"Ooh Jeese! There goes da neighborhood!" bellowed the drunken man holding a beer and an enormous pair of tongs as we started unpacking the car in the parking lot of the Meadowlands. It was Sunday morning and we were here to tailgate for a Penn State game, so we were prepared for a lot of drunken shouting.
This loud guy had quite a setup--a large tent attached to the side of his open van, tables of various sizes, reclining chairs, a small charcoal grill, and six coolers full of drinks and food. He was busy cooking shish kabobs and sporting a shirt with pictures of chili peppers and the slogan One Hot Tamale. "Oh Jeese! There goes da neighborhood!" he repeated at least a dozen times as we unpacked, and his drunk friends would chorus "Oh, Jeese!" every time he would say it, but this lone island of grass was one of the few empty spots in the parking lot, so we would have to put up with this guy's banter.
We watched in amazement as our hosts, obviously experienced tailgaters, set out the spread of food with the precision of a drill team.
We watched in amazement as our hosts, obviously experienced tailgaters, set out the spread of food with the precision of a drill team. By Penn State standards Mark and his dad had a pretty meager setup--one charcoal grill, one table (with tablecloth), a dozen folding chairs, but they had brought food for twenty to a party of nine. They started us out with three varieties of beer, six kinds of soda, slices of melon, tortilla chips, salsa, potato chips, pretzels, a vegetable platter and two kinds of dip, then they got the grill roaring in a manner of minutes. I went to Penn State University, but admittedly I wasn't very fond of the football games, so I had never seen serious tailgaters in action, and it was impressive.
The people at our tailgate ate and drank and tried to avoid looking at our neighbors, who obviously took delight at shouting insulting comments at each other and everyone who made eye contact with them. "You're as dumb as your mother!" the man shouted as his son almost set the tablecloth on fire with a burning shish kabob. "Drop dead you old fart!" came the reply, broadcasted loud enough for everyone in parking lot C to hear. Mark and his father Jack bantered with them in between whispering to us that it was a pity that the fire hadn't spread.
Somehow in a manner of minutes our hosts had managed to cook dozens of burgers, hot dogs and veggie burgers for us, and brought out the rest of the food. There were containers of macaroni salad, potato salad, sliced tomatoes, lettuce, onions, homemade baked beans with bacon, vegetarian baked beans, loads of rolls, and at least six different condiments for the tops of said foods. Obviously this was a serious operation--when we eat dinner at home we never have this many food choices.
While we ate, the son of the drunken neighbor got some smoke in his eyes, and they started tearing. His father lost no time in chiding him, "Awww, whassa matter? Are you crying? Well, THERE'S NO CRYING IN FOOTBALL!" He shouted. We giggled the first time he said it, but after about five times it wasn't so amusing any more. We hurried to finish our food so we could get into the stadium as it was getting close to pre-game time and this guy was growing more drunk and abusive by the minute. The desserts came out, homemade bundt cake and more fruit, but everyone was so stuffed from the meal that the cake remained virtually intact.
After disposing of the charcoal and packing everything back into the car, we prepared to set out for the stadium. "Go on, ya pansies, we'll be right here," our neighbors promised. It turned out that didn't have tickets to the game--they had driven hours for the tailgating. He asked where our seats were, and Mark revealed that we were sitting in "nosebleed" seats near the top of the stadium. "I know what happened," our neighbor said to Mark's dad, "he said 'no hurry to get the tickets, dad' and you said 'you better get down there so we get the good seats' and he put it off until last week, so ya end up sitting near the blimp." Jack and Mark laughed to please him but the truth was that Mark had bought the tickets from the stadium the day they went on sale.
We joined the slowly moving blue and white crowd of drunken and shouting men and women, passing campsites with enormous propane grills capable of roasting whole pigs, and shirtless men playing football catch. Painted faces, chests and legs sported lion paw prints or "PSU," and Mary and I were possibly the only people without Penn State shirts and hats. A sort of fervor had taken over the fans as one group cheered "WE ARE!" and another group replied "PENN STATE!" Our friend Mark would point and shout at the few USC fans we saw (they were the dreaded foe), and Mary was somewhat embarrassed to discover she had accidentally worn shorts which were the USC colors.
It was hot and muggy, and we were dreading the thought of sitting for several hours in the blazing sun. Many of the fans were already bright red but they cheered anyway, ready for the game. For Penn State fans, football is a religion, coach Joe Paterno is God, and a little second degree burn wasn't going to spoil their good time.
We made our way up the enormous escalator into the stadium, around the back to our section and then up the steep concrete steps to our seats, a mere six rows from the top. The sun was stupefying, and we made an effort to put on more sunblock, but we were so hot that it was painful to apply the stuff. I started experiencing a sort of blindness I always get from sunscreen mixing with sweat dripping into my eyes. I used a handkerchief to wipe away the stinging liquid.
We were all quite thirsty by this point, but the water fountains inside the stadium were far away and nobody had broken down to pay $4.00 for a 16-ounce bottle of spring water. Eventually one of our group went for a drink and returned with about $24 worth of the precious water bottles, which were shared by everyone. We were all quite thankful. In total we easily spent more than $70 on water during the course of the game.
Eventually the pregame show started, with an assortment of marching bands and flag waving. It was hard to concentrate on the action on the field under the broiling sun. The Penn State fans reacted loudly every time the PSU band did something interesting or a member of the team was announced. They roared during the kickoff and while the ball was in motion, but things started to go horribly wrong for Penn State. Almost immediately the USC Trojans scored a touchdown after a Penn State fumble, and it went downhill from there. As the game progressed, USC scored touchdown after touchdown, the Penn State fans got quieter and more sunburned. Occasionally they shouted helpful suggestions to the far-away players like "You gotta CATCH the ball, dummy!" or "Come ON! Run with it!" but it was no use. The Lions were playing like a bunch of Girl Scouts. The Penn State fans were sulking with the only cheering coming from a small section of USC fans.
The bizarre halftime show consisting of about 200 teenage "dancers, twirlers and cheerleaders" performing an ill-synchronized routine to La Vida Loca, followed by PSU and USC marching band performances. During the third quarter, clouds started moving in front of blinding sun and we finally had some relief from the heat. After a pleasant fifteen minutes, however, it started to rain. The rain didn't last long, fortunately, and was a bit refreshing in the torrid heat and made the rest of the game a bit more tolerable. For most of the people, however, the rain was more than they could take and most of the seats were quickly vacant.
Soon the game was over, with Penn State suffering a humiliating loss, having not scored a single touchdown. The fans trudged silently into the parking lot, to their waiting cars and campers. Groups of men in folding chairs sullenly ate the last hot dogs and drank the last beers outside of their tour buses and wondered how things could have gone so terribly wrong.
We got back to the car and the drunk neighbor was sitting in a lounge chair with a beer in his hand mocking anyone unfortunate enough to try to walk past his van. Suddenly he treated us like long-lost friends, talking in a normal voice about his life and wishing us all the best. He didn't even know Penn State had lost--he didn't come for the game, he came to drink beer and eat shish kabobs in a parking lot, so he wasn't the least bit disappointed.
