SI Story on Ole Miss Tailgate Atmosphere at The Grove
Posted: Mon Sep 27, 2004 6:14 pmBy Adam Duerson
Hotty Toddy, gosh almighty
Who in the hell are we -- Hey
Flim Flam, Bim Bam
Ole Miss, by Damn!
Todd's a hottie with the what-now? And who's Bim Bam? "That's our fight song. Don't you like it?" I'm not sure. Strike one.
"You don't look like you work at SPORTS ILLUSTRATED. Don't you folks dress up?" For a tailgate? Not really. Strike two.
"You can't just go drinking that in the open." My bad. "You have to hide it -- like this." Cue indiscreet concealing of beer in blue plastic cup. "Much better."
And with that I, who couldn't have been more of an outsider if I had arrived sporting Winnie the Pooh pajamas, should have been expelled to the bayou from which I emerged before stumbling upon this fantasy world.
There are rules here at Ole Miss's Grove. And ways of communicating that I couldn't comprehend. (How does one conjugate "Y'all"?) Of course, I'd been set up. Driving east on State Highway 6 -- past the Cheepo Deepo [sic], a field of bathtubs, Waffle Houses -- one doesn't expect, well, much of anything.
But in Oxford lies, as promised, the most magical place on all of God's green, football-playing Earth: the Grove. A school of red and white and blue tents swimming in a shaded 10-acre forest of oak trees, floating in an ocean of good will and even better manners.
I didn't know the rules at the Grove, rules like: "Don't bother showing up before 4 a.m." Sure, space is at a premium, but for a 6 p.m. game against Memphis? Who would? Apparently everyone, when you consider the masses who actually do arrive promptly at four.
Another rule: "The Grove closes at midnight," though it's often violated. Because of the old Bible Belt standard (no liquor sales on Sundays), it's the only place fans -- and players -- can get their post-postgame swill.
My most egregious rules violation: Dress as if you're attending a baptism. Ironic then that I, the most underdressed of the bunch, was the one being baptized. Holy water would have spit me back up, but they don't drink holy water in Mississippi. They drink bourbon.
Yes, they drink bourbon and eat boiled peanuts and finger sandwiches from sterling-silver platters and serving dishes arranged by caterers and frantic moms on elaborate tabletops. They partake in front of flat-screen TVs with DirecTV, underneath chandeliers and amongst intricate candelabras and ornate flower arrangements. And when football calls, they pay people like Andre, at the Rebel Rousers tent, to stand guard.
The Ole Miss-isms keep coming. When nature calls, they don't "whiz," they "potty" -- at the Hotty Toddy Potty, or its companion, the Hotty Toddy Potty Too. And players don't just walk to the game. They walk like "champions." Read: in their best shirts and ties. Like adults.
Because that's what the Grove really is: a place for adults. A secret place run, governed and funded by grown-ups. Sure, the students drink their booze and scarf their food. But they also lug the tents in at 4 a.m. (often for $100 or more). It's as if the Ole Miss'ians have swindled their Li'l Miss'ians into attending only so they themselves have an excuse to come back.
Hotty Toddy, gosh almighty
Who in the hell are we -- Hey
Flim Flam, Bim Bam
Ole Miss, by Damn!
Todd's a hottie with the what-now? And who's Bim Bam? "That's our fight song. Don't you like it?" I'm not sure. Strike one.
"You don't look like you work at SPORTS ILLUSTRATED. Don't you folks dress up?" For a tailgate? Not really. Strike two.
"You can't just go drinking that in the open." My bad. "You have to hide it -- like this." Cue indiscreet concealing of beer in blue plastic cup. "Much better."
And with that I, who couldn't have been more of an outsider if I had arrived sporting Winnie the Pooh pajamas, should have been expelled to the bayou from which I emerged before stumbling upon this fantasy world.
There are rules here at Ole Miss's Grove. And ways of communicating that I couldn't comprehend. (How does one conjugate "Y'all"?) Of course, I'd been set up. Driving east on State Highway 6 -- past the Cheepo Deepo [sic], a field of bathtubs, Waffle Houses -- one doesn't expect, well, much of anything.
But in Oxford lies, as promised, the most magical place on all of God's green, football-playing Earth: the Grove. A school of red and white and blue tents swimming in a shaded 10-acre forest of oak trees, floating in an ocean of good will and even better manners.
I didn't know the rules at the Grove, rules like: "Don't bother showing up before 4 a.m." Sure, space is at a premium, but for a 6 p.m. game against Memphis? Who would? Apparently everyone, when you consider the masses who actually do arrive promptly at four.
Another rule: "The Grove closes at midnight," though it's often violated. Because of the old Bible Belt standard (no liquor sales on Sundays), it's the only place fans -- and players -- can get their post-postgame swill.
My most egregious rules violation: Dress as if you're attending a baptism. Ironic then that I, the most underdressed of the bunch, was the one being baptized. Holy water would have spit me back up, but they don't drink holy water in Mississippi. They drink bourbon.
Yes, they drink bourbon and eat boiled peanuts and finger sandwiches from sterling-silver platters and serving dishes arranged by caterers and frantic moms on elaborate tabletops. They partake in front of flat-screen TVs with DirecTV, underneath chandeliers and amongst intricate candelabras and ornate flower arrangements. And when football calls, they pay people like Andre, at the Rebel Rousers tent, to stand guard.
The Ole Miss-isms keep coming. When nature calls, they don't "whiz," they "potty" -- at the Hotty Toddy Potty, or its companion, the Hotty Toddy Potty Too. And players don't just walk to the game. They walk like "champions." Read: in their best shirts and ties. Like adults.
Because that's what the Grove really is: a place for adults. A secret place run, governed and funded by grown-ups. Sure, the students drink their booze and scarf their food. But they also lug the tents in at 4 a.m. (often for $100 or more). It's as if the Ole Miss'ians have swindled their Li'l Miss'ians into attending only so they themselves have an excuse to come back.