The Anatomy of a Buckeye
On Saturdays, We Wear Scarlet and Gray
I woke up around 8:30 still in a stupor from the previous night’s indulgences. My lips were glued shut from the lack of moisture, stuck together like a sweaty thigh on a leather metro seat. My breath tasted of menthol cigarettes and stale light beer. My eyes were still pulsating from the dizzying array of strobe lights that lurk above the dance floor of Bullwinkle’s. There was a half-eaten McChicken still in the wrapper on the night stand. My head crushed under the weight of an invisible elephant. Kickoff was in 7 hours. I felt great.
I hadn’t been back on campus for a game since I graduated a little over two and a half years ago. Ohio State Football had a sort of gravitational affect on alumni, sucking them back to Columbus every fall like a dying star collapsing on one’s self. The last time I trekked up those metal bleachers that line the inside of the stadium they call “The Shoe”, I had just witnessed the Buckeyes beat the living piss out of that team from up North, the Michigan Wolverines. Today, the Buckeyes had a much less daunting opponent. The Akron Zips, my hometown team. UA is a particularly useless institution, sucking in both athletics and academics, but I have soft spot for the Zippy the Kangaroo (their weird mascot). There’s really no reason to hate on such an innocent fanbase such as the Zippies, but today was my day to revert back to college football toxicity, where random civilians wearing the opposite colors turn into sworn enemies, at least until the 4th quarter clock strikes 0:00. My friend Jimmy, who was kind enough to let me crash in his guest bedroom for the weekend, knocked on my door and told me to get up, was time to start drinking. I nodded in agreement, grabbed a warm Natural Light from the box that was sitting in the living room, and headed for the shower.
“Scotty (Jimmy’s younger brother) said we could stop by Delt (Scotty’s frat) around 10 if we wanted. He said they’ve been going since 7 but don’t expect any real crowds to show until 11 since its a 3:30 game.” Jimmy laid out the plans for the day as I put on my scarlet Ohio State polo and acid-washed homemade jean shorts. I didn’t give a fuck what we did. I just wanted to party.
“Yeah that sounds good. I say we hang there for an hour or two, delete some pilsners, head over to Out-R-Inn around 1ish to meet up with the rest of the crew that’s in town, delete a few more pilsners and maybe a few shots, and then start walking over to the Shoe around 3.”
“Yeah man that works. But first we need some gruuuuubbbbb.” I don’t know why he always ended sentences like that, emphasizing the last word. It cracked me up. Jimmy is one of my best friends and former roommates from college.
“Yeah, I’m down. You wanna hit Buckeye Donuts for old time’s sakes? I don’t think I ever actually went there for breakfast when we were in school. It feels like a tourist trap.”
“Nah, let’s just hit Dunkin for a quick breakfast sando and an iced coffee. Need to inject some caffeine straight into my veins.”
“Yeah same. Speaking of caffeine, I brought a couple of guys (Adderall) for us. A little pick me up. Extended release. Bought it off my cousin.”
“Nice. I will be taking my medication with breakfast for sure. Aight I’m gonna go get dressed and crack a Natty.”
“Sounds good brother. I’ll be here rotting on the couch and blasting some music.”
I queued up ‘Grove St. Party’ by Waka Flocka Flame and blasted it through the airspace of Jimmy’s two bedroom apartment situated Norwich Street, just north of campus. Dunkin is on the corner High Street and Woodruff, which is on the way the Delt house, Jimmy’s brother Scotty’s frat which is on East 15th.
The gameday breakfast options on campus were sparse. Of course you could do your classic kegs and eggs in the comfort of your own home, but if you wanted to grab something quick and on the go like us, the choices are limited. In fact, based on the average person’s level of inebriation before kickoff, I’m under the assumption that the majority of fans are skipping the most important meal of the day in its entirety. People get sloppy drunk. People get suck a hard cock in the alley behind Starbucks drunk. People get stomach pumped drunk. It’s disgusting and beautiful.
After chugging a few beers at the house and popping a stimulant, we started our trek to Dunkin Donuts and then to the United Dairy Farmers (UDF, a popular convenience store in Ohio) to pick up a few cases of beer (we couldn’t show up empty handed to the frat, even if we were family, because we don’t have a pair of double D tits and an ass that could crack a walnut). It was a glorious fall day for football - high 60s, sunshine, a light breeze, and a sea of scarlet and gray already lining the sidewalks of High Street ready to embrace the day. On gameday, you had a couple of options. You could stay at your place and order food and drink. Or you could go to the bars before the game and drink. Or you could go to “Block”, a slangy term for gameday frat parties, and you guessed it, drink. Even if you go to the library and study on gameday, there’s Jack Daniels in your coffee. Don’t fool yourself. There’s no getting out of this one. Now chug bitch!
It was 10:15 by the time we had wolfed down our shitty bacon egg and cheese croissants and XXL iced coffee and hit the liquor store. Jimmy said Delt would have Gold 4 Lokos and jungle juice, which was spiked with Ecstasy, but we should bring some beer ourselves. The dopey older guy with greasy long hair and a crippling nicotine addiction who worked the counter when I was in school was still captaining the ship. We were in a bit of a rush so there was no time for niceties and reintroductions. We grabbed a couple of bricks of Busch Light, and I grabbed a pack of American Spirit blues for good measure, as well as a green lighter. Never buy a white lighter. Bad luck. I don’t smoke, but on gamedays, I am a chimney. My lungs are a tobacco processing facility. And I like to keep one in my ear to scam people into giving me their disposable cash for a cigarette. Drunk people will do disgraceful acts for a cigarette.
I wasn’t drunk yet, having only had 3 Natural Lights and a shot of tequila back at the house, but the sun hadn’t even hit the highest point in the sky yet, and some people on the street were trashed. A couple of drunk dads and their poor wives walked by us in the opposite direction and did the classic “O-H!” chant. Of course the respectful thing to do in this scenario is to respond with an equally as enthusiastic “I-O!”, completing the spelling of our humble state. Get it? Its fucking hilarious right! I remember my first beer! There isn’t an ounce of school spirit left in my Jose Cuervo-soaked bones. But I know that for the majority of the 250,000+ people who would make the pilgrimage to the Columbus today for gameday shenanigans, this was their day. Columbus is affectionately nicknamed “Mecca” by some folks from the surrounding area, and in a way, the city does turn into a holy pilgrimage site when the Buckeyes play. Baseball might be America’s pasttime, but (American) football is its religion. The United States is a theocracy, and gameday is Christmas. Thousands of followers leave behind their shitty jobs and middling lives every Saturday, looking for an excuse to party and forget about the finality of life for a day. When the Buckeyes win, which is often, they party. When they lose, they party harder. There is but one guarantee in life, and that is a party.
After about a mile of walking and lugging a couple cases of beer, we finally reached Greek Row, aka East 15th. The Delt house was a monumental brick mansion with 4 white ionic columns lining the front. You could hear trap music and shitty EDM from pretty much every single frat house on the street, but Delt’s was just a bit louder and a bit shittier than the rest. There were a handful of members running security in the front, but Scotty texted Jimmy and told us we could slip in through the side door with no issue. Thank God I don’t have to dress in drag today. After exchanging pleasantries, we weaved through the kitchen and living room to the fenced-in back yard, where the party had already commenced. It looked a light crowd for now, with maybe 120 people or so bobbing their heads to The Chainsmokers song “Closer”. There was a DJ booth set up in the corner with a handful of massive Bose speakers, and some lanky kid with a flop over hair cut and Aviators was jockeying the controls from a MacBook Pro. Most of the guys were wearing red Ohio State polos or jerseys with khaki chino shorts; most of the girls donned red crop tops and jean shorts with white Chuck Taylors. The gameday uniform was elegant yet simple; wear something red, and wear something comfortable. This ain’t no ballroom dance or Met Gala. Blue tarps ziptied together lined the perimeter of the back yard fence to keep the cops and other unwanted visitors out. Not like the cops didn’t turn a blind eye to Block shenanigans anyway. They like football too. Jimmy and I posted up near the back of the moshpit where it was less crowded and you could at least hear the thought of yourself thinking logically. We agreed that upon arrival, we would shotgun a beer to get the party started. I whipped out my trusty apartment key, and Jimmy brandished a pocket knife, and we poked a hole in the bottom of the can, cheers-ed, and let er rip. Then I cracked another one to sip on while enjoying DJ Fuck Boi’s track listing, mostly consisting of 2000s rap and remixed top 50 pop songs. A bit later, a few former acquaintances recognized us, and after shooting the shit about nothing in particular, we decided to shotgun another one. They headed out shortly after finishing the chug, and I finished my sipper and cracked another one. DJ Fuck Boi started cranking up the energy with some more aggressive beat drops and sing-alongs. Scotty popped up out of nowhere with a Twisted Tea bag, and of course I had to slap it (slapping the bag; verb: to chug directly from the plastic spigget of a bag of boxed wine, for example, while another party holds the bag above the chugger’s head to ensure proper liquid flow). At this point, the Adderall was enhancing my experience, and setting me back about 5 to 10 drinks. I’m not a regular user anymore, so its side effects are more euphoric rather than cumbersome for me (and for Jimmy). Cocaine is nice too, but my days of skiing are over. The problem with cocaine is its just too expensive, and no one in Central Ohio has the hookup for the good stuff. Drug use is rampant on campus, as it always has been, but your mileage varies. You might get some yak that’s cut with muscle relaxer that makes you think you’re stroking out. You might get baking powder and turn into a cake. You might even get fentanyl and end up in a Wexner Medical Center ICU bed or a 6 foot hole. Combining Adderall with enough alcohol and nicotine gets you about 80% of the way there to the euphoria you would experience with a line off the coffee table that will last you 20 minutes, maybe 30 if you’re lucky. In my old age of 25, I had retired from the hard drugs and moved on to something lighter on the internal organs.
At this point I had approximately 100 ounces of liquid in my bladder and needed to piss like a cheap racehorse. Instead of navigating the broken toilets of frat bathrooms or finding an unoccupied sink, I chose to slip back through the house and out the side door to walk around back to the alley behind the houses to relieve myself. Mid stream, I heard a voice behind me say “you’re under arrest sir, for having a tiny dick.” It was a recognizable female voice. One I could pick out of a crowd of one hundred thousand shrilling sorority girls.
“But what if I’m more of a grower and not a shower?” I jested back.
“That’s not a real thing.” It was Serena. Serena Ricci from Delta Gamma. A good friend of Gracie Lewis, a girl I used to date fool around with junior and senior year. Gracie was attractive, but boy was I fond of Serena. Jet black hair, blue eyes, almost as tall as me, more curves than a trigonometry class. I zipped up and turned around to see her wearing an old Ohio State jersey, probably borrowed from her younger brother, which she had turned into a crop top, along side acid wash short shorts, white Nike crew socks, and white Adidas sneakers.
“You got me. Guilty as charge. So what the fuck are you doing here?”, I said, as I leaned in for a hug. I reeked of alcohol and recklessness. She smelled like Coco Chanel and mimosas.
“Figured I stop by Delt and give my younger brother a hard time for still being in school before I head to the game. You remember Joey right?”
“Yeah of course. I think I saw him in there. I’m with Jimmy this weekend. We were visiting his younger brother Scotty before going to the game - wait a minute, you’re going to the game? I thought you hated football?” I remember the countless times in college Serena complained about football being “a big dumb sweaty game”. She was right.
“Yeah but I miss Block. And plus my parents are here. They’re going to Skull Session. I’m supposed to meet them at Varsity Club for a drink before we head over to the stadium.”
I chuckled. “Of course they’re going to Skull Session. If my parents were here I’m sure they would be going to Skull Session too. I’m glad there’s something for everyone on gameday, even the Boomers.”
Skull Session is a classic Ohio State tradition. A few hours before kickoff, the marching band, nicknamed “The Best Damn Band in the Land”, files into St. John’s Arena, a multi-use indoor stadium next door to The Shoe, for one last dress rehearsal of the day’s performance before doing it for real. Skull Session is open to the public and is a great way to get a sneak preview of the atmosphere of Ohio Stadium a few hours prior to kick (if you’re in AARP). Not only does the band play its entire set, but the coaches and players also make a short appearance to hype up the crowd. As cheesy as it is, Skull Session is an important school-defining ritual that makes gameday special (if you watch the Price is Right). I have never once been to Skull Session, and probably never will (until I’m eating dinner at 4pm at Bob Evans). But I respect it.
She chuckled back. “Yeah you know how my dad is. The world’s biggest Buckeye fan. I’m just here for the vibes.”
“Me too homie. Me too. You wanna get back in there? I’m sure Joey will be embarrassed, I mean excited, to see his big sister on campus again. I heard he’s got a bag of Twisted Tea with your name on it waiting to be slapped.”
“Oh God, I can’t do that anymore. Last time I had Twisted Tea I ended up with puke in my hair and a broken cell phone.”
“You have to face your fears Serena. I already did. I had a Gold Four Loko. You know the last time I had a Gold Four Loko? Sophomore year, when my friends and I did sidewalk slammers. I ended up fighting a bush and puking in front of the bouncer at Midway.”
“Oh yikes. Well I’ve already had a few Mimosas today so I should probably quit the sugary drinks and move on to some seltzers.”
“Good idea.”
So Serena and I walked back around the side of the house and through the first floor of the brick mansion, which was starting to fill up with partygoers spilling over from the backyard, which was almost completely nut-to-butt from front to back now. I looked down at my phone and checked the time. 11:37. My body thinks I’ve been awake for 72 hours. Kick isn’t even for another 4 hours. I’m plastered. Hobberknocked. Pissed. A tad legless. The only thing preventing me from teetering over like a tower is the Adderall. It’s keeping me sharp enough to have witty banter with attractive females and outrun a chubby cop if the need presented itself. Maybe I should sober up a bit with a few more casual beers. I knew what storm was coming in the near future. Jimmy and I were supposed to meet up with some other college friends at the infamous dive bar Out-R-Inn around 1. I know how that crew rolls. The tequila shots will spawn in our hands before the bouncer even finishes checking our IDs. The thing about going to the game is if you’re going, you need to go. You need to liquor yourself up properly because booze is few and far between once you enter the threshold of the stadium. Yeah, it’s $8 for a 24 ounce can, which isn’t even that expensive when you break it down, but you’re only allowed to buy 2 at a time, and they cut off all alcohol sales after the 3rd quarter. In my younger days, I or Jimmy would’ve smuggled a flask full of whiskey in our crotches. But I don’t feel like getting arrested today. If I can just coast from now until 1pm, I’ll be able to face whatever liquor onslaught awaits me just a few blocks North.
In the hour and a half before Jimmy and I were supposed to leave, I tried my best to lay the groundwork with Serena. Gracie was long gone, living her best corporate consultant life out in San Francisco, so she wouldn’t mind. Polygamy was almost encouraged in Greek social circles. I was no frat bro myself, but I often found myself in acquaintance with certain members of sororities. Man did I love a date party. Let me put on a suit, get me proper drunk, ship me off to some shitty nightclub downtown in a school bus, and watch me tear off a navy blue cocktail dress in room 301c later that night. We were both single. I couldn’t help myself but make a comment about her asshole ex Brad. I’m not not saying he’s an asshole because he was with Serena. No one ever liked Brad. He referred to himself in 3rd person and unironically wore Vineyard Vine. I in particular appreciated hearing about his fiery crash out of his entry level investment banking job a few months after graduation. She had finally dumped him after 3 years of on again, off again dating throughout undergrad. But that’s enough about Brad. That’s enough about gossip too. I’m a man on multiple missions today. Jimmy knows it. He saw me yakking it up and gave me a wry smile. I’m sure he will pull me aside later today and pep talk me. Jimmy has always been the guy who you love if he’s on your team and hate if he’s on the opposing team. He was a true friend and I was so happy to be causing trouble with him again in the 614.
I managed to limit myself to 4 beers in about an hour and a half, including just one shotgun, and when the clock struck 1:01pm, we said our goodbyes and headed towards Out-R-Inn on Frambes. Our friends had been there for a good hour or so and they said it was hopping. Out-R-Inn is always hopping. If you looked up the definition of “college bar” in the dictionary, you would see a picture of the humble red brick abode situated in the heart of campus. There are plenty of watering holes scattered up and down High Street and elsewhere, but Out-R-Inn is the only place you go to hang out. I mean hang out. Cheap beer and well drinks. Pool tables and darts. Patios and classic rock. Neon Budweiser songs and bartenders who recognize your sloppy drunk face. Buckets for ashtrays and a piss trough in the men’s bathroom. My parents’ house smelled like home, but Out-R-Inn smelled like home.
Out-R-Inn was known for $2 wells on Thursdays and “Mug Nights” on Sundays, where you could brandish a branded pint-sized plastic mug for the barkeep to fill up for $3 a pop. But there is nothing Out-R-Inn is known for more than Ohio State gamedays. Funny enough, I had never even been here on a gameday during my tenure. I was more interested in drinking myself into a coma in a random front lawn with horseback cops staring back concerningly. But as an alumni now, I finally got it. I finally saw the light as Jimmy and I approached the front steps. The line to enter was snaked all the way around the block, but the sea of red was moving fast, as bouncers shuffled patrons in and out with surprising tact. We waited about 10 minutes before finally entering the fray. Our friends were out back on the patio, so we decided to hit the bar first, which was situated immediately to the left when you enter through the front. To the right was an open room with a pool table in the center. Back past the bar was a larger room with two more pool tables. Beyond the room was a large outdoor patio picnic tables, a plethora of TVs, and an auxiliary bar in the back right corner. There was also a second floor with dart boards and the most disgusting bathrooms you will ever witness, looking like something out of a Saw movie. Jimmy and I grabbed our $2 PBRs and made our way through the sea of red jerseys and shirts. There were a few flashes of blue and gold, the color of the Zips, who I had completely forgotten about at this point. A couple of them were pushing their way through the crowd in the opposite direction as us, and of course they were getting heckled, with the majority of the mass of people hitting peak drunkness. “What even is a Zip? Is it another word for faggot! Fuck you! Go Bucks!” and the like echoed through the bar, drowned out by the loud rock music blaring from blown out speakers perched in the corner.
The thing about Ohio State fans is…. well the majority of them aren’t even alumni. Ohio State has a massive alumni network, and and even larger fanbase. Its one of those fanbases that stretches the fabric of belief. How could so many people be interested in a single college team, who weren’t even professionals? The answer is multidimensional and best saved for another essay, but in short, the reason is simple: population and history. Ohio State football has been always good, since before the Jurassic Era, and Columbus is a football town. There’s no professional team here, so people naturally gravitate to the next best thing. Winning is fun, and Ohio State wins. And there’s a market to support it. Plain and simple.
But back to the fanbase. Many of them are not alumni and simply live in the region. Many are alumni and still live in the region. And many are alumni and don’t live in the region, but make the trip back at least once per year (my hand is raised) for a game. That market is what fuels the madness witnessed in Columbus every Saturday in the fall. College educated or not, arduous fandom (and alcohol) brings out a certain toxicity in humans that is only witnessed on gameday. Hillbillies from rural Morrow County and yuppies from Franklin County alike band together to heckle and berate opposing fanbases into humiliation. And let me tell you, opposing fanbases hate it. They hate us. And I don’t blame them. We’re boastful winners and sore losers. It’s one aspect of many of what makes college football so special. Aggression is bound to spill over. There will be fights and skirmishes today. Maybe not as many as there would be on a day when the Buckeyes were facing one of their bitter rivals such as Penn State or Michigan, but nonetheless, when the liquor is flowing, the fists are throwing.
My clock read 1:31pm by the time we reached our friends visiting from out of town. There was Dean and his girlfriend Tammy, there was another one of my former roommates Jacob, who brought his two friends Lacey and Erika, and there was a friend of a friend Jackson, who was with his parents and younger brother. As I suspected, there were a couple of well tequila shots waiting for Jimmy and I as we arrived. After some hugging and kissing, we put down the gasoline and it ignited a fire in my stomach. I wasn’t cut out for this anymore. In two years since walking across the stage, I had lost my edge. It is a sad progression of man, but an inevitable progression and one necessary for holding in check the degeneration of society.
We had about an hour and a half or so to kill before we needed to leave to make the slow venture west towards Ohio Stadium, which lied on the banks of the Olentangy. The next hour and a half I would spend chain smoking about half a dozen of those cigs I purchased earlier on the patio. I also handed a couple away, including one to an Akron fan who looked like he needed one before what was going to be a long afternoon for him. Ohio State was favored to win by 49 points! 49! This was going to be like the Kansas City Chiefs playing a middle school team. There was going to be carnage. Ohio State and other large football programs such as Alabama, Clemson, and the like would often pay smaller schools a couple of million dollars to come play them early in the season as a sort of tune up game before the real competition started later in the season. This was a mutually beneficial relationship for both - the powerhouses got essentially an extra practice week against a weak opponent and an easy win, and the smaller school pockets an extra few million in cash that their football program would never bring in on its own. College football is perhaps the freest market in the world, with labor costs essentially being zero and barrier to competition being nonexistent. Teams like Ohio State were fun to root for because they were ALWAYS good. If Ohio State went 10-2 and missed out on a chance to play for a national championship game, the fans would be up in arms, calling for the head coach’s head on a stake. Most teams would dream about going 10-2, but greatness was the minimum expectation around these parts.
As I smoked a couple of darts and continued to shovel more beer, liquor, and nicotine into my system while chatting with old friends, I thought about Serena. I had already planned on texting her after the game to see if she wanted to go out. Jimmy had been talking me up to it the entire walk over to Out-R-Inn. Me and him used to go to a lot of the same date parties in college. He was a player’s player. A true craftsman and practicer of gamesmanship. Jimmy was a Bull Shark, and he smelled blood in the estuaries of campus. I told him I would do it. Why the fuck not. What’s the worst that happens?
One consequence of Ohio State’s utter dominance is rarely does one need to stay the entire length of the game to get the full entertainment value. Often Ohio State will have put the game out of reach by the end of the first half, burying their opponents to a point of no return and allowing the backups to enter the game in the second half to preserve the energy of the starters for future weeks. If all went well today, the Buckeyes would be up by about 30 at half, and we could watch the band perform (which I will admit is always worth sticking around for) and get the fuck out of there by about 5, leaving us with ample time to refuel and recoup some alcohol tolerance before commencing with evening activities. Its almost sad that I was penciling in a blowout as we trudged across campus to the East entrances of the Horseshoe. During my years, I had been blessed with a handful of absolute classics I got to witness in person. The 2017 night game thriller against Penn State, when Ohio State rallied from being down 11 points with just 5 minutes left in the game to edge out the Nittany Lions 39-38, capped by a last second JT Barrett touchdown pass to Marcus Baugh. The 2018 thrashing of Michigan, where Ohio State punched its ticket to the Big 10 Championship after embarrassing Jim Harbaugh’s Wolverines. And of course, who could forget the game of the century contender in 2016, when Ohio State outlasted Michigan in a double overtime dogfight, which culminated with Buckeye fans rushing the field and covering the green turf in a sea of red.
What my heart really desired was to experience the stadium traditions once more. As we reached the gates and scanned our tickets, the atmosphere began to sink in. You could hear and feel the steady roar of the crowd as you walked closer and closer to the steps leading out into the terraces. Ohio Stadium is one large horseshoe-shaped (The Shoe) stadium with a detached south seating section, primarily reserved for students. The main bowl was made up of two tiers of seating: A deck and C deck. There was also a little known B deck wedged all the way underneath the cover of the upper deck, aka C deck. Our seats were in C deck on the East side of the horseshoe, where we entered. They were nosebleeds, but I didn’t care. The ticket was just a way to get in the stadium. While everyone who purchases a ticket has an assigned seat, rarely does one end up sitting in the exact seat assigned to them. When you do manage to make it to your seat, you’ll often find someone else already sitting there, because someone else was sitting in their seats, and someone was sitting in the other person’s seats, and so on. So you simply find room around your section and hope no one actually gives a fuck. In C deck, no one gives a fuck. C deck tickets are still expensive, but they are for the folks who just want to have a good time. A deck tickets are a serious man’s game.
Jimmy and I hit the beverage cart and each grabbed two Miller Lites before climbing up the dizzyingly steep stairs to the top of C deck. Kickoff was in less than 5 minutes, and the crowd was astir. It didn’t matter if Ohio State was playing Michigan or Akron or the school of the blind. Buckeye fans always show up. The Zips were the first team to emerge from the locker rooms and enter the field of play. A panoply of boos rained down from the bleachers. The announcer next commanded everyone to get on their feet and make some noise for your Ohio State Buckeyes. A short promotional video played on the jumbotron with some energetic music, before some scarlet and gray flares went off, followed by the team emerging from their own locker room, led by head coach Ryan Day, supported by a booming wall of cheers.
Another classic Ohio State tradition is the song “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes, and soon enough, the 2000s rock song began to echo the stadium as the crowd sang along to the guitar solo with “oooooh, oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, ooooh”. Everyone was bouncing on their feet as the Buckeyes prepared to kick the ball to Akron. Right before the ball is kicked, the fans know to began their chant of “Ooooooohhhhhhhh”, holding it steady until the ball is actually kicked, which will prompt the crowd to finish the rest of the chant with “O-H-I-O, rip his fucking head off!” as the opposing team receives the ball. Most of the student section will follow up the chant with “…. and take his shoes!” and many will even remove their own shoes and shake them at the field. Some will even go as far as pouring a beverage into one’s own shoe and chugging said beverage from the shoe.
The game was boring. Akron managed to score a touchdown in the first quarter, but it was all Ohio State after that. By the time halftime rolled around, the Buckeyes led 38-7, and that was our queue for me and Jimmy to leave. I enjoyed the offensive onslaught, but it was time to go. I was fucking starving. Of course if we left now we would miss other traditions such as the singing of “Hang on Sloopy”, the official rock song of the state of Ohio, in the 3rd quarter, and the recital of Carmen Ohio, Ohio State’s alma mater song, following the completion of the game. I’m not too beat up about it. Carmen Ohio does tend to bring a tear to my eye, not because of nostalgia, but because it genuinely is a beautiful hymn.
It was around 5:30 by the time we exited the stadium, and many other fans had a similar idea of us. Fake fans. The real ones will stay until the ushers kick them out. That’s alright. I was hungry. Jimmy was hungry. Jimmy suggested we head to Wendy’s for something quick, and I couldn’t disagree with him there. Wendy’s was a sort of a hidden gem on campus, despite being a household name in the fast food world and also being founded right here in Columbus. It closed early at 11pm and had consistently bad customer service, especially on gameday, so many people opted for other drunken refreshments in the form of pizza or sub sandwiches or chicken wings. So because of Wendy’s bad reputation, it often had light crowds following games, especially on a day like today when the interest was slightly lower. Wendy was a naughty girl indeed, and all I could think about was devouring a couple of her signature square beef patties and a creamy vanilla frosty. Yummy!
We received our food in record time. I ordered two double stacks, a fry, and a frosty. I received one double stack, a chicken sandwich, a two fry, and a frosty. I couldn’t complain. Some psycho in front of us in line ordered 4 bowls of chili. 4 bowls! He should be put on a list. There is no way the staff could mess up that insane order.
Jimmy and I found an open table in the corner next to the famous Brutus Buckeye statue, and Brutus looked on in his fast food costume as we discussed was the plan was for tonight.
“I don’t think we should go back to my place man. We go back there, we’re tempted to lay down. We lay down, we’re down for the count. We’re dead men Tony. We’re dead to the world. No Serena. No Becky (Jimmy’s on and off fling from college who he found out was also in town this weekend).”
“Yeah but it would be nice to freshen up.”
“Freshen up? What the fuck does that even mean? Freshen up? Look at you bro! You’re fresh as fuck! You’re fresher than a fucking pharaoh bruh!”
I was dying.
“Alright alright Jimbo. So if not home then where? Midway? They doing the block party today with Ethyl?”
“Yeahhhhhh! Let’s dance. I wanna dance. I wanna melt my brain.” Jimmy wished to put on his dancing shoes as he scarfed down a Dave’s Triple. A piece of bacon slid out between the lettuce and tomato and flopped on the ground, splashing mayo everywhere. Jimmy didn’t even notice it. I noticed it but pretended to not. It was too funny to even laugh at. The bacon was shaped like a boomerang. If I picked it up and threw it, it would return to my hand after knocking a few diners on the head. Jimmy wanted to dance. I just wanted to party.
And so we concurred on heading to Midway, another famous campus bar known for a greasy upstairs dance floor, an insane ratio of bouncers to patrons (they probably had anywhere between 10-20 bouncers working on any single night, and the place probably only held 200 people max), and a heinous mystery concoction known as “Midway Milk”. On gamedays, Midway would often join forces with its more distinguished neighboring bar called Ethyl and Tank, and create one massive block party in the conjoining parking lot between the two establishments. I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve been thrown out of Midway for various offences. But the overlords tend to be more lenient on gamedays, so I fancy my chances.
The rest of the night is a hazy blur. We showed up at Midway around 6, and I presented Jimmy with a gift of a second dose of Adderall. This one we crushed up and blew down in a side alley behind Midway. We also purchased a couple of beers at a nearby convenience store and took turns chugging those before entering the block party. We hung out at the block party for a few hours. A couple of our acquaintances from earlier swung by, as well as a few other familiar faces from undergrad. I continued to chat up Serena, but she insisted she would be busy with her family all night. Aren’t I family too? I can be family. Jimmy didn’t have much luck with his Becky either, so we decided to change our fate for the night around 9pm, or so I recall, and head next door to Sky Bar, which is a rooftop bar situated above Big Bar, an appalling 18+ campus bar where every drink tastes like a trip to the ER. At Sky Bar, we reminisced over tequila sodas while the DJ played some groovy house music. After an hour (or so) there, we cranked it up a notch by heading back to Bullwinkles, an infamous nightclub where I closed out the night before. Bull’s is a dress shirt halfway unbuttoned. Bull’s is a sweat-lined fedora. Bull’s is a loaded Glock in a coat pocket one wrong rub way from free firing. Bull’s takes but never gives. I’m surprised its still open. Once you walk into Bull’s once, you’ll never want to go back. And yet you’ll find yourself there weekend after weekend like you’re stuck in some dystopian reality show. We showed up way too early around 11:30pm, but the wheels were off the tracks at this point. The dress shirt was fully unbuttoned. Serena had not responded to my texts in over an hour, so I was surprised to see her respond around an hour later saying to meet her at Out-R-Inn. I told Jimmy the bad news. He smiled and handed me his apartment key and told me to leave it under the doormat. He had some unfinished business to attend to. I met up with Serena around 12:45, and we had a couple of nightcaps before grabbing some pizza from the place next door called Sicilia’s, a taste of Southern Italy’s finest dining.
And so the night concludes. Everyone has to go home eventually. Like Semisonic once said, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. And though hundreds of thousands of Buckeyes fans will leave the Central Ohio area tonight, many of them will to campus next weekend to do it once more. Scotty and Joey will do it all again next weekend. They have an obligation to their fraternity brothers. Jimmy will do it all again next weekend. He still lives in town. All the workers at Wendy’s will do it all again next weekend. Buckeye football is inevitable, and whether you choose to participate or not is your own prerogative, but you cannot ignore it. You cannot ignore the waves of scarlet and gray that paint the town red every fall Saturday. City officials and local business owners cannot ignore the dollar signs associated with such economic activity, even if it means a few more tax dollars are going to be spend breaking up drunken skirmishes and shipping overserved fans to the clink. Fans can’t ignore that strange emotional attachment they have harbored over the years to a stupid dumb sweaty game. It doesn’t make sense in the head, and yet in the heart, it makes perfect sense. In the anatomical structure of the Buckeye, the heart stands out before the head, and the heart calls the shots, with the head only taking a secondary role. The heart gets what the heart wants. And what the heart wants is another damn Championship. The heart wants a damn good time. The heart wants to party and sing songs of Ohio’s praise.
If you ever do see a Buckeye in the wild, give them an “O-H”. They might respond with an “I-O”. They might roll their eyes and tell you how stupid that chant really is. They might tell you all about how much they love or how much they hate Buckeye football. But sure enough, those two letters will illicit a reaction that is encoded deep in the Buckeye’s limbic system. It’s a call to action that has been encoded in their DNA ever since they first stepped foot on campus and walked across the Oval. Ever since they heard the thundering roar of the crowd at The Shoe. Ever since they celebrated a Big 10 Championship or even a National Championship, even if they don’t even like football.
But for the love of God, don’t ever tell a Buckeye you’re a Michigan fan.
Onwards,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith
Writer Boy
Buckeye
Oh come let's sing Ohio's praise
And songs to Alma Mater raise
While our hearts rebounding thrill
With joy which death alone can still
Summer's heat or winter's cold
The seasons pass the years will roll
Time and change will surely show
How firm thy friendship ... OHIO!