in order of importance: First, the cooler of beer is yanked and cans are tossed to every member of the entourage. Second, the Cups table is set-up, the red Solo cups (which just finished running through the dishwasher that morning) are arranged, and immediately teams are picked for a Cups match. Finally, the grill is pulled, the charcoal lit (ahh…the good ol’ days), and the burgers and brats start to cook. With ice cold beer in hand and the smell of searing ground beef filling the air, all is well and relatively calm. This would all change drastically within the hour.
11:15 a.m.: After walking dejectedly from a Cups defeat at the hands of some uppity O’Neill freshman (who the f*ck do they think they are anyways? Time for the full cup challenge next game), check the watch: damn, game time is over two hours away—there’s plenty of time! Realize that I haven’t urinated in over an hour, and run over to the lines of Port-O-Potties, and lines of humanity. By some universal joke, the girl in the front of the line has been inside the potty for at least five minutes, and I’ve never hated seeing that red “Occupied” button more. Screw this—off to the woods with the rest of perps. Along the way to the woods, see just at least four people from past classes and share a drunk story or two. Some stories are told mid-stream. Successfully avoid the SBPD on horseback, zip up and sprint back to the tailgater, but not before being intercepted by the 609 St. Pete’s guys and forced to shotgun a beer.
11:45 a.m.: Scarf down a burger and a brat, chug another beer, and take care of a little business in Cups. The car speakers are running full blast with the sounds of Bon Jovi and AC/DC. The tailgate has tripled in size. The sun overhead is really beating down, and the heat is
causing the beer buzz to make the slow turn into drunk. There is no shade, so off come the shirts (from the guys). Grab another cold one from the barrel o’ ice and beer, which gives rise to fantastic idea. Soon, some of the dorm faithful are taking turns dunking their heads full in the barrel and bobbing for the few beers floating in the icy water. Cheers go up all around when a “beerfish” is snagged in the jaws of an upperclassman.
12:30 p.m.: Bobbing for beers has taken its toll on the beer count, and a quick glance at a now water-logged watch says we need to replenish the supply to tide the tailgate crowd until gametime. Time for a hike to Belmont liquors. After dodging beanbags and errantly thrown footballs, arrive at the refill station in a brisk ten minutes. A band is playing outside in the parking lot and some Linebacker bar regulars are stumbling to and fro. Grab a couple of cases of Busch Light and a pint of Captain Morgan for the back pocket, and head back out into the sunshine for the long haul back to the tailgate.
1:00 p.m.: The replenished beer stock is a huge hit. Everybody has a couple m
ore beers, but the previous night’s activities are finally starting to catch up with everyone, creating a uniform chill just before the opening kickoff. That all stops when a group of O’Neill guys arrive with an appetite for self-destruction. The case of Mad Dog 20/20 comes out, and teams form for a race. Two or three guys per team and one bottle of that putrid, sweet reinforced wine. Kevin’s team wins hands down. He drinks most of the bottle himself, prompting several of the hammered freshmen to stumble up to him and slur, “Dude, you’re awesome!” A few beer chasers and stories about last night’s mass stupidity later, everyone agrees it is time to head to the Stadium. The grill, Cups table, and various tailgate paraphernalia are stowed away, and we leave the scene en mass, trudging away through pockets of mud, crushed beer cans, dead cardboard boxes, and the occasional passed-out freshmen abandoned long before by her “friends.”
guarding the entrance to the parking gives the party van a long hard look but simply shakes his head while laughing, takes our ten dollars, and allows us to pass through to the grassy lawn beyond. We finally park, dislodge ourselves from the van, and hike over to tailgate central. Along the way, we meet up with Spider and the rest of the crew which hiked from the Donkey. Spider regales us with a very amusing story of being called a “Muppet” by a little girl standing up outside the passenger window of a passing car.10:35 a.m.: Ahhhh….the old tailgate grounds of the soccer fields. The sun shining, the footballs flying, the grills smoking, and as much cheap beer as you can possibly keep on ice at one time. As we pass the groups of Irish faithful, flying their orange-green-and white flags on their makeshift flag poles, eating brats and burgers and seven-layer dip off of white folding tables, all while passing a quarter-full bottle of Jamison’s around the family circle to dear old Grandma for her swig, we yell “GO IRISH!” We are greeted with cheers and high-fives. As we pass the tailgates of the pockets of opposing fans, who are still trying to get their grills lit, listening to their school’s fight songs on low volume from their car windows, and sitting back relaxing in their lawn chairs, jean shorts, and cut-off t-shirts, we yell “YOU S
UCK!” They respond by giving us the single-finger salute and chucking empties (or fulls) at us from point-blank range. No problem—the sun is shining, the Fight Song is humming all around us, and we’re buzzing by fueled by a mixture of maple syrup, Advil, and Michelob Light. And we won’t rest today until we can’t feel our fingers or toes. On to the tailgate!10:45 a.m.: Arrive at our spot nearest “the moon tower,” the radio antenna in the center of tailgate central. Immediately the gear is pulled out, in order of importance: First, the cooler of beer is yanked and cans are tossed to every member of the entourage. Second, the Cups table is set-up, the red Solo cups (which just finished running through the dishwasher that morning) are arranged, and immediately teams are picked for a Cups match. Finally, the grill is pulled, the charcoal lit (ahh…the good ol’ days), and the burgers and brats start to cook. With ice cold beer in hand and the smell of searing ground beef filling the air, all is well and relatively calm. This would all change drastically within the hour.
11:15 a.m.: After walking dejectedly from a Cups defeat at the hands of some uppity O’Neill freshman (who the f*ck do they think they are anyways? Time for the full cup challenge next game), check the watch: damn, game time is over two hours away—there’s plenty of time! Realize that I haven’t urinated in over an hour, and run over to the lines of Port-O-Potties, and lines of humanity. By some universal joke, the girl in the front of the line has been inside the potty for at least five minutes, and I’ve never hated seeing that red “Occupied” button more. Screw this—off to the woods with the rest of perps. Along the way to the woods, see just at least four people from past classes and share a drunk story or two. Some stories are told mid-stream. Successfully avoid the SBPD on horseback, zip up and sprint back to the tailgater, but not before being intercepted by the 609 St. Pete’s guys and forced to shotgun a beer.
11:45 a.m.: Scarf down a burger and a brat, chug another beer, and take care of a little business in Cups. The car speakers are running full blast with the sounds of Bon Jovi and AC/DC. The tailgate has tripled in size. The sun overhead is really beating down, and the heat is
causing the beer buzz to make the slow turn into drunk. There is no shade, so off come the shirts (from the guys). Grab another cold one from the barrel o’ ice and beer, which gives rise to fantastic idea. Soon, some of the dorm faithful are taking turns dunking their heads full in the barrel and bobbing for the few beers floating in the icy water. Cheers go up all around when a “beerfish” is snagged in the jaws of an upperclassman.12:30 p.m.: Bobbing for beers has taken its toll on the beer count, and a quick glance at a now water-logged watch says we need to replenish the supply to tide the tailgate crowd until gametime. Time for a hike to Belmont liquors. After dodging beanbags and errantly thrown footballs, arrive at the refill station in a brisk ten minutes. A band is playing outside in the parking lot and some Linebacker bar regulars are stumbling to and fro. Grab a couple of cases of Busch Light and a pint of Captain Morgan for the back pocket, and head back out into the sunshine for the long haul back to the tailgate.
1:00 p.m.: The replenished beer stock is a huge hit. Everybody has a couple m
ore beers, but the previous night’s activities are finally starting to catch up with everyone, creating a uniform chill just before the opening kickoff. That all stops when a group of O’Neill guys arrive with an appetite for self-destruction. The case of Mad Dog 20/20 comes out, and teams form for a race. Two or three guys per team and one bottle of that putrid, sweet reinforced wine. Kevin’s team wins hands down. He drinks most of the bottle himself, prompting several of the hammered freshmen to stumble up to him and slur, “Dude, you’re awesome!” A few beer chasers and stories about last night’s mass stupidity later, everyone agrees it is time to head to the Stadium. The grill, Cups table, and various tailgate paraphernalia are stowed away, and we leave the scene en mass, trudging away through pockets of mud, crushed beer cans, dead cardboard boxes, and the occasional passed-out freshmen abandoned long before by her “friends.” To be continued in Part III....
tale spun by Cherith Cutestory at 10:36 AM
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