Born to Tailgate: 2008 Remix

Uga V with a new fan
In honor of the University of Georgia's home opener today—Go Dawgs!—I figured I'd repost an oldie but goodie.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

The irony was that my Atlanta friends found this re-posted (way back when) on several fan sites all over the country, so it is clear that good things (topics, not my writing), spread fast.

So, in light of the game tomorrow, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate
By: Colleen Snell

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready?

Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

It Still Makes Me Blush

I've been asked to further explain the story about Jimmy Connors that I mentioned in yesterday's post.

As a proud storyteller, I'll expound. And, I'll ridiculously embarrass myself in the process. Be patient, I have to start at the beginning. Heck, grab a soda.

It was the summer before my senior year in college. I was doing the "right thing" and getting a summer internship at an ad agency. During the interview for a boring account service position, the guy looked at my resume and said, "You have an awful lot of sports on your resume. Would you rather be doing that?" I looked around, and half-nodded, insecurely, and asked what he meant. He explained that they had a sports marketing division that needed some help.

Sign. Me. Up.

So, I go to work for this guy John. As his right hand gal. He's the VP of Sports Marketing, and I even got my own little office. Which was big, considering I was 21-years old and an intern. Two weeks into the job, he pulls me into his office and admits that he's leaving the agency.

Uhm, what? Couldn't have told me that three weeks ago before I sacked any chance I had at working in the agency's account service department?

He offers for me to come with him. In the ten-second pause, he then spits out, "I'll pay you three times whatever they're paying you."

Okaaaay.

Sign. Me. Up.

Off we go, into the Jerry McGuire-like situation that entailed a fancy schmancy office space in the King Plow Arts Center in Atlanta. We frantically furnish the place and get started.

We were scheduled to bring the Nuveen Tour of Champions to Atlanta. The tournament, held nationally now under another name, featured senior men's tennis stars like Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Bjorn Borg, and others, was coming to Atlanta and we were in charge of promoting, selling, and running the event. It was nothing short of a HUGE FREAKING DEAL and it was just me and John. I even flew to Pennsylvania to train on the Ticketmaster program. It was my first business trip, and John made me GO ALONE.

I survived, and the event week arrived.

The hardest part, physically, of the job included what I affectionately called "schlepping ice." This was code for all of the event operations that had to be done that week—driving a golf cart, wearing a walkie-talkie, holding a clipboard, and moving heavy stuff from one location to the other, telling people where to put things and where to hang signs and where to park your huge food van and where to NOT park your gigantic beverage truck. Oh, and moving ice from one tent to another in the blistering Georgia heat.

The event was fun, though not sold out, and Jimmy Connors won as he was expected to do. The Atlanta Athletic Club was a beautiful host site, and the weather cooperated. My favorite player was Mansour Bahrami, the Iranian entertainer on the court. His mustache alone was worth taking a photo with him. I did. I'd show it here, but my bad haircut makes it look like I have a mullet, and I can't bear that on top of what is to happen next.

Jimmy wins, and heads to the clubhouse to sit and relax. As the crowds leave, my operations cohort and I (there was another company on hand to help facilitate the event, aka "schlep ice" with me) go into the clubhouse to check on the players and see if there was anything they needed. Mostly, we wanted to mingle with them. On the job, of course.

I'm in front of my operations cohort (we'll call him Brad), and Brad holds the door open for me and I enter first. Masking my shyness (that I've since overcome), the 21-year old Colleen says, with a smile, "Can I get you guys some beer to celebrate?" before I notice that Jimmy is sitting with John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg, two of the other three most famous men's tennis players. Ever.

They all accept my beer offer, of course, and ask for me to bring it to them as they had their aching knees elevated. Brad and I exit the clubhouse, make our way in the pitch-black dark (now that the tennis stadium lights were off) in the parking lot to the beer truck. Brad hoists me up inside, and then climbs up after me. We don't have flashlights, and walkie-talkies don't do much in the way of illuminating the truck's inside. I fumble around for beer, find a case that still feels cold, and push it towards the truck door. Brad does the same with his case. We jump down, and schlep the cases towards the clubhouse.

Brace yourself. You're going to be embarrassed FOR ME.

I jimmy the door open with my foot, hold the door with my butt, swing the case around into the door frame, and walk in, leaving Brad to fend for himself. He makes it inside just in time to hear Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe bellow, "YOU BROUGHT US NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER?!?!"

I look down, and lo and behold, I'm holding a case of Sharp's beer. At that age, I didn't know MGD from PBR from Natty Light (I was a pretty lame drinker) and wasn't aware that the brand I found in the darkened truck was sold to pregnant ladies, old men who just "liked the taste" and others who didn't imbibe in the real thing anymore.

I blushed purple. Stammered a dorky explanation. Set the case on a nearby bar. Turned around, mumbling that I'd go find something else.

And, proceed to trip down the stairs leaving the clubhouse.

Yep. Insult—meet Injury.

I must admit, when I returned from the beer truck with a replacement ALCOHOL-FILLED case of beer, the guys were really nice, and made me feel marginally less stupid for the double whammy of embarrassing moments. And, signed a bunch of cool stuff for me.

And, asked me for my phone number at college because "we really would like to come to a UGA football game this fall." And, Jimmy Connors did actually call me and ask for tickets to the Georgia v. Tennessee game that fall. I hooked him up, and he didn't show. Sent me a basket of food and alcohol-filled wine to apologize for the no-show.

I saved his number on caller id the entire year.

Could Also Be Signs I'm Crazy?

In honor of tonight's NCAA Championship game, here are the Top 10 Reasons Why I Like College Sports:

10. You can root for your team whether they are any good or not. People expect it of you, and I hate to let people down.

9. You can go to a crowded bar, and instantly have new friends (to con a chair from) just because you're pulling for the same team. Works like a charm.

8. You can road trip to various campuses and use it as an excuse to tell your own college stories that begin with, "yeah, this is cool, but when I was in college, we..."

7. You can holler, hoot, swear, moan, laugh, scream, cry and yell—all within the span of 3 hours. Therapy can't even touch that kind of cathartic release.

6. You can wear a sweatshirt, ponytail and tennis shoes to a bar and not be underdressed or overlooked.

5. You can win money against your friends in sideline bets, such as how many dribbles each team will take down the court in said number of minutes. Or how many cheerleaders will have fake boobs. You decide.

4. You can make nice with the cute guy/hot girl/loser/jerk/boss in your office just by asking about how their team is doing in the tournament while at the water cooler.

3. You can officially be a fan of a grown man dressed in a sweaty furry animal suit, convulsing and doing the macarena on national television, without anyone raising an eyebrow.

2. You can automatically have plans on a boring Saturday without even trying..."come on, there's a game on!" works every time.

1. You can drink during the day without prompting someone to slip you an AA brochure. Enough said.

Go Jayhawks!*

*Not my alma mater, but I'm a team player. And, I know enough KU grads here in Chicago to watch what I say. Yes, that means you, Brenna.

What I Know Now?

I just got an email from the UGA Alumni Association asking for submissions to a "brochure" of sorts that they distribute to both incoming freshman and graduating students. It is intended to be a collection of advice from alumni, fellow Dawgs sharing the "if onlys" that ring in their ears now, that would have made their lives easier if they'd known them earlier.

Somehow I don't think my list would get published. But, damn, ain't they the truth.

If Only I Knew Then:

• That the beer taps at Georgia Theater have not been cleaned since the early century, and drinking draft beer there is a bad idea, unless you really like puking.
  
  
• That the classes that stress you out the most are likely the ones that are filling your head (albeit temporarily) with nonsense that will have absolutely no bearing on your real "adult" life. NO ONE has ever stood in the grocery store and thought, man, this recipe would have been much harder to shop for if I hadn't taken Advanced Physics.
  
  
• That being in the right sorority or fraternity isn't half as important as the group of friends you make while in college. Whether they were your sisters, your neighbors, your teammates or your classmates, the friendships you form while in school aid you through an amazing, challenging, interesting, crazy-fun time in your life.
  
  
• That under no uncertain circumstances should you graduate in 4 years with no summers spent on campus. It is just a cryin' shame to leave college that soon.
  
  
• That double vodkas WILL make you black out. Or throw up. No questions asked.
  
  
• That it would be worth giving up a football season or a spring on campus to study abroad. I still regret this, and wish someone had just put me on a plane with a map and a backpack. I'd have figured it out.
  
  
• That while the freedom from your parents will be exhilirating, at some point about halfway through college you realize that you miss them, and like being with them. Even if they're not handing you money. I think it is a hint at "adulthood," but I could be wrong. It may just be because your mom lets you bring home a huge bag of laundry, and always homecooks a meal for you.
  
  
• That no one, not even your first job interview, will give a rats ass about what your GPA was, or what you scored on your SATs. Not one person. What they ought to teach you is more "Office Life 101" or "Interviewing Skills 200." Those things would be much more educational and beneficial than high scores or fancy Latin titles after your name on graduation day.
  
  
• That there is nothing that can make Jim Beam taste good in the morning. No, not even fried chicken at a football tailgate. Nothing.
  
  
• That while staying up 'til 2 in the morning every night is fun, but you'll most likely catch up on your sleep in class (the pen may also leak through your notepad and you may drool) and professors will notice you more this way than if you just stayed in bed.
  
  
• That no matter how good at them you are, in the end, keg stands and beer bongs are meant for, and should be left to, boys. Period.
  
  
• That the four (five, six, seven?) years you spend in college is the easiest time in your life. You are still on your parents' health insurance, you don't have real responsibilities, you don't have to remember the drycleaning/doctor's appointments/credit card bills/mortgage payments/kids. You may not even have a job, because ultimately, school is your job. And that is the easiest job you'll ever have.
  
  
• That it is a powerful and useful life-long skill to master "flippy cup" and it is a good investment in your social future. Especially if you plan to move to the Midwest. Heck, throw in a few corn hole training sessions and you'll be a party hit for life.
  
  
• That just because he says he will call you if you do it, he won't, and you'll be sorry you did. And, everyone will know about it by the time you make it to your 10 am class.
  
  
• That there is absolutely no reason to wear giant Greek letters across your chest. I know, I know, they tell you it is in good spirit, and that you'll feel a sense of belonging, but really, it is an immature way to express yourself. Go buy a University sweatshirt and just enjoy being a part of something even bigger.
  
  
• That your body will likely never look as good as it does now, so stop obsessing, starving yourself and comparing your body to other girls—this is the time you should be celebrating your youthful looks and just get the heck over it.
  
  
• That under no uncertain circumstances should you EVER let your counselor talk you into taking a class that starts before 9 am. You'll regret it, you'll hate your counselor, and your grades (and your partying) will suffer.
  
  
• That even if you don't like football, there is something quite powerful about being one in a crowd of thousands all rooting for the same thing. I think they call it pride, and it gives me goosebumps even today. And, no, you don't have to let this pride make you crazy and paint your chest, do the wave, or run naked across the field. The word fan came from "fanatics" for a reason.
  
  
• That you shouldn't deny the fact that every day of the week has a great reason to socialize, and that you should be there. Maybe it is $1 burger Mondays, or $2 taco Tuesdays, or $.25 beer Thursdays, or live music Sundays, but there's always a good reason. And you should milk 'em before life comes at you and the hangovers hurt more and the deadlines are more real and your boss doesn't like you rolling in late. Just go.
  
  
• That it would be really hard to leave. I mean, crying as you close the door to your senior apartment hard. Literally sobbing as you drive down the street and pull onto the highway difficult. Seeping sadness all the way down the (short, 60 mile) road to "home," which, quite frankly, just feels different.
  

I may try to submit a few of these. I wish someone had done it for me.

Born to Tailgate

In light of the Bowl Championship Series national title game tomorrow, I have been watching, and talking about, college football a lot lately.

That's just fine by me.

I also have been asked to recount the stories from my college tailgating days. Which brings me to this post.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

So, in light of the big game tomorrow, where my beloved SEC will take on, again, the Big Ten's Ohio State, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready? Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.