When I told people in my hometown of Greenville, S.C., I was going to school at LSU, their eyes widened.
“Don’t even look at funnels,” they said. The second piece of advice was, “Tailgate. And send me pictures.”
Sixteen hours before an 11:20 a.m. kickoff against Kentucky, I rode my bike across campus and passed three couches on curbs occupied by polo-wearing fraternity boys, two dads unloading SUVs full of bag chairs and one girl on the phone in front of Memorial Tower, shouting that the buttons were supposed to be at the house yesterday.
Glimpsing at these pockets of preparation seemed like an adventure, but the cool, dark calm was still the campus I’d spent the past couple weeks figuring out.
The next day blew my mind.
Two hours before kickoff, I squeezed through the solid purple and gold crowd in front of the PMAC, following a blessed upperclassman who agreed to lead me to a tailgate near the baseball stadium.
People, generators and ice chests covered every square inch along the way. We nabbed some cookies from a gigantic dome-like tent, turned sideways to fit between two RVs parked end-to-end and ducked under a setup complete with electric fans, a television and a rug.
We emerged from the crush of plastic into full sunlight on the corner of Nicholson and South Stadium, and I stared at the endless white tents wondering which one housed the incoherent friend who had just hung up on me. The pause allowed my sensory overload to take effect.
“Callin’ Baton Rouge” blared from one tailgate’s speakers for the umpteenth time while “All I Do is Win” played from another, and more adults than I’d ever seen on LSU’s campus sized up this year’s crop of freshmen.
Brigades of college women dressed in their gameday best streamed past. They were as intimidating as an army in full battle gear, and campus had somehow become their home base. I’m pretty sure I saw every single shade of purple and gold within the span of five minutes.
It dawned on me that there was no way to capture the insanity in a picture, no way to box up this experience and ship it home for the benefit of my family.
“There are so many people here,” I said. The upperclassman nodded. “Look at all of them,” I said. “How is this even possible?” He laughed.
It occurred to me I knew nothing about what these people wanted to do with their lives, what kind of jobs they had or what worries clouded their minds. For a second, the fact that I lived 670 miles away from home and the idea I might not see this upperclassman again in a school so huge bothered me.
I watched as a herd of Kentucky fans crossed the road, and a change came over the crowd. Everyone — children, freshmen and grandparents alike — turned as one toward the blue-clad intruders and chanted the infamous, “Tiger bait! Tiger bait! Tiger bait!”
I’d only ever heard this yelled by my great uncle and grandfather as they watched LSU games on television, sitting in armchairs while my cousins and I played hide-and-seek.
Joining in felt like becoming part of a sacred club, a family of diehard fans who know, no matter age or social standing, this is their turf. They protect the team for which they cheer and know that no place is better than LSU’s campus on a gameday.
 
Megan Dunbar is an 18-year-old mass communication freshman from Greenville, S.C.
 
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