Tailgating: The quintessential Iowa tradition
My head hurt, my mouth was dry, and the creep of darkness flooded my apartment bedroom.
After popping a handful of ibuprofen, I sat down on the couch and remembered the day — a morning of tailgating at infamous Melrose Court. It was Saturday night, and I thought to myself, “Was it worth it?”
Absolutely.
Tailgating: The autumn activity of lore that fuels school spirit and provides a logical basis for several seniors to stay at school another semester. Nothing is better than walking on the West Side of campus on a game-day morning, sounds of “get your big-ass turkey leg” permeating the eardrums.
Iowa is the Hawkeye State, bar none. And the sheer exhilaration of fans surrounding Kinnick Stadium on Saturdays is enough to put a smile on any face. From that first sip of tapped Keystone to the hazy, chant-infused walk to the stadium, nothing’s better. Iowa tailgating is an experience, nay, a lifestyle, which we can all attest to being a defining part of college life.
Tailgating, if anything, can be billed as a family affair. There’s something comforting about parents joining their children in bouts of binge drinking. When the gray-haired man who dispersed discipline for 20 years sinks the final cup in beer pong, it’s a type of strange bonding.
Mornings composed of kegs, grilling, and drinking games represent the overarching theme of tailgating. Yet, between the wee hours of the morning and kickoff, enough crazy things happen that it’s impossible to remember them without making a log.
Lucky for you, I did just that.
9 a.m. — Show up for tailgate. It’s a late game today, which means I can actually get a good night of sleep. On the walk to Melrose Court, several girls are seen walking home in bar clothes, less shoes. My friends and I aptly nickname them “the shame train.” Also seen: a man sitting in the grass smoking a cigarette, using two cases of Coors Light as arm rests.
10 a.m. — Two girls stand on a tree swing making out. Cheering ensues. I doubt the suffragists would be proud.
10:30 a.m. — A neighbor, notorious for taking pictures of public urination on her dividing fence and sending them to the cops, walks to the stereo system and turns off the music. Booing ensues. Girls make out again. More cheering.
11 a.m. until noon — Several party-goers make good use of the “tree bong,” a beer bong that snakes all the way up a giant tree, only accessible via ladder. It’s always a favorite for parents.
Noon — The line for the porta-potty bottlenecks, leading to more fence-peeing. Neighbor lady is not amused.
1:30 p.m. — A nonstudent walks around the tailgate with no shirt, covered in tattoos of crosses, biblical scripture, and the Star of David. Epitomizing the peaceful works of his spiritual diversity, he picks a fight with one of my roommates. Great, more male-on-male violence. Quickly, the bully is kicked out of the tailgate.
2 p.m. — Here’s where it gets interesting. Tat man notices my friend and me at a nearby gas station. He threatens to flatten my nose and I thank him, for I have a pretty large nose and it could use a good flattening. Apparently, I’m being a smart-ass, but that’s what I do best. Eventually, he walks away while muttering “Should I go to jail for this guy?”
2:30 p.m. — Because I have no ticket, I go home to watch the game. Promptly, I fall asleep and awake once the game is over. Whoops.
As I then sit down to record my thoughts for this article, I realize what tailgating is all about: Quite simply, it’s an anarchy-laden weekend when we can all forgo social mores, let loose, and enjoy the beautiful fall weather while sharing the commonality of our love for this great school.
And what’s better than that?
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