I Walk On Guilded Splinters
I don’t know if the last night in Louisiana was necessarily the time to introduce gator to my body, but as a final taste, it felt apt. As a reversal of fortune the next morning in the Louis Armstrong New Orleans Airport, it still felt apt, but much, much worse.
What happens when you throw four Fordham dudes, one guy who went to Western Illinois and then the only graduate of either of the two universities directly involved? A curious gumbo indeed. Here are snippets of a recent trip to Baton Rouge to see the University of South Carolina Gamecocks football team go against the Tigers of Louisiana State University. If you wanna know the rest, hey: buy the rights.
Special thanks to John, Fati, Tom[1], the oldest-not-older brother, Tom and Gavin for pulling and keeping this together.
Sat, Jan 25 at 2:56 PM
J: Just bought 4 tickets to South Carolina at lsu, sat oct 11…Figure this is the only way I’ll make it happen— committed.
This text is how it began in earnest. John had been turning over the idea in his head for months prior, maybe longer, and brought it up to me; because I’m susceptible to just being up for anything, by the time this text came through five days after the conclusion of last season’s college football playoff, I was in. That I’ve got a South Carolina grad in the family wasn’t going to hurt.
That his brother, also along for the ride, was a Leatherneck, nevermind the rest of us being Rams, didn’t especially matter. Those guys are from Chicago, and, whaddya know!, that’s where RKID lives now. In a year already destined for fraternity courtesy of the Gallaghers, we decided to throw another on top.
After contemplating taking the highest bid at check-in, I arrived at the airport after 4 pm for a 4:24 flight and, after getting through a thankfully short LaGuardia security line, checked my phone: 4:08. Above me, a digitized board mockingly suggested a 5-7 minute walk to gate 72, where my flight would be closing its doors post-haste. There is absolutely no reason I should’ve made this flight.
Nevertheless, after getting stuck behind what I thought was the final nail in the coffin in the form of a guy in a Bluetooth speaker with rolling luggage lodging himself in front and onto the only one of three escalators in LGA’s Terminal C that was descending at the time, I saw a guy in an LSU sweatshirt waiting at what was presumably my gate. Bless up to the entirety of a flight being in the final group. I even had time to fill up my water bottle.
Without looking at the GPS, you sense you’re getting closer to Baton Rouge the same way you do going into any town with a college of note. The billboards, mostly for insurance and law offices, begin to become Tiger-tinged before leaning all the way into purple and gold. Personal injury lawyers with face paint and a knockoff purple jersey, telling you to give them a ring because the below-standard machine you’re operating expectedly gave way, and now you’ve got a broken leg. That sort of thing.
Tiger Stadium is set off I-10 nearly three miles, but you can see the stadium clear as day from the Horace Wilkinson Bridge crossing the Mississippi. You get an especially good view of it, at length, when you’re traveling back across that bridge from Port Allen[2] in standstill traffic.
After it begins, that traffic, like any self-respecting college football traffic, doesn’t cease until one is nearly on Bermuda grass inside Tiger Stadium. The three of us who’d taken a rideshare from Port Allen back to Baton Rouge proper ended up decamping the car and walking the rest of the way once it became clear that would be most efficient. In the words of our driver: “Baton Rouge is crazy, y’all.”
Despite being in possession of a bucket hat[3], I nevertheless felt the familiar and urgent need to acquire sunscreen. One trip to CVS later, and soon I was folded over in front of the very first Raisin’ Canes location, trying to get as much coverage as possible.
A young man walking past me goes, “You ain’t got the oil for that.” Safe to say. Shortly after this, we ran into and congratulated Miss LSU, as it was the homecoming game, something John had brought up over the summer but that I’d completely forgotten about. We’d see her again, on the field at halftime.
When you hit the tailgate, you make sure to give alms to the host. That’s standard politesse, but it never hurts to have a reminder. They’re the ones giving you all the necessary provisions and then some. Southern charm only goes so far with me, but it’s nice to be nice, so try to be nice.
Walking around the LSU campus is a testament to state college glory. An amphitheater, a beach volleyball arena, an assembly center named after Pete Maravich let you know where you are. It’s a lovely and mostly flat sojourn from one place to another, or at least between the places that piqued our interest. One stood above would be found laying down, below the rest.
At the conclusion of our first tailgate appearance with mutuals, we received the most vital piece of information of the day: the location of Mike, the live Bengal tiger mascot that LSU keeps on campus, only a short walk from where we already were.
If you are unfamiliar with Mike, now in his seventh iteration (i.e., Mike VII), I implore you to read the “Facts about Mike” page[4] on LSU’s website[5]. A sampler:
- Mike the Tiger has a personal veterinarian named Dr. Rhett Stout.
- Mike the Tiger eats 10-15 pounds of large cat commercial zoo meat mixture daily. Yum.
- It is a violation of federal law to sedate Mike for exhibition purposes like football games.
Mike VII, for his part, seems pretty over the whole thing. Maybe he’s a “Wake me up for Bama” kind of guy, which, fair enough. He obliged to give us a yawn and a survey of fans and observers before putting his head down, rolling over and going back to sleep. Rest up for the game, big cat.
I don’t know how else to put this: Tiger Stadium is just so much stadium (I know, I know, tell me you’ve never been to DPRK without–). Its official capacity is somewhere north of 100,000 people, edging out the Camp Nou as the largest stadium I’ve ever inhabited[6]. Whatever measure of jaw-dropping and awe-inspiring you’ve got, this place fits the bill. When the lights go out, and the band starts playing, it feels safe, natural even, to forget what ails you.
Getting back to how much stadium it is: even after entering the gate closest to your seat, one trip to the bathroom or concessions can send you on a roundabout odyssey of ramps and pretzel stands.
To that point, the second time Patrick and I descended the walkway, I got over myself and started asking for help. Internal security’s uniform was a blue shirt and khaki shorts, and all of them kept sending us down hallways and around corners looking for other people in blue shirts and khaki shorts. Showing the people in blue shirts and khaki shorts our tickets, with the section and seat number, led to more people in blue shirts and khaki shorts. At one point, a guy in a blue shirt and khaki shorts straight up told us he had no idea where that section was and sent us to – you already know – another one. Does Tiger Stadium exist only to those who believe it’s there?
So, right, the game: One play after we finally reached our seats[7], with the Tigers already up a field goal, the high point of the game for South Carolina arrived when Gamecocks running back Matt Fuller slipped through the LSU front seven, broke a tackle and sprinted for a 72-yard touchdown. With the extra point, the Gamecocks took a 7-3 lead.
LSU, of course, immediately responded with a touchdown drive of their own, taking a 10-7 lead via the despicable endzone fade. The teams immediately traded interceptions – variance! – but a USC drive into Tigers territory[8] stalled out after an intentional grounding penalty.
Cue Deflated Cocky, something we all hate to see:
Even after the Gamecocks tied the game at 10 to start the second half, it felt like the stadium was revving its collective engine, that 100,000 people clad in the colors of royalty were going to will this team to yet another Saturday night win at home. Four plays into LSU’s drive, quarterback Garrett Nussmeier hit Jardin Gilbert on a cross. Gilbert proceeded to slip through the USC secondary, the hottest knife through the coldest butter, for a 43-yard touchdown, giving the Tigers a 17-10 lead they would not relinquish.
Mercifully, we left after a USC turnover on downs, missing the game-sealing field goal. After all, the walk to Baton Rouge’s Tigerland Avenue is nearly two miles from the labyrinthine stadium.
In Tigerland, the world is your jambalaya: you can definitely have incoherent conversations with the fake ID crowd while Boosie throbs, but you can also post up with dudes who haven’t left their barstools in four decades. We chose the path of least resistance, enjoying our comedown collectively in the outside deck area of the establishment containing the fewest people.
When we got back to New Orleans the next day, because we bookended a trip to LSU with a trip to New Orleans, we did the only thing we knew would match the leftover energy reserves: we went geaux-kart racing.
I cannot recommend this strategy highly enough. If there is a K1 track or equivalent thereof anywhere near your preferred big-time college athletics destination, hit it so that the remaining adrenaline dissipates. It’s more of a workout than you might expect.
The gator sausage, also a workout, you may leave in the swamp. Hmm, actually: I’m not sure if gators are in standard commercial zoo meat mix, but if so, I now know a guy. Geaux Mike the Tiger, especially.
[1] A longtime friend of the program. No rain this time, fortunately.
[2] Where, I just found out, the Louis Dreyfus Company – as in Julia – has a presence. Get. OUT!
[3] Shout out to the Lad Summer: we’ll always be madferit
[4] “Facts about Mike” > “FAQ about Mike” > “Fun facts about Mike.” Strictly the facts, Mike.
[5] Not on the website, but: four of seven Mikes the Tiger have overseen national championships. Mike the Tiger is also vaccinated against COVID-19.
[6] Slightly smoother walkway experience, as I recall.
[7] …early in the second quarter
[8] After an interception at the goal line, no less. Whew.
Tuesdays With Horry 