Everything But Poker

About a month ago my dad got a call from Birmingham asking if he was busy the first weekend of 2010. It was his buddy from high school on the other end – a stout, affable old guy with deep ties to the University of Alabama and its treasured football program. The two caught up while I sat next to my pops, overhearing all the useful tidbits: extra ticket…National Championship game….boosters…party all night. After he hung up, my dad glanced knowingly at me, went ahead with the formality of asking if I wanted to go, then turned ghostly pale – he wasn’t even going to be in LA that night.

And so it was that I arrived at the Rose Bowl yesterday afternoon just after 1 pm. by myself, a lifelong UCLA fan and University of Richmond graduate playing the part of Alabama diehard for the day. I was told the meet the Tide crew in Lot K, the destination for the army of Texas- and Bama-filled tour buses transporting all the faithful from their hotels to the game. Everyone else had been there since nine, but by my arrival they remained surprisingly sober – my recollections of college football tailgates involved a lot more bourbon, beer pong and debauchery. Despite overwhelming confidence among the Crimson faithful in a Tide victory, there seemed to be a prevailing illusion that sobriety, focus and attention by the fans would ultimately be the deciding factor in bringing a national championship to Tuscaloosa. A lot of that, I think, has to do with the unmistakable gravity of the national championship game. More so than the Super Bowl, World Series or even Final Four, the BCS title game is such a delicate experience: Sustained success in college football is the hardest of all major sports to begin with and even regular season perfection will not guarantee an invitation to the championship game, just ask Auburn.

An hour before kickoff I fought my way through the Crimson and Orange parking lot to the ESPN tailgate section with some of the recent grads in the group. We passed by Bevo, the Longhorns’ mascot, and arrived at the gate in front of a “$25 Entry Fee” sign (Leave it ESPN to gorge the fans as much as they can). Luckily for me, everyone else had already been in and gotten a ticket stamp, so we pulled the old “Under 21 ID Passback” trick. It never worked at a bar, but the Worldwide Leader could not stop us.



We only wanted to stay for one beer, but the line was completely stagnant for twenty minutes, so we all headed into the stadium. The gate we walked in was in the heart of the Texas section, so we grabbed a beer and took in some people watching before the game started. I hadn’t really considered the juxtaposition of 100,000 Texans and Alabamans in Southern California before the game, and I was floored walking through those gates. LA doesn’t get too many Croakies, side parts or checker pattern Oxfords tucked into khakis – when that’s all you can see, there is a chance you will forget where you are. Despite my training at college in Virginia, the onslaught of standard Saturday Southern sportswear caught me by total surprise.

In the line for the bathroom, my red shirt felt more like a bulls eye in the middle of all that orange. To my surprise, though, nobody was taunting me, heckling me or even looking at me suspiciously. In fact, the dozens of male Longhorn fans around me looked to have only one thing on their minds: urinating. It was a strange atmosphere that, at the time, I could not explain until someone behind me in line shouted out to the entire bathroom: “It’s awfully quiet in here!” I expected an immediate uproar – it being 20 minutes to kickoff at this point – but the response was limited to three or four guys mumbling the words to UT’s famous cheer “Texas Fight.” The original caller's response: “That’s what I was worried about.”

The inevitability of the game’s outcome was palpable at every moment of the night. When paratroopers landed on the field with Bama and Texas flags on their backs, the cheers from one side of the stadium sounded more like desperate cries of support, while the other revealed subdued confidence and pride. The throngs of well-traveled families that surrounded me during the game did not have the looks of hope, but of determination: Alabama had a job to do here and they knew it would be done.



Of course, just a few plays into the game, those sentiments were only exacerbated when Texas quarterback Colt McCoy left the game with an apparent shoulder injury. Nick Saban’s failed fake punt (which I thought was completely acceptable to run on the first series of a game that you know you should win anyway) was no longer a concern and neither was Texas’ fluke onside kick recovery. From that moment on, the game was over and everyone knew it.

A 24-6 halftime lead disappeared after Alabama went scoreless in the third quarter and Texas freshman quarterback Garrett Gilbert realized all he had to do was throw it toward Jordan Shipley and good thing would happen. But despite the comeback, Bama fans were sure that the Longhorns would not drive 93 yards to win the game, a hunch that came true when Eryk Anders sacked Gilbert and forced a fumble that the Crimson Tide soon turned into a Mark Ingram touchdown. Was the game-sealing touchdown met with the same tempered enthusiasm? You tell me.



In the end, I, like everyone else, wish Colt McCoy hadn’t gotten injured because there will forever be doubts about this game’s outcome had Texas’ star QB played the entire game. But I will not soon forget spending the day with the Alabama faithful – it was like hanging with Democrats on Election Day 2008. Everyone knew the Tide would Roll, and when it did, the state thanked those players with much drink and revelry.

One last comment: Flea’s rendition of the Star Spangled Banner last night was one of the coolest and most spine-tingling interpretations I have ever heard. The baseline intro, powerful vocals and historic drum accompaniment were incredible. I will always love a Star Spangled Banner done right.

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