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.
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