Post by Life's too short. on Aug 25, 2012 15:01:56 GMT -5
By BRETT MICHAEL DYKES
Published: August 25, 2012
I had been in Tuscaloosa, Ala., for barely an hour, and already I was feeling the authoritative boot of Crimson Tide Coach Nick Saban pressing down firmly against the back of my neck.
I went to great pains to try to avoid such a confrontation. Really, I did. I made a point not to pack any clothing that might out me as a person with any ties to the state of Louisiana, much less as a Louisiana State fan. I had even put the purple and gold L.S.U.-themed Snuggie that typically rests on one arm of my sofa away in a closet a couple of days before heading to Alabama, thinking that its continued daily presence in my visual periphery might subconsciously compromise my objectivity in some way.
I had been tasked with offering an informed article on the current state of passion in the increasingly football-mad South on the heels of the plethora of distressing football-related news during the past year: Penn State, concussions, bounties, etc.
In response to the release of the Freeh Report about the child sexual abuse scandal at Penn State, Mark Emmert, the president of the N.C.A.A. and, coincidentally, the former chancellor at L.S.U., called on “every single school and athletics department to take an honest look at its campus environment and eradicate the ‘sports are king’ mind-set.” Yeah, well, good luck with that.
Even with the proliferation of high-definition televisions and broadcast contracts that make just about every Southeastern Conference football game available for state-of-the-art, in-home viewing, season tickets sales around the conference are reportedly brisk, even for the first-year members Missouri and Texas A&M. Missouri shattered its previous season sales record, and A&M sold out of tickets in March, the earliest that has happened. Of course, nowhere is the hysteria and anticipation more frenzied than at Alabama and L.S.U., the teams that played for last year’s national championship. Both enter the 2012 season poised to compete for the title again.
To provide an inside look, or at least attempt to, I decided to journey to Tuscaloosa and Baton Rouge, La., to attend each university’s Fan Day — an increasingly popular annual event on campuses across the country where fans can meet, greet and obtain autographs from their beloved team’s coaches and players.
To carry out this assignment, it was imperative that I remain objective — something I had mentally prepared for, though I figured that venturing behind what for me had traditionally been enemy lines might present the biggest challenge. After all, my previous trips to Tuscaloosa had largely consisted of myself and friends prowling around and drunkenly yelling “Tiger bait!” at random people wearing crimson and white before and after football games.
I even went so far as to make a promise to myself that I wouldn’t, under any circumstances, refer to anyone as a “Gump” — the derogatory term of choice among most L.S.U. fans for Alabama fans, based on Forrest Gump’s playing for the Tide. Nor would I bring up the poisoning of majestic oak trees at Auburn by an Alabama fan. And under no circumstances would I even think about spitting in the general direction of the statue of Saban the university erected outside Bryant-Denny Stadium after he had been on the job for only three years. No, I was going to conduct myself like a professional, dangit!
But it all went awry so very fast.
After dropping off a bag off at my hotel I headed over to the Paul W. Bryant Museum on Paul W. Bryant Drive, figuring that by immediately paying respects to the legendary coach known to all as the Bear I would pocket a few quick karma points. But as I approached the museum, proverbial olive branch in hand, my auditory senses picked up on the joyful noise of a football practice taking place nearby. Whistles blowing. People yelling. Pads and helmets crashing.
Indeed, the reigning national champion Crimson Tide were practicing directly across the street from the museum. Curious, I put aside my selfless act of diplomacy to walk over and check it out for a minute or two, if only to take a photograph of the practice field to send to a friend who is an Alabama fan along with a note that would say something witty like, “Hey, look where I am!”
But just as I approached a fence on the perimeter of the practice fields and began to lift my phone into the air to take a picture, I was startled by an ill-tempered voice barking at me from behind. I was not sure if, unnoticed by me, a corndog-like odor was emanating from my skin — popular college football myth suggests that all L.S.U. fans smell like corn dogs — strong enough to set off alarm bells inside the facility, but suddenly I felt like a C.I.A. operative who had brazenly strolled into the Kremlin at the height of the cold war. I turned to find a quite displeased-looking Alabama athletic department official. The exchange that followed went something like this:
Hey, what are you doing?
I was going to take a photo of the practice field to send to a friend, I answered.
Well you can’t do that.
Are you serious? Why not?
Because Coach Saban doesn’t like that, came the response.
Surely this man must be kidding, I thought. He was not. I know this because he began berating someone through some sort of walkie-talkie about the absence of a campus police officer — one who was apparently supposed to be stationed nearby to shoo away troublemakers like me. All the while, he was eyeballing the iPhone in my hand like something he would very much like to toss into a caldron of acid.
A bit overcome by what was unfolding, I may or may not have responded by charging the man with being a “communiss,” just as Claude Robichaux did Officer Mancuso in the opening scene of “A Confederacy of Dunces.” It happened so fast, it’s all kind of a blur now.
Meanwhile, I found myself aghast to be actually contemplating whether my constitutional rights were in the process of being trampled by a college football coach, or an agent acting on his behalf. Unfortunately, the absurdity of the moment seemed completely lost on my tormentor.
“Who are you?” the surly man inquired, his tone not unlike that of a homicide detective bearing down on his No. 1 suspect. Before I could even answer “an American, sir” he demanded I leave the premises immediately. It suddenly occurred to me that incarceration might be a possibility if I failed to comply. After a moment of dread, the thought of being tossed in jail actually began to delight me.
“Are you going to have me arrested?” I asked.
I started to consider how incredible it would be to be arrested over a photograph taken of an Alabama football practice from a parking lot.
But alas, I didn’t have the will to push it further, disarmed by the kindly nature of the police officer who eventually showed up at the scene. Having lost the energy to pick a fight, I made my way back across the parking lot. Upon reaching Paul W. Bryant Drive I turned back to see if I was still being watched. I was. In Tuscaloosa, it seems, defying Nick Saban’s wishes, even unwittingly, is not something that will be tolerated.
One-Team Towns
Though it was scorching hot, as August days in Louisiana and Alabama tend to be, thousands showed up for the Fan Day festivities at L.S.U. and Alabama. L.S.U. reported a turnout roughly 40 percent larger than any previous year, despite the event’s taking place just a day after the star player Tyrann Mathieu was dismissed from the team.
The programs produced the events in different ways, with L.S.U.’s being held indoors complete with air-conditioning, and with two hours allotted for fans to seek autographs. Alabama’s was held in the outdoor heat with fans granted only 45 minutes for autograph-seeking, though the Crimson Tide did hold a two-hour open practice that fans were able to attend.
The two events provided more than enough time for me to make a few observations:
¶ The first fan in line at L.S.U. was Tuck Freyer, a lawyer. He had claimed his spot around 8:30 a.m. His counterpart at Alabama, Bobby Hunter, a Walmart employee, arrived four days before the event to be first in line. Freyer said he was more interested in meeting Tigers players — including welcoming quarterback Rob Bolden, a recent transfer from Penn State — than Coach Les Miles, and the items he brought to have autographed were of the traditional sort: posters, footballs, etc. Hunter, on the other hand, sprinted directly to Saban once he and the other fans were allowed on the field after practice, handing over his Toshiba laptop for the coach to sign.
¶ The way the two coaches approached the events could not have been more different, and played perfectly to type. Saban was workmanlike and methodical, efficiently signing autographs with a serious manner that called to mind a veteran assembly line worker. Miles was much more freewheeling and playful, more prone to engage fans in conversation and pose for photographs. I saw Saban stop to pose for only one photograph, with a child in a wheelchair.
¶ When I arrived in Baton Rouge, the cabdriver who brought me to my hotel talked almost exclusively about the heavy rain the area had been getting. The driver who brought me to my hotel in Tuscaloosa asked if I thought Alabama would repeat as national champion almost as soon as I climbed into his cab.
¶ I popped into Mexican restaurants near both university campuses. In Baton Rouge, the employees wore uniforms that reflected the theme of the restaurant. In Tuscaloosa, employees dressed as if they would be attending an Alabama football game when they finished work.
¶ The breakfast buffet at my hotel in Baton Rouge was listed on my receipt simply as a “breakfast buffet.” The breakfast buffet at my hotel in Tuscaloosa was listed as the “Walk of Champions buffet.”
¶ Over the course of the weekend I spent in Tuscaloosa, I can’t recall entering a single place of business that did not feature some sort of homage to Alabama football. Even a wine store I visited featured — in a display in its front window — a nearly life-size cutout of Saban pointing and yelling with the words Roll Tide emblazoned on it. Homages to L.S.U. football in Baton Rouge were more infrequent and relegated to more predictable establishments, like bars where people frequently gather on game days.
¶ The number of times I heard “Roll Tide” over the course of a weekend in Tuscaloosa far outweighed the number of times I heard “Geaux Tigers” during my weekend in Baton Rouge.
All of this led to my main conclusion after spending time in each place on a nongame weekend: Alabama fans are, well, just crazier about their football team than L.S.U. fans are.
It pains me to admit this, mind you, as in SEC country, the sheer lunacy of the fan base one exists in is often a source of irrational pride. I’ve actually gotten into arguments with people over whose fan base tilts more toward the insane. But L.S.U. football in Baton Rouge is a sideshow — an elaborate sideshow people feel passionately about, yes, but a sideshow nonetheless. In Tuscaloosa, Alabama football is the main event, a full-blown circus in the Greatest Show on Earth tradition of P. T. Barnum. To put it bluntly, on any given day, Tuscaloosa is probably the closest thing to a college football theme park that a person could visit.
Fans for Life
In the event that you, dear reader, need any further convincing of just how seriously SEC country takes football, consider this: While I was standing along the brick partition that separates the spectators in the stands from the field inside Bryant-Denny Stadium, casually watching the team practice while eavesdropping on a conversation to my left, a conversation in which a stadium usher optimistically described to a fan how Saban has recently begun to exhibit the characteristics of an amiable human being (“When he first came here, it wasn’t a good idea to speak to him unless you were spoken to, but lately, he’ll look right at you and say, ‘Hi,’ every now and then”), a woman with a face as sweet as a red velvet cupcake sidled up next to me. Her name was Suzan McClelland.
The 69-year-old McClelland had left her home in Prattville, Ala., that morning and made the two-hour drive to the stadium in Tuscaloosa with her husband, John (Field) McClelland, riding shotgun. It was a trip, she said, “very reminiscent of the many trips we’ve made together to attend games over the years” as longtime Alabama season-ticket holders. John was alive for those trips. As Suzan navigated her car through rural Alabama this time, however, only her recently deceased husband’s cremated remains, along with a photograph of him, rested in the passenger seat beside her.
Once she reached the city limits, Suzan met up with her brother, Ted, a Tuscaloosa resident, and the two had lunch at a restaurant Suzan described as being “very New York.” Suzan had the shrimp and grits.
After lunch, Ted and Suzan, now with her husband’s ashes lovingly tucked away inside one of her pants pockets, joined a few thousand of their fellow Alabama fans inside the stadium. With her brother by her side for emotional support, Suzan walked down from the stands and made her way to the stadium’s aforementioned brick partition, right next to yours truly. I then watched Suzan — clearly a bit frightened, but determined — reach into her pocket, pull out the plastic baggie holding John’s remains and empty its contents onto the field.
“Excuse me, but did you just pour someone’s ashes out onto the field?” I asked before Suzan and Ted could scurry away unnoticed.
“Yes, I did; it was my husband,” she replied nervously, her voice cracking slightly. “I was worried I’d get arrested doing this, but he loved Alabama football and wanted to have his ashes spread on the field here. I was worried I’d get arrested, but this was his dying wish, and I didn’t want him to haunt me for the rest of my life if I didn’t do it.”
After Suzan and her brother disappeared into the crowd, I found an online obituary for her husband on my phone. It read like the numerous other obituaries that run in newspapers across the country every day, with the exception of its final line, in capital letters, “Roll Tide!”
Published: August 25, 2012
I had been in Tuscaloosa, Ala., for barely an hour, and already I was feeling the authoritative boot of Crimson Tide Coach Nick Saban pressing down firmly against the back of my neck.
I went to great pains to try to avoid such a confrontation. Really, I did. I made a point not to pack any clothing that might out me as a person with any ties to the state of Louisiana, much less as a Louisiana State fan. I had even put the purple and gold L.S.U.-themed Snuggie that typically rests on one arm of my sofa away in a closet a couple of days before heading to Alabama, thinking that its continued daily presence in my visual periphery might subconsciously compromise my objectivity in some way.
I had been tasked with offering an informed article on the current state of passion in the increasingly football-mad South on the heels of the plethora of distressing football-related news during the past year: Penn State, concussions, bounties, etc.
In response to the release of the Freeh Report about the child sexual abuse scandal at Penn State, Mark Emmert, the president of the N.C.A.A. and, coincidentally, the former chancellor at L.S.U., called on “every single school and athletics department to take an honest look at its campus environment and eradicate the ‘sports are king’ mind-set.” Yeah, well, good luck with that.
Even with the proliferation of high-definition televisions and broadcast contracts that make just about every Southeastern Conference football game available for state-of-the-art, in-home viewing, season tickets sales around the conference are reportedly brisk, even for the first-year members Missouri and Texas A&M. Missouri shattered its previous season sales record, and A&M sold out of tickets in March, the earliest that has happened. Of course, nowhere is the hysteria and anticipation more frenzied than at Alabama and L.S.U., the teams that played for last year’s national championship. Both enter the 2012 season poised to compete for the title again.
To provide an inside look, or at least attempt to, I decided to journey to Tuscaloosa and Baton Rouge, La., to attend each university’s Fan Day — an increasingly popular annual event on campuses across the country where fans can meet, greet and obtain autographs from their beloved team’s coaches and players.
To carry out this assignment, it was imperative that I remain objective — something I had mentally prepared for, though I figured that venturing behind what for me had traditionally been enemy lines might present the biggest challenge. After all, my previous trips to Tuscaloosa had largely consisted of myself and friends prowling around and drunkenly yelling “Tiger bait!” at random people wearing crimson and white before and after football games.
I even went so far as to make a promise to myself that I wouldn’t, under any circumstances, refer to anyone as a “Gump” — the derogatory term of choice among most L.S.U. fans for Alabama fans, based on Forrest Gump’s playing for the Tide. Nor would I bring up the poisoning of majestic oak trees at Auburn by an Alabama fan. And under no circumstances would I even think about spitting in the general direction of the statue of Saban the university erected outside Bryant-Denny Stadium after he had been on the job for only three years. No, I was going to conduct myself like a professional, dangit!
But it all went awry so very fast.
After dropping off a bag off at my hotel I headed over to the Paul W. Bryant Museum on Paul W. Bryant Drive, figuring that by immediately paying respects to the legendary coach known to all as the Bear I would pocket a few quick karma points. But as I approached the museum, proverbial olive branch in hand, my auditory senses picked up on the joyful noise of a football practice taking place nearby. Whistles blowing. People yelling. Pads and helmets crashing.
Indeed, the reigning national champion Crimson Tide were practicing directly across the street from the museum. Curious, I put aside my selfless act of diplomacy to walk over and check it out for a minute or two, if only to take a photograph of the practice field to send to a friend who is an Alabama fan along with a note that would say something witty like, “Hey, look where I am!”
But just as I approached a fence on the perimeter of the practice fields and began to lift my phone into the air to take a picture, I was startled by an ill-tempered voice barking at me from behind. I was not sure if, unnoticed by me, a corndog-like odor was emanating from my skin — popular college football myth suggests that all L.S.U. fans smell like corn dogs — strong enough to set off alarm bells inside the facility, but suddenly I felt like a C.I.A. operative who had brazenly strolled into the Kremlin at the height of the cold war. I turned to find a quite displeased-looking Alabama athletic department official. The exchange that followed went something like this:
Hey, what are you doing?
I was going to take a photo of the practice field to send to a friend, I answered.
Well you can’t do that.
Are you serious? Why not?
Because Coach Saban doesn’t like that, came the response.
Surely this man must be kidding, I thought. He was not. I know this because he began berating someone through some sort of walkie-talkie about the absence of a campus police officer — one who was apparently supposed to be stationed nearby to shoo away troublemakers like me. All the while, he was eyeballing the iPhone in my hand like something he would very much like to toss into a caldron of acid.
A bit overcome by what was unfolding, I may or may not have responded by charging the man with being a “communiss,” just as Claude Robichaux did Officer Mancuso in the opening scene of “A Confederacy of Dunces.” It happened so fast, it’s all kind of a blur now.
Meanwhile, I found myself aghast to be actually contemplating whether my constitutional rights were in the process of being trampled by a college football coach, or an agent acting on his behalf. Unfortunately, the absurdity of the moment seemed completely lost on my tormentor.
“Who are you?” the surly man inquired, his tone not unlike that of a homicide detective bearing down on his No. 1 suspect. Before I could even answer “an American, sir” he demanded I leave the premises immediately. It suddenly occurred to me that incarceration might be a possibility if I failed to comply. After a moment of dread, the thought of being tossed in jail actually began to delight me.
“Are you going to have me arrested?” I asked.
I started to consider how incredible it would be to be arrested over a photograph taken of an Alabama football practice from a parking lot.
But alas, I didn’t have the will to push it further, disarmed by the kindly nature of the police officer who eventually showed up at the scene. Having lost the energy to pick a fight, I made my way back across the parking lot. Upon reaching Paul W. Bryant Drive I turned back to see if I was still being watched. I was. In Tuscaloosa, it seems, defying Nick Saban’s wishes, even unwittingly, is not something that will be tolerated.
One-Team Towns
Though it was scorching hot, as August days in Louisiana and Alabama tend to be, thousands showed up for the Fan Day festivities at L.S.U. and Alabama. L.S.U. reported a turnout roughly 40 percent larger than any previous year, despite the event’s taking place just a day after the star player Tyrann Mathieu was dismissed from the team.
The programs produced the events in different ways, with L.S.U.’s being held indoors complete with air-conditioning, and with two hours allotted for fans to seek autographs. Alabama’s was held in the outdoor heat with fans granted only 45 minutes for autograph-seeking, though the Crimson Tide did hold a two-hour open practice that fans were able to attend.
The two events provided more than enough time for me to make a few observations:
¶ The first fan in line at L.S.U. was Tuck Freyer, a lawyer. He had claimed his spot around 8:30 a.m. His counterpart at Alabama, Bobby Hunter, a Walmart employee, arrived four days before the event to be first in line. Freyer said he was more interested in meeting Tigers players — including welcoming quarterback Rob Bolden, a recent transfer from Penn State — than Coach Les Miles, and the items he brought to have autographed were of the traditional sort: posters, footballs, etc. Hunter, on the other hand, sprinted directly to Saban once he and the other fans were allowed on the field after practice, handing over his Toshiba laptop for the coach to sign.
¶ The way the two coaches approached the events could not have been more different, and played perfectly to type. Saban was workmanlike and methodical, efficiently signing autographs with a serious manner that called to mind a veteran assembly line worker. Miles was much more freewheeling and playful, more prone to engage fans in conversation and pose for photographs. I saw Saban stop to pose for only one photograph, with a child in a wheelchair.
¶ When I arrived in Baton Rouge, the cabdriver who brought me to my hotel talked almost exclusively about the heavy rain the area had been getting. The driver who brought me to my hotel in Tuscaloosa asked if I thought Alabama would repeat as national champion almost as soon as I climbed into his cab.
¶ I popped into Mexican restaurants near both university campuses. In Baton Rouge, the employees wore uniforms that reflected the theme of the restaurant. In Tuscaloosa, employees dressed as if they would be attending an Alabama football game when they finished work.
¶ The breakfast buffet at my hotel in Baton Rouge was listed on my receipt simply as a “breakfast buffet.” The breakfast buffet at my hotel in Tuscaloosa was listed as the “Walk of Champions buffet.”
¶ Over the course of the weekend I spent in Tuscaloosa, I can’t recall entering a single place of business that did not feature some sort of homage to Alabama football. Even a wine store I visited featured — in a display in its front window — a nearly life-size cutout of Saban pointing and yelling with the words Roll Tide emblazoned on it. Homages to L.S.U. football in Baton Rouge were more infrequent and relegated to more predictable establishments, like bars where people frequently gather on game days.
¶ The number of times I heard “Roll Tide” over the course of a weekend in Tuscaloosa far outweighed the number of times I heard “Geaux Tigers” during my weekend in Baton Rouge.
All of this led to my main conclusion after spending time in each place on a nongame weekend: Alabama fans are, well, just crazier about their football team than L.S.U. fans are.
It pains me to admit this, mind you, as in SEC country, the sheer lunacy of the fan base one exists in is often a source of irrational pride. I’ve actually gotten into arguments with people over whose fan base tilts more toward the insane. But L.S.U. football in Baton Rouge is a sideshow — an elaborate sideshow people feel passionately about, yes, but a sideshow nonetheless. In Tuscaloosa, Alabama football is the main event, a full-blown circus in the Greatest Show on Earth tradition of P. T. Barnum. To put it bluntly, on any given day, Tuscaloosa is probably the closest thing to a college football theme park that a person could visit.
Fans for Life
In the event that you, dear reader, need any further convincing of just how seriously SEC country takes football, consider this: While I was standing along the brick partition that separates the spectators in the stands from the field inside Bryant-Denny Stadium, casually watching the team practice while eavesdropping on a conversation to my left, a conversation in which a stadium usher optimistically described to a fan how Saban has recently begun to exhibit the characteristics of an amiable human being (“When he first came here, it wasn’t a good idea to speak to him unless you were spoken to, but lately, he’ll look right at you and say, ‘Hi,’ every now and then”), a woman with a face as sweet as a red velvet cupcake sidled up next to me. Her name was Suzan McClelland.
The 69-year-old McClelland had left her home in Prattville, Ala., that morning and made the two-hour drive to the stadium in Tuscaloosa with her husband, John (Field) McClelland, riding shotgun. It was a trip, she said, “very reminiscent of the many trips we’ve made together to attend games over the years” as longtime Alabama season-ticket holders. John was alive for those trips. As Suzan navigated her car through rural Alabama this time, however, only her recently deceased husband’s cremated remains, along with a photograph of him, rested in the passenger seat beside her.
Once she reached the city limits, Suzan met up with her brother, Ted, a Tuscaloosa resident, and the two had lunch at a restaurant Suzan described as being “very New York.” Suzan had the shrimp and grits.
After lunch, Ted and Suzan, now with her husband’s ashes lovingly tucked away inside one of her pants pockets, joined a few thousand of their fellow Alabama fans inside the stadium. With her brother by her side for emotional support, Suzan walked down from the stands and made her way to the stadium’s aforementioned brick partition, right next to yours truly. I then watched Suzan — clearly a bit frightened, but determined — reach into her pocket, pull out the plastic baggie holding John’s remains and empty its contents onto the field.
“Excuse me, but did you just pour someone’s ashes out onto the field?” I asked before Suzan and Ted could scurry away unnoticed.
“Yes, I did; it was my husband,” she replied nervously, her voice cracking slightly. “I was worried I’d get arrested doing this, but he loved Alabama football and wanted to have his ashes spread on the field here. I was worried I’d get arrested, but this was his dying wish, and I didn’t want him to haunt me for the rest of my life if I didn’t do it.”
After Suzan and her brother disappeared into the crowd, I found an online obituary for her husband on my phone. It read like the numerous other obituaries that run in newspapers across the country every day, with the exception of its final line, in capital letters, “Roll Tide!”