Author: Pigskin Pursuit (Page 19 of 61)

Northwestern vs. Indiana – Big Cat Country…

October 3, 2012 / Pigskin Pursuit / 0 Comments

It’s Saturday morning in the Windy City, and finally feels like fall. A refreshing crisp is the air, and I don a hooded sweatshirt over my purple t-shirt in preparation for the trip to Northwestern. It’s an 11am start time, one of those awful byproducts of maximizing television exposure. Weary fans barely have enough time for a cup of coffee, never mind anything heavier, before herding into the stadium for a morning kickoff. The way the Big 10 is playing this year, early kickoffs might be the only games fans choose to watch before flipping over to the afternoon SEC or Pac 12 matchups.

I catch a ride to the Fullerton red line stop on the “El”, the elevated local train system in Chicago. For $2.25 I can ride it all the way up to Evanston from downtown, and I press into the silver car as it rattles to a stop. Urban dwellers are quick to glamorize the joys of public transportation, but a few minutes on the train remind me why I don’t miss it. A few vagrants lie across the seats, and the entire car wafts an enticing aroma of old socks mixed with rancid ethnic food. It rumbles agonizingly slow on the elevated tracks, stopping altogether at random intervals for no apparent reason.

Winding through the Chicago skyline, the train gradually swells at each stop with an array of purple and crimson shirts. Nearing Evanston, it’s packed to standing capacity. The contrast between the two fan bases is stark. Older Northwestern alums tote paper bags of neatly placed organic groceries, while younger Indiana alums carry Styrofoam coolers packed with unnaturally colorful bum wine, trading sips of cheap rum from a disposable plastic flask. A few of them squabble with each other about the contest ahead, which, given the traditional football prowess of both schools, is comical to say the least.

After nearly an hour on the train, I cover the ten miles to the Central Street stop, the same pace as a casual jog. I emerge from the station with scarcely an hour before kickoff. It’s a beautiful day for college football in Evanston. Crisp weather, brilliant blue sky and leaves arching over the street are just starting to turn the first shades of autumn gold.

I cue up for breakfast at Mustard’s Last Stand, a hot dog joint in the shadow of Ryan Field. Dishing out Chicago fare since 1969, the walls are covered with old football photos and a fading white menu board. I opt for an armful of classics, a chocolate shake, hot dog with the works, and an Italian beef sandwich – with the bun dipped in the au jous of course. Like all traditional Chicago dogs, the poppy seed bun is overflowing with tomatoes, a pickle slice, sweet peppers, slather of yellow mustard, an all beef frank, and a gentle shake of celery salt. Ketchup, the prevailing beacon of bad taste, is refreshingly absent from the entire establishment in true Chicago fashion. The Italian beef sandwich proves underwhelming and plain, but the chocolate shake here is a true star. Hand dipped from tubs of chocolate ice cream, it’s blended with syrup and whole milk, served in a Dixie cup, the icy treat just thick enough to tug through a straw.

After my power breakfast, I walk past a few ambitious tailgaters in the gravel lot next to Ryan Field, scooping up a quick ticket on the 50 yard line for twenty bucks. The scalper tries to put up a fight, but when he’s holding an inch thick stack of tickets in his hand, it’s hard to be persuasive. Built in 1926, Ryan is one of the oldest stadiums in the Big 10, and entering through the concrete arches it echoes that classic feel. At only 47,000 capacity it’s also the smallest stadium in the Big 10, and only about 2/3 of the place was full on this early Saturday morning, despite the unblemished 4-0 record of the Wildcats.

Following the opening kickoff, The Hoosiers are caught off guard in the opening half, as the Northwestern blitzkrieg explodes for 314 yards, jumping out to a 20-0 lead heading into the locker room. The crowd grows aloof with the easy first frame, relaxing on the aluminum bleachers, chatting about classic cars and corporate strategy. But Indiana battles back in the second half, reeling off 21 3^rd quarter points, forcing the NU fans to their feet once again on key third down defensive stands. Surprisingly, the contest proves to be an exciting shootout. Eventually, late in the 4^th quarter the Cats put the game away, punching in a touchdown with five minutes left on the clock. Though the 44-29 win is convincing, the 704 yards of total offense – a school record – is sure to raise an eyebrow from some of the elder statesman of the conference. With a 5-0 record and abnormally weak Big 10 play this year, the door is open for a Wildcat surprise season.

After the game, I brave the “El” once again, then cab it over to Smoque Barbecue, and sink my teeth into the best brisket I’ve had outside of Texas. (read the full review here) Bellied up on barbecue in the late afternoon, it’s time for the real entertainment of the day; Oktoberfest. I return to a houseful of lederhosen garbed friends where a keg of imported Hofbrauhaus and authentic Bavarian pretzels await as we flip channels through a few of the SEC games. A few hours later, we stumble onto a hired trolley for the night, reveling through downtown Chicago in a handful of traditional German bars like Prost!. Sloshing huge mugs of molasses colored Spaten Optimator and passing sips of the massive two liter “das boots” full of lager, it’s a fine nightcap to a nice little Saturday.

Truthfully, the trip to Northwestern was more about spending a weekend in Chicago with friends, and checking one more Big 10 school off the list. While they may have sporadic bouts of historical success, Northwestern is not a traditional football powerhouse and the game day environment is pretty tame. Like any major metropolitan area, college football takes a back seat to the professional teams in town, and the Bears are certainly the kings of the gridiron in Chicago. But a pristine day of fall weather watching a few helmets pop is never a bad way to spend a Saturday afternoon, or morning for that matter, especially with an Oktoberfest chaser…

(Full Clickable gallery below)

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Florida State vs. Clemson – Still “Unconquered”…

September 27, 2012 / Pigskin Pursuit / 4 Comments

I hate Florida State.

At least, I’m supposed to. Growing up a Notre Dame fan, the two teams were perennially vying for the national championship, squaring off in some of the most epic college football games ever played. 1993 Still burns like acid in my memories. But the days of Lou Holtz and Bobby Bowden staring across the gridiron are distant memories, and, like the Irish, the Seminoles find themselves trying to recapture their former glory. Sporting a #4 ranking, lofty post season expectations and a premier ACC conference matchup against Clemson, the lure of this storied program was calling my name.

After a late Friday night arrival, thanks to the rapidly decaying service of American Airlines, I start out groggily on Saturday morning after few hours shuteye. Tallahassee is a deceptively difficult place to get to. Tucked into the corner where the Florida Panhandle meets the Peninsula, its three hours from Pensacola or Jacksonville. With flights in excess of $1,000 for either of those locations, I flew into the suburban cultural vacuum of Tampa instead, making the four hour drive up the Gulf Coast. Hammering up State Road 19, the spongy Florida countryside is speckled with neatly planted Southern yellow pine forests, interspersed with an occasional towering live oak, draped in iconic Spanish moss. The drive proves more peaceful than I anticipated. Not the stop light ridden, strip mall consumerist bile typically associated with the entire sunshine state.

I stop once along the way, lunch at Goodmans BBQ in Perry. The waiter proudly takes me through their selection of four different sauces (one of which is ketchup), but when I ask him what kind of wood they smoke with, my query is met with a blank stare. I hadn’t expected much from Florida cue’, and the sloppy plate here confirms my fears. I shovel the lifeless grey protein down dejectedly, and press on northward.

Arriving in Tallahassee and winding my way around the state capitol building, I meet up with Drew (name redacted) a second year law student at FSU who’d agreed to part with an extra student ticket over a few emails we’d exchanged. He promptly thrust a red solo cup in my hand, and I joined him and a few other law students huddled under the shade of a lone parking lot Oak for a few cold Coors Lights.

After a few pops, I make my way down Jefferson Street, flanked on both sides by pristine sorority houses. Sadly, the legendary FSU coeds aren’t oil wrestling in the front yards. The sidewalks are painted with bright floral patterns in front of each of the ornate mansions, their Victorian balconies overlooking manicured lawns and kempt flower beds. Following a growing herd shuffling towards the stadium lots, the asphalt plains are flooded with a sea of tents. Tailgaters fan themselves in the shade beneath, nose deep in massive plastic cups of bourbon and coke, retreating from the ninety degree Florida sun.

I make a quick lap around Doak Campbell, a few hundred students already lined up at the iron gates four hours before kickoff. In addition to enclosing Bobby Bowden field, the stadium sports a massive stained glass mural and several attached buildings housing various administration and classroom facilities. It’s an imposing monolith of masonry, and claims to be the largest continuous brick structure in the United States. I mill around the “Unconquered” statue, a breathtaking 19ft bronze commission erected in tribute the Seminole people, the only tribe to never officially surrender to the US Government. Seminole mascot and traditions run deep at Florida State, and are officially sanctioned by the Seminole tribe, no doubt appeased by some sizeable checks flowing out of the athletic department.

In the shadow of the statue I meet up with Alan, a friend of a friend (real names redacted) who presents me with the most remarkable gift I’ve ever had on my travels – a field pass for the entire contest. I’ll be watching the biggest game in the ACC all season, an ESPN Gameday game, close enough to hear cleats scratching on the turf. The student ticket I had elaborately procured only moments before now repulses me. I stroke the glossy plastic pass as we enter the tunnel, marveling at the power of access that comes with each security checkpoint. Touching the pass reassuringly every few seconds, I check to make sure the flimsy elastic hasn’t snapped off my neck. My precious…

We watch some pre game warm-ups from the sideline, the game nearly two hours before kickoff. Players stretch and drill fundamentals while assistant coaches observe behind dark sunglasses. A few prized recruits are led in from the tunnel, single file like show ponies, behind a gaggle of stunning female boosters playing tour guide. Boys gifted with mens bodies. They clearly draw from a different gene pool than most. It’s going to be the biggest game of the year in Tallahassee, so this is their best chance to close the sale on the most touted five star recruits. I marvel at the relaxed calm of pregame, watching the empty aluminum bleachers gradually swell to life before kickoff.

As kickoff approaches, a steady drumbeat pierces through the pregame chaos. The iconic Seminole War Chant begins. Swampy southern air grows more electric as each second ticks off the countdown clock, the crowd rhythmically tomahawk chopping as they howl. Chief Osceola, mounted on a painted Appaloosa named Renegade, prance their way to midfield, his flaming spear thrust nobly overhead into the Florida night. With a tug on the mane, the horse rears onto its hind legs, the spear driven gallantly into the turf, signaling the start of the contest. It’s contrived ceremony, perhaps even a bit pompous – show me an entrance that isn’t. Your heart pumps diesel, thumping against your chest with each ritualistic drumbeat, deafening echoes amplified by 83,000 others hanging on the precarious edge of frenzy. It’s an epic entrance.

On the field, the contest lives up to the hype. Clemson jumps out to an early lead, led by a deceptive rushing attack and a few misdirection plays. The offense comes in flurries. Up close, the sheer size and speed of these athletes is remarkable. They’re carved out of stone. Helmets pop with each collision, and the chatter between players becomes audible….“Watch 1-2, Pickup 1-2!”. During key defensive third downs, the War Chant reaches its zenith. At field level my ears throb in the din. Having a conversation is all but impossible, never mind running an offense. The crowd wills the Seminoles back to life. In the second half their offense explodes, reeling off 35 points on a flawless balance of rushing and passing. They cruise to a 49-37 victory, solidifying their position near the top of the polls.

Having been there now, it’s impossible to hate Florida State. It’s a first tier college football destination with proud traditions, a boisterous atmosphere and fervent fan base. As long as they faithfully lose to the Irish annually in the ACC, count FSU among the favored elite of college football experiences.

Special thanks to a great friend for the field pass, it was truly a once in a life time experience. Hopefully, we can finally connect for a game one of these days man…

Thanks also to my “handler” for the evening on the field, and making sure I didn’t run out and try to tackle someone. Go Noles!

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September 9, 2012 / Pigskin Pursuit / 4 Comments

As the oppressive heat of the summer breaks, ushering in the welcome relief of crisp fall air, another college football season dawns, and with it the promise of new adventure. A clean slate to dart down another unexplored county highway, discovering new corners and eddies of the American landscape. Football is a mere footnote to the narrative; this is an ongoing odyssey to continually explore the world around me. The “Emerald Isle Classic”, featuring Notre Dame vs Navy, offered a unique chance to expand my journey into the international sphere with a rare international college football game in Dublin, Ireland.

With my friend Chrissy along for the entire campaign, we spend the week leading up to kickoff avoiding the crowds in Ireland. Instead, racing a shiny black Volkswagen Passat through a different corner of the United Kingdom; the fabled Scottish Highlands. Crossing the Mallaig ferry to the Isle Of Skye, and pressing northward into the jagged Trotternish range, we hike through the curious, supernatural landscape of the Quiraing. Impossibly green, the plush grasses cling to towering buttresses of ancient volcanic basalt, silhouettes of eerie weathered pinnacles poking through the thick grey mist. A few sheep graze precariously among the shrouded crags, their coats thick to fend off the constant, menacing winds. The Highlands are hard country. The birthplace of uisge beatha, the “water of life”.

After an incredible week of heavy food and heavier drink, we leave the rugged Scottish countryside behind to the beckoning harps of Ireland. Cautiously weighing my luggage to avoid their sneaky fees, I board the quick RyanAir flight from Edinburgh into Dublin. Football season is underway.

Filing into the opulent lobby of the Shelbourne Marriott across the street from St. Stephens Green, I’m greeted by a bell hop bowing in a top hat. The lobby overflows with starched blazers, khakis and floral dresses. My wrinkled hooded sweatshirt and hiking boots seem strangely out of place here. Despite the disheveled look, I’m upgraded to the JFK Suite, a perk of Marriott status points. It’s bigger than my apartment and the digs come with a full living room, a few flatscreen TV’s and some chrome racks in the bathroom that preheat the towels. There’s a framed silhouette of Jack himself hanging on the wall, a tribute to the time he spent here in the winter of 1963, a few short months before his assassination. I’m more excited about the free breakfast.

Despite the comforts of the hotel room, we hastily hit the streets to check out the city. It’s Friday before game day, and the place is flooded with Americans, some 35,000 of them accordingly to official tallies. Notre Dame and Navy gear abounds, the sidewalks a dawdling sea of awful, shimmering Cutter & Buck windbreakers. Grey and silver coiffures belie a considerably older demographic than a typical college crowd, confirmed by the prevalence of tasseled loafers. We duck into the first pub we can find.

Fresh off the tap…

Naturally, I opt for the local brew; Guinness. It flows almost continuously from the taps, set to rest tantalizingly on the bar top while the cloudy chocolate swirls gradually settle before being topped off with a thick, creamy head by the deft hand of the patient barman. After a week of travel, the pillowy black elixir drinks exceptionally well. I take them down in huge gulps, leaving rings of foam stacked down the glass. Everyone insists Guinness tastes better in Ireland, but I can’t discern a difference. I suspect this is mostly psychological, it’s vacation beer after all, and vacation beer always tastes better. Even a Corona probably tastes good on vacation. Too bad I’ll never find out.

We hit a handful of pubs that night, O’Reilly’s, O’Donoghue’s, O’Neill’s and a handful of others with token Irish names. They all look remarkably similar inside. Traditional, dimly lit, worn Irish Oak covering every surface. There’s no pretension, no annoying music and flat screen TV’s blaring away, and the collars stay refreshingly unpopped. The drinks are simple. Beer. Whiskey. Simple men can talk with their friends, clang a few glasses, the same as it’s been for generations. I soak in more atmosphere, and even more stout. A few Americans sidle up to the bar next to me, boorishly waving a few euros at the bartender. They order a round of Coors Lights and Budweiser, bottled of course. I resist the urge to choke slam them through an oak barrel.

The Temple Bar Pub

Wake up comes early on Saturday morning and we hit the Temple Bar area to get in some pre game festivities. Already a popular spot with tourists, the narrow cobblestone streets are mobbed with fans spilling out of the various pubs. I elbow us into the Temple Bar Pub, a landmark tavern adorned with a colorful cascade of hanging baskets filled with white petunias and violet pansies. After a token Guinness within the hallowed walls, the cramped quarters and long lines grow unbearable. Retreating a few blocks away, we wander into the Mercantile Tavern and straddle a couple seats with a little more breathing room.

After a few pints, the trek to Aviva Stadium begins. The route has been well marked with signs, and the steady herd of jersey adorned fans proves easy to follow. Shuffling through a few residential neighborhoods, the crowd grows increasingly thick with green and blue t-shirts until the glass expanse of Aviva emerges in the distance. After passing through the entrance gates to the courtyard, the Notre Dame bookstore, never missing an opportunity for revenue, has a merchandise trailer set up. Across from it, bathed in rays of golden sunlight poking through the puffy Eire sky, a beacon of stunning contrast stands proudly – an Irish concession trailer selling nips of hot whiskey.

Our seats are high, perched just under the massive white steel trusses that form the spine of the circular stadium roof. With 55,000 seats nested beneath the glass canopy, Aviva is an impressive, modern, structure that feels larger than the capacity would imply. Designed by famed stadium architects HOK Sport, their resume boasts nearly every contemporary stadium design in the world.

On the field, the Irish make easy work of the Midshipmen. I sip a few draught Guinness’s while the Notre Dame offensive line manhandles the outsized Navy squad. At 5 euro apiece, the beers are affordably priced the same as you’d find in the local pubs. And after jumping out to a 24 point halftime lead, the listless crowd takes advantage of the free flowing concessions. The game has all the markings of a college football contest – the players, the band, cheerleaders, etc.; but the atmosphere is noticeably subdued. It’s an older, more refined crowd that made the pilgrimage, and the few Irish natives sprinkled in attendance seem more enamored with the contest than most. Regardless, it’s a season opener under a brilliant sunny afternoon in Ireland. There are certainly worst places in the world to be. Let the new season begin…

Special thanks to Chrissy for her continually positive spirit, and making this trip such a memorable one…

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Changes coming to the blog…

August 9, 2012 / Pigskin Pursuit / 0 Comments

There are a few changes underway with the blog, and the whole thing will be getting a bit of a facelift over the next few days. So please bear with me during these updates, and I look forward to unveiling the new look and feel of Pigskin Pursuit!

The 2012 schedule will be unveiled shortly after that, so stay tuned for the full football lineup this fall!

As a preview, my season will be kicking off internationally with a matchup in Dublin, Ireland. The biggest “road trip” thus far.

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Author: Pigskin Pursuit (Page 19 of 61)

Northwestern vs. Indiana – Big Cat Country…

Florida State vs. Clemson – Still “Unconquered”…

Changes coming to the blog…

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