The University of Florida is full of differences. Different religions, different backgrounds, different majors, different opinions on the perfect Relish burger. And on and on.
But, there is one thing that unites us all: game day.
On game day, campus floods with alums, students, faculty and fans clad in their best orange and blue gear, all of them ready to root for the Gators. Or at least for the reason to get completely obliterated by 10 o’clock on a Saturday morning. No matter what category you fall into, no matter where your game day journey takes you, we’ll be there with you through it all.
Dean
“Get the fuck up! It’s game day!” Wait, it’s 9 in the morning. The game isn’t for another 10 hours. What about getting proper rest? Nope. I live in a fraternity house and proper rest isn’t a luxury I get, especially not on game day. After brushing off the hangover with the help of café con leche and a Cuban from Mi Apa, it’s time to clean myself up. I don’t know why I even shower before game day considering the fact that I’m about to enter an orange and blue cesspool. But the shower isn’t necessarily for cleanliness, it’s for shower beers!
Via: Shakoolie
Food for thought: Having a beer in the shower is the ultimate “two birds, one stone” scenario on game day. Once the game day garb is on, the ladies starting coming through the house. Watching girls prance around in their sundresses and game day pins never gets old. (That sentence might seem creepy, but you know what I mean.) It’s always nice to meet new people on game days because a portion of the crowd doesn’t come around the house too often. But everyone, man and woman, is brought together by the paradise of debauchery and hedonism.
Once kick-off approaches I face the toughest decision yet. Should I make my way to the Swamp or nah? Going to the game is another “two birds, one stone” experience. But it’s not all positive. You get to see the Gators play, which is dope, but you go from 100 to 0 real quick. As I contemplate my choices, I get a Snapchat from Sari showing me a particularly hilarious sorority clown-car situation.
Sari
The sun is beating on my back as I try to brave the heat in a sundress and heels. Walking up the stairs of my friend’s apartment, I excitedly prepare myself for the day that lies ahead: a day full of promise and passion. A day full of laughs and cries. A day full of Mio and hamburgers.
Game day.
I open the door to my friend’s apartment and am welcomed by the scent of perfume and a collection of mimosas. Outkast is blasting, so it’s safe to assume game day preparations are underway. Which dress do I choose? Which pin do I use? Which heels do I wear? Or maybe not heels. Flats? Or maybe heels. Converse? The questions are endless because if there is any day that can be affected by a choice of shoes and shots, it’s a game day.
Via: Harry Styles Fanfiction
When the decisions have been made and the outfits have been chosen and re-chosen, we have just enough time to relax before worrying about getting a ride. Snapchat stories are being updated left and right. The sound of laughter and excitement drowns out the throwbacks we’re listening to and causes any and all residual hangovers to somehow disappear. I get a text message about a ride arriving shortly. This will be the hardest part of my day.
I go up against the music and announce that our ride is on it’s way. No one even budges, so I repeat myself. How could I blame them for not noticing me when I’m up against choosing a filter and slaving over a caption? I turn the music off and tell them again, and luckily, this time I get their attention. I round up the crew to head downstairs.
I am relieved to see Kelli, who has reluctantly taken over the job of fitting what seems like 20 girls in one pick-up truck. It takes seven minutes to gather everyone, but by the grace of God, all of us successfully and strategically pile in the truck, Longchamp backpacks and all.
Kelli
The feeling of finally getting out of a pick-up truck filled with about 20 girls is so great that I’m practically jumping of joy. The walk from the car to the fraternity house was a few seconds long, so of course I’m already drenched in sweat. Everyone else seems too drunk to notice/care so that’s a good sign.
This house looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 1980s. Correction: This house actually hasn’t been properly cleaned since the 1980s. Yikes.
All I see is orange and blue. Ah, I’ll never get too old for this! Actually, I do feel a little old. Oh well, at least I know where the secret upstairs bathroom is.
Let me just soak in this moment: all the people flipping cups, taking funnels, grabbing unopened beers from trash cans and throwing the empty ones on the floor. It’s all so beautiful. Now that I’ve taken a moment to admire, I need to find some alcohol. After scanning multiple bedrooms — some playing country, some playing hip hop and one playing some girly ‘90s song — I’ve come across an abandoned room with ample amount of space and sufficient amounts of Skol.
A mixed drink, some shots and a game of quarters later, people have trickled in and out of the room and nobody seems coherent enough for organized drinking games. Let me text Daniel. It’s probably a good time to see what else frat row has to offer.
Daniel
That frat house sucked. I pretended to be a freshman to find they were out of beer by noon. And they didn’t even have hamburgers. Legit, I only went in for the hamburgers.
Also, no one tried to rush me. What the hell? I’m cool. I’d make your shit top tier, whoever decides that kind of thing. Whatever. Not like I’m actually rushing. Or a freshman. Or named Aidan. Or from White Plains. Maybe the “no hamburgers” thing is what I get for lying.
My phone goes off. Who’s texting me? I don’t have friends. Tailgate at University House? Hell no. I’m not walking all the way over there and make myself five too many screwdrivers to figure out the buses. What? They have beer?! The tables are turning in their favor.
Maybe I’ll Uber. No cars available. FUCK THAT NOISE. MAKE ME A CAR. I’m already on Row, might as well take a lap of the lawns and see what’s up.
Via: Taylor Tailgates
Don’t know any of you… Don’t know any of you… Don’t know any of you. Don’t know any of you… and… hey! I know him! He waved back. Do I wanna ask if I can go in? Nah. I know for a fact they don’t have hamburgers. I’ll keep walking.
Museum Road is populated by tents of families. It looks like one giant Sukkot party, or maybe they’re all chupahs and it’s one giant wedding. I need to learn that no one gets my Jewish references. This family seems nice. They’re not blasting country music. Should I talk to one of them? Oh shit, I am talking to one of them. Took me a minute to catch up. GET IT TOGETHER. Okay, remember, tell them the truth, these are nice humans. No Aidan, no White Plains, no freshman. Got it. Cool. They offered me nachos. You know, I could use some nachos.
Yeah, I’ll play cornhole with you. I suck at it, but no one said I was athletic. I like this family. The parents graduated in the ’80s. They’ve got a cute daughter who goes to not-UF, kinda nerdy older son who’s chill enough. I like ‘em. They’ve had just as many screwdrivers as me. Or maybe the dad sells screwdrivers? Would that explain this Home Depot coozie?
I WON CORN HOLE? I feel like I can graduate now. Huh? Tailgate behind Midtown? Adiós, family. Wait… They just offered me a hamburger. Staying put. Maybe they’ll let me spend Christmas with them…
Alyssa
Outside of the O’Dome, I can see all the drunken tailgaters stumbling around, searching aimlessly for one of those paper fans. The music fills the air as I’m stuck inside trying hopelessly to direct people to the bathroom on the first try. Why do I put myself through this? I think to myself as a frat bro calls me a bitch for telling him he can’t bring in his whiskey coke. I watch as he and his buds contemplate chugging the full drink or leaving it at the door to grab after he uses the bathroom. He chooses the former. God, I really hope he doesn’t puke.
After a circle of high fives, they make their way to the bathroom. “No, it’s the other side,” I call out to them as they headed toward the wrong restroom. “Yes, that one,” I say pointing to the men’s side.
A woman stands in front of the open doors to the Dome with a bottle of Jack in her hand. She is apparently reading the sign on the door that says “No outside food and drinks allowed in the building.” She begins to shove the bottle of whiskey in her 5-year-old daughter’s drawstring backpack. Come on, lady. The doors are made of glass. I can see you. I make my way to the door.
Via: Daily Mail
“I’m sorry ma’am, but the whiskey is going to have to stay outside the building,” I say.
“What whiskey?” she asks.
“The one you tried so cleverly to hide in your daughter’s bag,” I retort.
“Why can’t she just carry it in?”
“For so many reasons,” I say under my breath. “It’s building policy, ma’am. Please leave it at the door.” As she begrudgingly removes the bottle from the backpack and leaves it by the door, I look down at my watch. it’s still two hours to kick-off.
Kathryn
College Gameday is blasting over the television while we put the finishing touches for the perfect football outfit, preparing to head out an hour before kickoff.
We always arrive early.
We go to every game.
We always scout out our seats after getting our tickets.
We do all of this sober.
We do everything as a “we” because #girls.
Decked out in the correct orange and blue (peach and periwinkle guys… Just, no), we head to our seats holding our season tickets high. I purchase one large lemonade because I swear they put cocaine in it. It is equal parts addictive, refreshing and life-changing. The band marches on the field, and I clap and half sing because I don’t know all of the words.
The Gators play, albeit poorly, but the sounds of the crowd chomping and chanting gets under my veins. When we’re fouled, we yell vulgar mother-related insults at the refs. I high-five strangers and my friends when we score. When I look to my right to high-five the person next to me, I see her.
She seems to come up in every single game I go to, especially when my roommates and I get the good seats. She’s different every time, but in one specific way, she’s the same.
This girl is in our seats. We are seats 1-5. There is no 4½ reserved for your half-naked, tightly clothed, drunk, alcohol smelling… “
TOUCHDOWN!!!” I yell, my voice officially gone and my care for Bikini Barbie lessening.
Via: First Coast News
Everything is orange and blue and amazing. I don’t understand who wouldn’t want to experience this on game day and be at Midtown instead.
Brette
After 20 grueling minutes of pretending to know who has the ball while simultaneously doing your best not to get pummeled by the sweaty wildebeest wearing Croakies behind you, it’s time to admit defeat. And by “defeat” I mean its time to get your ass to Midtown.
Don’t get distracted by Tijuana Flats or Pizza By the Slice. $9 on a quesadilla or $9 on a whiskey diet double? Pick your battles, people.
University Ave. on game day is kind of like Ryan Seacrest’s sexuality. Very questionable. Between the seemingly homeless man passed out in front of Salty’s to the belligerent couple fighting on the stairs of Rowdy’s, there is a lot of quality people-watching.
Give yourself one hour at Cantina….people will soon be watching you, too. Speaking of Cantina and contrary to my previous beliefs, the buckets full of beer are not free. Do not have someone distract the bartender while you reach your hand in, grab and run. It will not end well for you or your dignity. I’m speaking on behalf of a friend, of course.
You see that kid purchasing nine Fireball shots and dumping them on top of his head? He went straight from the tailgate to Midtown. He also will have a tough time finding a job in the near future.
Via: Gamedayr
So, you’ve made a slew of morally debatable decisions and its only 9 o’ clock. Only one thing left to do: head over to Larry’s Subs and treat yourself for surviving 12 hours of debauchery. Order a fat sub…actually order two. One for you, and one for the Uber driver who is going to hate his life for ending up with you as his passenger.
And, before you try it, Uber drivers don’t appreciate backseat drivers or being forced to blow into your homemade pocket Breathalyzer. Again, speaking for a friend.
Feature photo courtesy of: Miami Herald
