A fifteen year odyssey across the backroads of America during the ultimate College Football roadtrip.

Tag: Midshipmen

Navy vs Georgia Southern – Middies march over the Eagles…

It’s an early Southwest Airlines flight on Saturday morning, and I touch down in BWI shortly after sunrise with a full docket of football ahead. With a Navy game scheduled for 3:30 in the afternoon followed closely by an 8pm night game at Maryland, it’s a tenuously tight window to catch two. Energized by the doubleheader prospect ahead, I jump into a rental car and dash southeast towards Annapolis into the orange morning light.

I get into town easily, then wind around the historic state capitol building on the narrow, brick lined streets of Annapolis. The labyrinth of one way streets and tight quarters confounds my GPS, and I rattle my way through cobbled side streets the old fashioned way (cursing and hissing) before slipping into a spot in front of the iconic Chick and Ruths Delly. I pull up a counter stool in the colorful, cramped, diner that’s been dishing out classic fare since 1965. Opting for a simple corned beef and hash breakfast, it’s a delightfully greasy affair that would be equally welcome at 3AM after bouncing through the numerous pubs in town. Washing the formidable meal down with a “regular” sized chocolate malt, I peer over an adjacent table of tourists attempting to conquer the “Colossal” sized shake the deli is noted for – a 6lb. bucket of pancreas busting ice cream delight.

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From there, I poke my way towards the United States Naval Academy where a guard stops me at the gate to check ID before waving me through the white concrete walls surrounding campus. Like my West Point trip earlier this year, the grounds of the USNA campus are immaculate. Perfectly manicured lawns are abutted with naval paraphernalia, as dozens of imposing black cannons and massive anchors flank the walkways or sit perched on building patios.

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In the middle of the quad, in front of the impressive Academy Chapel, the Herndon Monument, aka “Mount Herndon” juts out of the turf – a scale replica of the Washington Monument. Its on top of this imposing 21 foot granite obelisk where the “plebes no more” tradition takes place at the USNA. One of the most revered traditions in the school, a cap or “cover” is placed on top of the monument at the end of spring semester. With the entire structure caked in a thick coat of slick lard, the plebe (freshman) class, must then work together to climb the monument and retrieve the cap. An accomplishment which signifies their progression as officers into the U.S. Navy.


Wandering deeper into campus, I pass by the landmark “Tecumseh” statue, decked out for game day in Hulk attire, bathed in a fresh coat of green and purple paint. Behind it lies Bancroft Hall, the largest college dormitory in the world, housing all 4,500 midshipmen under one roof. Passing through the rotunda, and the “Commander in Chief” trophy which has been housed here for quite a few consecutive years, I pay my respects to Memorial Hall. A solemn tribute to USNA graduates that have given the ultimate sacrifice to their country in military operations, the names of the fallen are inscribed into the walls according to their respective class year.

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In an adjacent nook, a diorama of Captain John Ripley details his heroic exploits detonating a strategic bridge during the Vietnam War. Reading like a real life action hero movie, the true story of “Ripley Under the Bridge” is near incredulous, the very definition of a man with “cajones”. For over three hours under enemy fire, he singlehandedly dangled underneath the Dong Ha bridge to place over 500lbs of explosives that ultimately annihilated it, thwarting the advance of an estimated 20,000 enemy troops. Do yourself a favor and read more about it HERE.


Finishing up on campus, I hike over to Navy Marine Corps Memorial Stadium, located about a mile and a half West of the Academy grounds. Shaded by soaring concrete grandstands as the late afternoon sun starts to dip, the lots are full of blue and yellow tents, many of them posted with signs for various classes and affiliations. Men and women clutch beers huddling within, while kids toss footballs between cars and alternate turns sliding down the grassy slope on the south side of the stadium. With tickets already secured from my college football cohort Bob, I pass through the entrance gates early, not wanting to miss a second of the Midshipmen pre game march on.

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A quick survey of the confines of Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium, and I notice something rather unique. In lieu of retired player numbers, the facades of the press box are lettered with the names of global naval conflicts – Peleliu, Tarawa, Pearl Harbor and Guadalcanal, to name a few – a sobering reminder of the broader mission that awaits the players on the gridiron. Soon, the Midshipmen march on to the field grouped in neat square formations as the PA announcer calls out the respective companies. Donned in traditional white caps and long black wool coats the cadets are well prepared for the chilly afternoon, their numbers spread evenly taking up the entire field . Beneath the caps, a few of the middies sport wispy mustaches, a funny look if you ask me, but permitted under Naval Uniform Regulations 2201.1 so long as it does not “exceed 1/2” in length or extend beyond the corners of the mouth”.

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On the field, the Midshipmen make short work of Georgia Southern. They trounce the Eagles behind the strength of their traditional triple option rushing attack. Navy amasses 394 yards of rushing against only 71 yards of passing on the day, methodically grinding out five yards at a clip as the ball is pitched from one runner to the next. The Eagles, for their part, move the ball well. They put up nearly the same rushing and passing yardage as the Naval Academy, but the Southern squad is hamstrung by turnovers, coughing the ball up three times on key drives. Navy quarterback Keenan Reynolds is the star on the day, piling up 277 yards on the ground and tossing a handful of completions during his rare passing opportunities. In the end, the Middies run away with a 52-19 victory, a convincing blowout win over the Sun Belt conference leading Georgia Southern Eagles.

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Special thanks to my friend and USNA graduate Armando giving me the lowdown on all the history, tradition, and important landmarks to check out on campus.  Maybe one day we can meet up for a game in Annapolis and I can get the full tour!

Special thanks to my friend, and fellow intrepid college football voyager, Bob for the tickets to the game and continued support throughout the season.  I look forward to our paths crossing again next year!

Full Clickthrough Gallery Below:

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Philly Cheesesteak Showdown…

It’s the iconic sandwich the City of Brotherly Love is known for, and although glaringly cliché’ I wanted to eat a handful of these delightfully greasy gut bombs during my weekend in town.  While most visitors are immediately drawn to the vaporous neon glow of Geno’s and Pat’s, I wanted to find something beyond the usual tourist traps.  I’d been to of those places before, and while it may be blasphemous to any native Philadelphian, I found them completely underwhelming and substandard.  I’d love to hear a counter argument in favor of any dining establishment that espouses the use of “cheese wiz” on anything they serve.  So during my quick weekend in Philadelphia, I endeavored to find the real deal.

Three places emerged to the top of my research: Dalessandro’s, Jim’s and Tony Lukes. While each of these may be well known to Philly natives, they are not as familiar to outsiders.  In order to give an accurate comparison to the three contenders, I ordered the same sandwich at each – a simple cheesesteak sandwich with American cheese and grilled onions.  Why that combo?  Because I like it, that’s why.  And, it’s simple, and these are simple, working class sandwiches after all.

Tony Lukes – My first stop on Saturday morning. Hustling through the industrial wasteland part of town, I skirted past the beckoning entrance of Ricks Cabaret & Lounge – an adult entertainment club touting “divorce parties” and pulled into the red and white checkered confines of Tony Lukes.  A few yellow lights and some flashes of stainless steel trim round out the décor of the simple sandwich stand.

Tony Lukes2Whatever anticipation I held for the sandwich to come, however, was quickly extinguished by the gruff counterman who could barely be bothered to take my simple order.  Conveniently, Tony Lukes also refuses to provide water for customers, so I had to order an overpriced soda.  As if the dirtbag service and water miserliness wasn’t enough, Tony Lukes doesn’t have any heating in the dining area (in December) or provide public restroom facilities of any kind.  What a complete dump.

Fear not, however, because the sandwiches at Tony Lukes are thoroughly craptastic as well!  The french roll is chewy, and instead of being mixed into the steak, the meager cheese allotment is tossed uncaringly onto the top cold.  Even the steak itself is lazily sliced (not finely chopped) into lifeless, grey, gristly slabs of rubber that left my jaw feeling like I just went a few rounds with Rocky.  I made sure to take a good look around before leaving Tony Lukes, because I’ll never see this place again.

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 Jim’s – I visited Jim’s late on Saturday night after spending the entire day fighting off the blustering cold mist in Lincoln Financial Field during the Army Navy game.  Chilled to the bone, and thoroughly exhausted, I probably could have eaten the ass end of flattened roadkill – an option that still sounded better than a second sandwich from Tony Lukes.

Jims 2Fortunately, Jims fared much better.  Here, you watch the cook through a glass window, deftly whacking away at a pile of steak on the steaming cook top.  He chops the steak up finely, lays a few slices of American cheese into the bun, and tops the sandwich with a few caramelized onions.  Though I would have liked to see the cheese mixed into and melted across the steak, overall this was a solid sandwich.

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If I can think of one drawback to Jim’s, it’s the agonizing lines and wait time for a sandwich.  Located in center city Philadelphia, a bustling part of town on a Saturday night, throngs of hungry revelers lined up around the block for upwards of a 30 minute wait for a sandwich.  I don’t know if the wait times are always that bad, but it’s something to consider.

Jims Website:

Dalessandro’s – My final cheesesteak trial, I optioned for a breakfast at Dalessandro’s on Sunday morning before catching my flight out of Philly.  Making the fifteen minute drive to Northwest Philadelphia, the tiny corner shop is located a few miles outside the downtown Philadelphia area.  I line up promptly at 11AM, sliding into one of their counter stools soon after they opened the doors for business.  Not long after arriving, the place is jammed with takeout orders, clearly a popular neighborhood spot.

Dalessandros2Of the three, Dalessandro’s was finest offering of the classic Philly Cheesesteak.  The steak was finely chopped and browned, with the cheese completely folded in and melted across the steak.  A handful of onions garnished across the top, and the roll had a nice crunch on the outside but chewy inside.  It was well executed simplicity.  The perfect start to Sunday morning.  

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Dalessandro’s Website:

In the end, Dalessandro’s was a clear cut winner based on my criteria. Jim’s, however, would be a perfectly serviceable option if I found myself in the downtown area with a hankering.  But in case you missed it, I’d sooner eat three year old sofa pizza before returning to Tony Lukes again…

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Army vs Navy – Middies sing second…

Saturday morning is an overcast, gloomy day, typical of the Northeast in early December.  Rain looms overhead in the grey sky, and I motor through the post industrial wasteland surrounding Philadelphia International Airport.  Stepping fresh off a red eye flight from the west coast, I groggily speed past an immense Sunoco Oil refinery and the rusting iron mountains of the Camden Scrapyards.  After spending the preceding week in sunny Southern California, the welcome into Philly is hardly picturesque.  Coupled with the dismal weather and a 13 game season long grind, this makes for a miserable end to the season.

I’m in town for the Army vs Navy game, the annual contest between the nations’ premiere military academies.  While in the early part of the 20th century, this contest may have defined the national championship, today the two teams struggle to maintain competitiveness amidst their outsized college football brethren.  Dating back to 1890, the two squads have squared off 113 times throughout the years, making this one of the oldest rivalries in the sport, and, without bloated NFL contracts beckoning, arguably the most heated.  While Navy holds the edge 57-49 all-time, they have owned the contest for the past decade, reeling off 10 straight lopsided wins over their foes from the Hudson River Valley.  In standing with tradition, the Army Navy game is the final regular season game in college football, and typically played at a banal neutral site.  In this case, Philadelphia.

I park on the corner of Lawrence and Pattison, finding a free spot in the sprawling industrial park that surrounds Lincoln Financial Field – home of the Philadelphia Eagles.  As you’ve heard my familiar refrain before, NFL Stadiums are soulless beasts.  Far removed from the city, and plopped coldly into the asphalt ridden, toxic waste part of town on a reclaimed swamp – the area surrounding the stadium is lifeless.  A cultural desert.  Neutral site games at NFL Stadiums are a pox on the colorful world of College Football, and Philly proves no exception.

With little else to do, I hustle over to the stadium and scalp a $75 face value ticket for thirty bucks from a West Point alum whose friend failed to show.  Thousands of Army cadets mill around the parking area outside the stadium in their caped grey coats.  Yellow and Grey flags, known as “Guidons”, demarcate the different companies.  The numbered Guidons flap in the blustering mist, while pop songs bump noisily out of tower loudspeakers.  The cadets chat with each other restlessly, a few exchange hugs with family members over the steel cattle guards cordoning them off.  For the freshman, this may be the first time they’ve seen family since induction.


Although there are still three hours until kickoff, I press into the burgeoning queue to enter the stadium.  The infamous “march on”, where the academy cadets make their ceremonious entry onto the field starts over three hours before kickoff.  I haven’t lined up to enter this early since #2 Alabama vs. #1LSU last year in Tuscaloosa, and I don’t have nearly the same “provisions” with me this time around.   The lines to enter are log jammed, backed up by the cumbersome enhanced security procedures.  Metal detectors line the entrance gates, and I empty my pockets into a plastic bin before a brusque additional pat down that gropes my sides.  It’s a sad glimpse into our future of paranoia and fear.  Only a matter of time before these obtrusive procedures are found at every sporting event in the country, all in the name of illusory “public safety”.

A massive artillery piece greets me on the concourse, the 16’ barrel thrust menacingly into the sky.  It’s a M777 155mm Howitzter, or “Triple Seven” according to the 1st Lieutenant standing next to it in camo BDU’s.  It fires a 6” diameter round about the size of your average household vacuum cleaner.    With an effective range of over 15 miles, and a digital fire control system, it’s a far cry from the WW2 era artillery pieces found on the History Channel.  Unfortunately, according to the Lt. who chuckles at my query, they won’t be lighting the gun off as part of Army’s ceremonial entrance.  I assure him that nobody would really miss parts of west New Jersey anyway…


In fact, in the parlance of our modern, ADD riddled, sporting audiences that constantly thirst for garish jumbotrons and disneyfied in stadium “entertainment”, the Army Navy contest could really spice up the entrances a bit.  It would certainly bolster recruiting.  In lieu of the reverent and traditional “march on”, they could take a page from the NFL or, better yet, NBA.  The Army squad could roll in firing the cannons of a tank armada, artillery pieces mounted on the concourses blazing away while the players rappel in from Apache helicopters circling above.  Navy could sail a Destroyer up the Delaware River, (hell, maybe even an old Battleship) and start touching off the 16” deck guns while a Harrier jet hovers in to deliver the game ball.  Instead of a boring card stunt, fans could be issued chem light glow sticks and flash bang grenades, all of them waving proudly to the latest inane pop song.   It would make the Miami Hurricanes smoke entrance look like a Pop Warner game.

Fortunately, however, some semblance of taste and tradition prevail at the Army Navy contest, and the “march on” commences under a dull grey sky.

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Navy marches on first.  Midshipmen file out of the tunnel in a tight march, garbed in their white capped hats and dress black uniforms.  They form up across the field, filling nearly the entirety of the playing surface in tight square formations before being dismissed to their seats.  Army marches in second, decked out in their monochromatic grey caped coats and caps.  A voice over the loudspeakers announces each company number as they enter, along with the name of the respective company commander, half of whom seem to hail from Texas for whatever reason.  After assuming their seats, the Army corps belt out a “We are Army” chant in unison.  Navy responds, catcalling them with high pitched “whoops”.

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With the entrance ceremonies over, there are still over two hours to kill until kickoff.  Pregame videos air over the jumbotron, various comedy skits prepared by each of the academies taking jabs at the other.  The best is a parodied “Gangam Style” music video by the USMA, with a perfectly cast, chubby Asian cadet dancing across some of the historic landmarks of the West Point campus.

Twenty minutes before kickoff, the “prisoner exchange” takes place.  Student ambassadors serving a semester at the opposing academy are returned to their rightful ranks, ceremoniously marched across the field to rejoin their corps.  With a looming fog overhead, the parachute teams set to deliver the game ball are called off, but a card stunt turns the entire stadium into a panorama of Red, White and Blue.  I shoehorn into an open seat on the Navy side, Section 117 on the lower deck, surrounded by Naval Academy alums and parents.

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When the game kicks off, the two squads butt heads for the first quarter, exchanging a handful of punts.  The Army defense proves surprisingly resilient against the famed Navy triple option rushing attack.  In the second quarter, the game breaks loose a bit.  Army coughs up their first turnover, and Navy capitalizes with a methodical march down the field for a touchdown.  The Black Knights bounce back quickly, however, promptly moving the length of the field for a touchdown of their own.  After a couple more field goals to end the second quarter, the scoreboard stands knotted at 10 apeice.  Army fans revel in the rare glimmer of hope for the second quarter.

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At halftime, like the Presidential tradition, I switch sides.  Vice president Joe Biden, attending on behalf of Obama, does the same.  As he marches across the field from the Army side to the Navy confines, he’s greeted with a rousing chorus of boos as he crosses the field, giving a half hearted politicians wave.  The boos are no surprise given the almost exclusively military fan base in attendance.  Unlike the VP, however, I have to wind my way around the concourse to the other side.  The Secret Service might frown on me hustling across the 30 yard line…

On the way over to the Army side, I hit a concession stand for a basket of chicken fingers and a bottle of water.  The attendant deliberately screws off the cap off the bottle and tosses it aside, handing me the open bottle and my change.  She retains the cap.  Odd…

“Can I have the cap please?  I’d like to be able to reseal it…” I press, out of curiosity.

“I have to take the cap off the water.  Policy.” the attendant responds.

“Why?” I ask, befuddled at such an odd policy.

“Because with the cap off, the bottle won’t hold fluid.  And if it won’t hold fluid, you can’t throw it onto the field”

For a brief second I pause, dumbfounded.  Then I remember I’m in Philadelphia.  Lincoln Financial Field specifically, home of the Eagles and a Philly fan base that is unanimously regarded as the most crude and unruly in sports.  The same people who throw snowballs and batteries, intentionally puke on children, and even boo Santa Claus.  Suddenly, this bottle cap policy makes complete sense.

Settling into my new digs in section 105 on the Army side, the two academies take the field for the second half.  I chat up a few of the West Point alums around me, amazed at the brotherhood that exists across academy graduates.  With modest graduating class sizes of around 1300 and deep generational legacies, everyone seems to know each other.  Backs are slapped in reunion, and handshakes take place over the green plastic seatbacks with heavy West Point class rings adorning outstretched hands.  The acronym heavy dialogue is nearly impossible to understand, as if talking in code as they trade stories about various posts and deployments.  But the affinity between alums is real, palpable even.  These are bonds forged by over 200 years of instilled tradition and training, far beyond the scope of your silly, run of the mill, fraternity paddle hazing ritual.

As the Black Knights kick off for the second half, the entire section is alive, emboldened with hope.  For the first time in nearly a decade, the contest is a competitive one, the Navy streak possibly in doubt.  When Army kicker Eric Osteen thumps a field goal deep into the third quarter, the cadets take a 13-10 lead, and the crowd swells with glee.  But in the 4th frame, Osteen shanks another field goal attempt, and Navy quickly responds with a touchdown to assume a 17-13 lead with only four minutes remaining.  When Army takes over, they mount an impressive eleven play drive.  Rumbling for four yards here, seven yards there, the snakebit Army faithful brim with enthusiasm. Even a glint of confidence, perhaps.  With a first down at the Navy 14 yard line, a sliver of green separates them from reclaiming the Commander in Chief Trophy.


But then, heartbreak ensues.  Running back Larry Dixon, in a moment that will haunt him forever, botches the handoff, fumbling the ball into the eager Navy defense.  After a few snaps to kill the clock, the Middies skate away with a 17-13 win.  Both teams exchange the traditional singing of the Alma Maters, but Navy sings second…


In the end, I’m glad to have checked the Army Navy game off my bucket list.  Impressed by the passion on the field and deep camaraderie shared among fans, any college football junkie would revere this game.  Like most neutral site games, however, the venue lacks any defining personality and detracts from one of the most heated rivalries in all of sports.  Playing the game in college football vacuum like Philadelphia, in an NFL stadium, in a toxic waste part of town, dampens the spirit of the event.  Yes, I know it’s been played in Philly forever.  But that doesn’t make it suck any less.  The game should be played at the Academies.  Home and home.  Let the steep traditions of West Point and Annapolis surround the contest, and create an authentic game day atmosphere worthy of these two institutions.  While the two Academies will never regain their former glory atop the polls in College Football, the game belies a certain reverence to tradition, respect and honor that is rare in the sport these days.  The game deserves a venue worthy of that heritage.

Special thanks to my friend and USMA graduate Bryce, for his insider perspective on how best to experience this historic rivalry.

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