Those sad few unfortunate heretics who, for some unimaginable reason, are not fans of American football are, in effect, throwing out the baby with the bathwater. In this case, however, they are no worse off than adherents of the game who merely loll about and watch the action on giant television screens—both groups are missing out on the ancillary benefits of the sport. These include fraternal road trips to colorful ports-of-call which otherwise, alas, might go unexplored—places like Auburn, Alabama, arrived at after an exceedingly pleasant drive on quiet rural lanes past abundant cottonfields and pumpkin patches in full Halloween mode. Without the game, how many visitors would ever explore the wonders of The Grove in Oxford, Mississippi or contemplate the magnificence of the mammoth Texas Aggie bonfire? And it’s almost incomprehensible that any poor soul could pass through life without so much as a single visit to the pre-game tailgate in Baton Rouge, the evening menu of which puts to shame the most exotic of restaurants. Aye, the game’s the thing, but the appurtenances are of no less value.
Thus it is with this week’s annual hijinks—a football game involving the Universities of Florida and Georgia, surrounded by what has come to be known as The World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party. Unlike most regular-season contests which have a home team and a visitor, this fracas splits the EverBank Stadium in Jacksonville right down the middle, with forty-thousand supporters of each persuasion in full throat. It is easier to get a hotel room in Rome for the Installation of the Pope than it is to find one in all of Duval County for this affair. The Florida-Georgia weekend perhaps remains the sole remaining reason why any person of sound mental health would choose to visit Jacksonville, which is perfectly content to be called The Redneck Capitol of The South.
For many years, this trip was automatic on my calendar. When Steve Spurrier arrived to coach his old school in 1990, he made the game an immediate priority. The Gators had fallen on hard times in the series, losing 13 of the previous 16 games, but Spurrier racked up eleven wins in his twelve years, causing Bulldog adherents to broach the subject of returning the contest to a home-and-home arrangement. Fortunately for the Cocktail Party, the self-described “head ball coach” finally emigrated to the pros, allowing UGA (also the appropriate name of their handsome mascot) a brief reprieve under the Gators’ ill-fated Ron Zook. Then, Urban Meyer showed up in Gainesville and promptly took five of six games, bringing about more Athens angst. Every time Georgia gets sulky, however, Florida finds a coach to cheer them up. This time it was the defensive-minded Will Muschamp, whose idea of an effective offense is one which picks up a first down or two and then punts from the fifty yard line. Under Muschamp, the Gators lost three of four and all was right with Jacksonville once again.
Getting There Is Half The Fun. Right?
Gamegoers embarking on a voyage from Gainesville or Ocala to Jacksonville will not be subject to the boring sameness of Interstate travel. No, indeed. We will first be funneled along U.S. 301 through the booming metropolis of Waldo. You remember Waldo? Otherwise famous for the noted game, Where’s Waldo?—which practically everyone erroneously thinks was named after a missing person. Not so. The population spectrum of Waldo has long been reflected in its two chief industries—The Waldo Farmers’ And Flea Market and a nameless strip joint on the edge of town, which I am sorry to report is no longer extant. For some years, however, there was great consternation over the latter by the churchgoing population of Waldo, which finally displayed its lack of approbation by picketing the saloon. Outraged, the strippers took up arms and, undressed in their loveliest finery, proceeded to picket the flea market. I have no convincing statistics on the results, but a casual observer might tell you the strippers had more effect on flea market attendance than the Christians had on the bar.
Waldo is also the southernmost point on the fearsome Speedtrap Triangle, long noted as a place where speeders and nonspeeders alike fall into a dreaded vortex, never to return. Or at least to return a few hundred dollars broker. The tiny hamlets of Lawtey and Hampton, invisible to the naked eye, were the other two legs of the tripod, at one time the only area of the United States officially cited by the American Automobile Association for such shenanigans. The AAA even erected billboards warning their customers. Occasionally, Waldo police would even construct a makeshift barricade to nab excessive celebrants on their way home from the game, terribly snarling traffic for hundreds of tired drivers at eleven o’clock at night. Sitting in one of these miasmas, it suddenly occurred to me that I might back up, drive through a Waldo neighborhood and take an alternate route, an alternative denied to victims of more sophisticated roadblocks where such a stunt would bring about immediate pursuit. The Waldo cops never even noticed. Pass it on if you or any of your friends are stymied.
For those of you feeling outraged by all this excessive policing, a little story: Once upon a time, there was a carload of Tallahassee legislators who had earlier landed at the Jacksonville airport after a tiring ordeal, and were headed back to the Capitol city in gloom of night along busy Interstate 10. When what to their wondering eyes should appear but a tiny prowl car and two ticket-writers eager to enhance the coffers of a little town we’ll call Nothingville, the true name lost in the mists of time. The politicos were neither speeding nor engaged in other criminal activity, an opinion which was heatedly advanced by several, who were promptly insulted and told to return to their car. But the legislators had the last laugh and a hearty one it was. When they returned to Tallahassee, they investigated the financial records of the offending town, found it supported almost entirely by traffic fines and invalidated its charter, effectively wiping out its existence. I guess some people just can’t take a joke.
After Waldo, we arrive at the Bradford County seat, the well-named city of Starke. Starke is sort of the local capitol of the Florida Prison System, with three of these fine establishments in the area, including the notorious Florida State Prison, not a place they put one for stealing his neighbor’s candy canes. There is not much entertainment in Bradford County so the residents look forward to the occasional skirmishes between the Anti-Death Penalty squadrons and the more popular “Let ‘em fry!” brigades. After the contretemps, cookies are served by the local League of Women Voters, the proud citizens of Starke not being ones to hold grudges.
If you’ve made it this far, it’s only a hop, skip and jump (albeit a slow one) to Interstate 10 and the battlegrounds of Jacksonville. If you have left Gainesville or Ocala at the sensible hour of oh, say, 9:30 for this 3:30 game, a distance of less than 100 miles, you will probably arrive in time. Otherwise, you will be eternally marooned in a traffic jam of epic proportions, forced to spend your idle moments reading the extremely rude comments which poorly-raised Georgia children have affixed to the rear windows of their pickup trucks. If you have been unfortunate enough to find yourself in this muddle once, you will take extraordinary precautions to see that it never happens again. But somehow—miraculously—most people eventually make it to the stadium. Awaiting, is a singular maelstrom. It has to be seen to be believed.
The World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party
While Florida fans might be found wandering about in various and assorted garments of orange and blue, there is a rigid requirement at the University of Georgia that ALL Bulldog coeds wear to this game a little black dress. These dresses are passed down from generation to generation and are requisite attire whether the temperatures are threatening 95 degrees or hovering around 30, whether there is rain, snow or sleet. Not to say the girls don’t look fetching and seem unaffected by the weather. Which brings to mind a bothersome question—am I the only one who gets cold anymore? These teenagers are frolicking about in tank tops and tiny shorts while I am freezing to death in my Mackinaw. Is it the baby fat? Is it the alcohol? Does anyone out there have an old-time flask I can borrow—maybe one of those clever devices that looks for all the world like a common Brownie Hawkeye? Give me a call, will you?
Sometimes, I’ll have to admit, rain is an ally. Tickets for this game are always expensive, particularly for fans like me who are dependent, as Blanche would say, on the kindness of scalpers. There is nothing a scalper fears and despises so much as a soaking rainstorm, as he watches his army of prospects dissipate and his profits dwindle. Once, after such a cloudburst, I obtained a fine seat on the forty for a paltry FIVE dollars. The Great Scalper in the Sky, alas, exacted punishment by causing it to rain for the balance of the game. After a while, of course, it makes no difference. You can only get so wet, then you don’t care any more. Smart people bring a complete change of clothes in their cars. And don’t worry—nobody will laugh at you for being naked in the parking lot. They’re all too busy wringing out their wardrobes.
When you proceed around the final corner leading to the arena, a vast panacea opens up before you. If there are 80,000 people bound for the game, there are almost as many with no hope of getting in. They’re just there for the party. A sea of orange and blue and red and black swells on both sides as you navigate your vehicle toward some parking island in the distance. Forget about the regular lots, long-filled by team boosters and organizations which have sealed the deal months in advance. You are consigned to church parking lots and residents’ back yards, where you will be assigned sardine-can-sized spaces barely allowing your doors to open. If you are lucky or wise enough to negotiate with an honest man, you may not be blocked in when you return, forced to await the arrival of some drunken lout wheelbarrowed back to the parking lot by sturdier friends. As in all earthly matters, wisdom is gained from experience. This year, The Wreck of The Hesperus; next year, a quiet ride on serene seas. By hook or by crook, you park. Now, it’s onward to the arena.
Tough Ticket
While the great majority of those on hand have previously bought tickets to this always-sold-out contest, there are those optimists among us who must obtain last-minute sustenance. And that’s why God made scalpers, those interesting fellows who have developed over time a network of occasional sellers--people who may be old and often infirm, men with wives who mysteriously come down with The Ethers, relatives of careless children who foolishly decide to marry on Florida-Georgia day. As offended as potential buyers may be by these scalpers’ often frisky prices, there should be some recognition of the fact that many of these tickets are bought weeks before games when the future success or failure of a team is iffy and the ultimate ticket value unknown. For the scalper, some days are diamonds, some days are stones. Take this year’s affair, for instance. Georgia, expected to capture the SEC title, has been less than sterling, perhaps causing a few Bulldog fans to spend the day playing Parcheesi back in Athens. Fortunately for scalpers, however, Florida has blossomed unexpectedly under the aegis of new coach Jim McElwain and the Gator contingent will be spilling over.
Buying from these unlicensed brokers can be hairy, of course. If scalpers were to be believed, all seats would be on the fifty-yard-line, in the shade and virtually adjacent to the nearest exit. Customers best come equipped with a seating chart of the stadium, easily obtained off the internet. Some knowledge of a typical ducat also helps. In Gainesville, I was once offered a nice looking ticket low in my favorite section, number 10. On perusing the little critter, however, I noted the ticket said “East Side,” when Section 10 was clearly on the West. I walked off, feigning disinterest, flagged the nearest cop and closed the varlet down. Though it’s never happened to me, there can be little doubt that obtaining a counterfeit ticket is a real body blow. It won’t be discovered until you reach the gate and by then you will probably have neither the time nor money to recover and find a legitimate replacement. That said, phony tickets are few and far between, rarely seen at any but the biggest games. If you have doubts, many scalpers will even walk up to the gate with you. If possible, tickets are best purchased from fans with one or two extras rather than the fistful that scalpers carry around. The prices are better and the tickets don’t bounce.
Gaining Entry
Since the Florida-Georgia game is played in a professional (Jacksonville Jaguars) stadium, amenities exist which are generally absent at the college level. The more expensive Club Seats, which extend inward from the 35-yard-lines, not too high, not too low, are arrived at via an escalator which carries the fan to a lounge area just inside the aisle openings. These expansive vestibules are carpeted, possessed of comfy chairs and sofas and offer a vast array of food and beverages unavailable elsewhere in the building. There are also endless numbers of televisions sets ensconced in every nook and cranny featuring football games from other venues. If it is not the Waldorf-Astoria, it is also not the home of the Pflugerville Panthers. I have made it a point to purchase Club Seats every year since I became aware they existed, with one slight exception. One year, my football pal Torrey Johnson and I came up empty on the Club Seat front and were forced to accept tickets in an abutting section. The seats were fine, but we pined for our pre-game luxury. Torrey was crestfallen, but I was not ready to concede. “Just follow me,” I told him, and proceeded to the Club Seat gate, inverting my ticket so the gatekeeper wouldn’t get too good a look as I scurried through. This probably would not have worked today when all tickets are scanned but it carried the day back then. I turned around to see Torrey, the straightest guy on Earth, nervously approach the ticket-taker. He looked at her, smiled and said, “I’m with him,” as he bustled through the gate, then giggled for the rest of the day as if he’d made off with the Hope Diamond, leaving a coke bottle in its stead. “Always act as if you know exactly what you’re doing,” I told him. “You’ll be amazed at the places it will take you.”
The Game
There may be adventures that are more fun to pursue than the Florida-Georgia game but not many you can experience with your clothes on. Due to the split audience, the stadium is constantly loud because something good is always happening to one side or the other. One defense is being constantly implored, one band is always on the muscle. Optimism ebbs from one side and flows to the other, then reverses itself in a heartbeat. The contests are usually close and the verdict uncertain til the final seconds, a guarantor of sore throats and high blood-pressure. Last year, Florida was a decided underdog and ran wild, winning with something to spare. This year, the Gators find themselves a three-point favorite as the two teams battle for an SEC East championship and the right to proceed on to the conference title game in Atlanta. There’ll be thrills, there’ll be chills. There will be the joy of victory and the agony of defeat. There will be braggadocio and there will be coach-cussing. All of it swathed in alcohol, lots of alcohol, shipped in for the occasion in railroad tanker cars, simple trucks being inadequate to the task. The losers will skulk off in quiet ignominy, but the winners—ah, the winners—they will float off in a cloud of ecstasy, glad of the game, spirits high, planning greater things. For these fortunates, life will be brighter now, the rain is gone, there are no obstacles in their way. Unless, if those winners happen to be us, you want to consider the waiting cops of Waldo.
That’s all, folks….
WARNING—TOXIC MATERIAL! The next issue of The Flying Pie is the long-awaited 75th Birthday of Bill edition. Several years ago, after a string of health reversals, our leader posted a—ahem—revealing birthday photo of himself to assure friends and family of his general wellbeing. That tradition continued on future birthdays in which Bill portrayed naked heroes and superheroes (among them, the Silver Surfer and Perseus With The Head of Medusa), then presented a bit of philosophical discourse. But 75 is special. So this year we enlisted a for-real professional photographer to render something to suit, as it were, the occasion. Suffice to say, nice as the photographs are, they may not be for everyone. Years ago, Sports Illustrated published the first of its highly successful summer bathing suit issues and was surprised to incur the wrath of angry mothers, fearful their impressionable children might be warped forever by the viewing. SI decided the next year to send out a warning one week prior to publication of the dreaded edition, allowing people time to cancel. It seems to have worked well for them, so here’s your warning from us. There will be no more alerts. As they used to say in Rome, Caveat emptor! Hell, maybe they still do.
