Gameday: Columbia, Missouri

Tigers vs. Nevada Wolfpack
September 13, 2008

Every election year, the politically inclined keep score as to the degree their preferred candidate is getting the shaft from either the “liberal” or “right-wing” media. Mizzou fans—steeped in the paranoia of a journalism curriculum that exposes malfeasance in local dogcatcher elections—know that if you stacked all of the slights afforded McCain, Obama, Biden and Palin together, they would pale in comparison to the towering media dung heap shoveled upon the Missouri Tigers.

The liberal right-wing media’s preferred tactic for showcasing their open disdain of our program? Ignoring it altogether.

Exhibit A: ESPN College GameDay, the popular show hosted by Chris Fowler, Lee Corso and Kirk Hirbstreit. The plucky trio broadcasts each Saturday in the fall from wherever the big game of the day is played, effectively designating that campus, for at least that afternoon, as the center of the college football universe. GameDay’s tailgate atmosphere (each week raucous fans can be seen behind the set) gets ratcheted up by the fact that the location isn’t announced until the week prior. Like the Monkees, they may be coming to your town.

Except that, since GameDay’s inception in 1993, that town has never been Columbia, Missouri.

On September 6th, 2008, GameDay made its 11th trip to the University of Florida campus. They’ve made 10 trips to Ohio State and 9 to the University of Michigan. The cruelest snub of all came October 28th, 2006, when the crew passed on #19 Oklahoma vs. #23 Missouri to broadcast from Columbia. Columbia, South Carolina.

Someday, Oliver Stone will direct “College GameDay, The Movie,” exposing the evil that lurks behind the smiling corporate façade. Revenge will be served cold, with Wilford Brimley playing the part of Corso and preening peacock Dane Cook portraying quarterback pretty-boy Hirbstreit. Variety will break the story of Bill Pullman declining the role of Fowler.

In the meantime, the center of my personal college football universe remains Columbia, Missouri, and this week’s top media story involved not the College GameDay conspiracy, but Hurricane Ike. Making the 6-hour trek to the Missouri-Nevada game, each news broadcast led with the evacuation of Galveston and low-lying parts of Houston, causing me to wonder why the NCAA considers Native American team nicknames politically incorrect but killer weather system names (Miami Hurricanes, Iowa State Cyclones) hunky dory. Also, why Ike? Dwight Eisenhower was one of this country’s most popular presidents, expertly residing over the Cold War via a strict policy of playing many rounds of golf. Why name Hurricanes at all? If meteorologists insist that they be named, then why not name them after people nobody likes? I'll volunteer my old girlfriend, Hurricane Mean.

I had left Chicago early Friday morning to break the gravitational pull of the city’s morning traffic, but the driving sheets of water Ike was pushing through the midwest slowed me down. At one point I’m relatively certain I passed a twister, with Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton (who also turned down the role of Fowler) in hot pursuit.

But like my hero Barry Manilow, I made it through the rain, pulling into a garage catty-corner from Harpo’s in time for lunch. For decades, Harpo’s has been the most popular beer joint in Columbia—Sports Illustrated ranked it #2 on the list of best college sports bars. It’s getting a run for its beer money these days from cheeky upstart Shiloh’s, but it remains the old school heavyweight champion. When students tear the goalposts down, they end up here.

And so do I, taking a welcome break from sitting on my ass in a car for six hours by sitting on my ass on a barstool--a decided upgrade. I order a Bud Light and a cobb salad, both of which are served by an stupefyingly attractive bartender—another Harpo’s trademark. I dug into the Columbia Tribune, the arch nemesis of the Columbia Missourian. While newspapers die everywhere else, they hang on here.

What’s changed at Harpo’s since I was in school? For starters, there’s far more advertising on the go cups. Behind the bar sits what my bartender friends would call a Kevorkian—the Jaggermeister shot machine featuring three upside-down bottles feeding into it. And several additional beer tap handles. Other than that, nothing’s materially different, except that I no longer order Long Island Iced Teas.

A cute girl walked in the front door and asked the cute bartender if there were any (probably cute) keys left last night. The bartender chirped, “No, sorry—good luck!” A waitress carrying a tray of food and beverages cheerily excused herself around a fat guy blocking her path. Girls in Columbia are nice.

Dennis Harper, one of Harpo’s original owners, still works there. He stopped by several tables—and my barstool—to make sure everything was up to standards (i.e., your drink was cold and the food barely edible). He lingered a while at a table against the front door, and a few minutes later one of the waitresses made her way over and said, “Lunch is on Dennis.” It was then I realized I was sharing my barely edible lunch with Heisman trophy candidate Chase Daniel.

This wasn’t a complete surprise. I had read that Chase and his parents ate lunch at Harpo’s before every home game. If you're thinking, “where does hard-hitting investigative reporting end and stalking begin?,” rest assured that, other than making sure that Chase wasn’t taking hits off the Kervorkian, I had nothing to ask him.

Generally speaking I feel it’s a sound policy to leave strangers alone, especially those you only know from TV. Which may be why I struggled in Los Angeles, where you’re supposed to hand them screenplays. Truth is, many celebrities actually want to be noticed, which explains why Susan Sarandon once asked me where the elevator was while I was standing in front of it.

I paid my bill, leaving a tip which would be considered generous but not creepy, and ducked into the Harpo’s bathroom. It retains the same stench it emanated in my undergrad days. If you took a dump there, you would not hesitate to throw your pants away. A newspaper hung over the urinal and as I held my breath I read about the demise of the St. Louis Cardinals.

Re-entering the relatively fresh atmosphere of caked-on beer and Lysol, I strolled toward the front door. Unbelievably, that fucking Daniel family reached it at the same time. Looking back, it makes complete sense that they would park in the same garage I did, since there were no street spaces available. The ride up in the garage elevator confirmed that Chase is funny (a kid in a SEMO shirt couldn’t believe he had run into Daniel while wearing it, and neither could Chase) and a legitimate 6 feet tall—a bone of contention considering that most listed heights in athletics are padded.

The elevator ride took too long for me to maintain my silence. “Keep the ball dry tomorrow, Chase,” I sagely warned. He leveled a glance and solemnly replied, “oh, yeah.” I had done my part to ensure zero turnovers.

The Tiger Spirit store on 9th street was sold out of black-and-gold ponchos, so I had more time to kill before their afternoon shipment arrived. The logical place to hit next was Booches, a bar and billiards parlor that’s been around since 1884. I finished my Busch long neck, turned to head to the bathroom—and walked straight past Coach Pinkel, who was eating lunch with three other men. Rusty roofing nails protruded from his burger.

What were the odds of running into both the quarterback and the head coach within minutes of each other, I wondered rhetorically as I held my breath in the even more horrible Booches’ bathroom. Fueled by three lunch time beers, I was now a seasoned veteran at annoying my heroes. “Good luck tomorrow, Coach Pinkel,” I wisely intoned. “Thank you! I appreciate it!” he beamed. I think we both wanted to explore this conversation further, but I had a poncho to buy and Coach had last minute game plan tweaks to make.

The poncho still wasn’t there. I gave them my cell phone number and headed for Brady Commons, the student center housing the campus bookstore. They wouldn’t have ponchos, either, but if you want to know what it’s like to have a team that was #5 in the country, you have to see how t-shirts are selling. The answer came in the form of the line that snaked from the cashier to the back of the store. Everyone—students, professors, parents and college football stalkers—felt the urgent need to stock up on Mizzou scarves, pajama bottoms and face stickers. Finally, the poncho call came. I picked out a beauty.

Nevada, our weekend competition from the WAC conference, was no pushover. They had extended Texas Tech the week before, holding dark horse Heisman quarterback Graham Harrell under 50% passing and picking him off twice.

They’re also no Nebraska, so the bars on Friday night were well-populated but not shoulder-to-shoulder. I headed for Shiloh’s to watch the Kansas-South Florida game. Several patrons chatted me up, sensing my afternoon encounters with Chase Daniel and Coach Pinkel. South Florida came back strong after trailing in the first half, and when they took the lead, an excited fan knocked my beer over, drenching my arm and the bar. It was a classic enthusiasm spill, and the play was in front of me—I should have anticipated it.

I scanned the bar. Here’s a sign you’re getting old: you no longer have any concept about the workings of 21-year old breasts. Can they possibly be both that impressive-looking and real? Were after-market upgrades all the rage, even here in mid-Missouri? Could bra technology have advanced that much since you were an undergrad?

The KU-USF game entered the fourth quarter. Back at Harpo’s, a mini-contingent representing Marching Mizzou—complete with a tiger-striped tuba—strolled in around 10:30 and played a fight song medley, the patrons singing along. Now figuratively as well as literally juiced up, the crowd sensed a Kansas loss, which is the only thing Missouri fans relish more than a Tiger win. Malkon Bonani, the South Florida kicker, hooked a 43-yard field goal just inside the right upright with no time left on the clock. As the referee’s hands went up, conservative, churchgoing midwesterners chanted, “FUCK KU! FUCK KU!”

Perfect evening, and with an 11:30 a.m. kickoff, nothing left to do but turn in.

The next morning, the rain hadn’t hit yet, but looked like it could any minute. The humidity dictated that I change T-shirts several times from my hotel room to my car. I met my niece for breakfast at the Broadway Diner and headed to Faurot Field. Poncho? Check. Tickets? Check. Alcohol?

I had forgotten to make a run to South Side liquors. My preferred drink is beer, except for college football games. Too hard to sneak in. You can only accomplish it while wearing a big coat, and even then you’ve got to string the cans (always cans) around your torso like a bandolier. Plus, beer doesn’t mix with giant concession stand soft drinks. No, beer is for tailgates, a pint of Seagrams for the game.

But I had neither beer nor Seagrams, and anyway, what I really wanted was a bloody mary. It was around 10:30, and the tailgates were in full swing. I called Jackie Clark, the president-elect of the Mizzou Alumni Association who also answers to "Tiger Lady" due to her procurement of all manner of Bengal attire (boas a specialty and undergarments, I'm told, also MU-themed). No luck—she was partying in a sky box, as president-elects of all stripes are wont to do.

I decided to watch the game sober, convincing myself that it would be a character builder.

Inside the stadium, the rain finally came. Then, it stopped. Then it started again. My $7.99 poncho performed admirably, the hood flipping effortlessly up and down as advertised. As football games played in crappy conditions go, this was only about a 3 out of 10. Never did the soggy elements affect the play on the field, mainly because of my wise admonition to Chase Daniel.

On the fourth play from scrimmage, Derrick Washington broke a 59-yard run to make it 7-0. On the Tigers’ fifth play from scrimmage, Daniel hit Jeremy Maclin, who turned a nice gain into an 80-yard touchdown sprint. The Mizzou offense was operating better than it did against SEMO the week before, scoring every time they had the ball. The secondary continued their alarming trend of giving up a cheap touchdown late in the second quarter to make it Tigers 38, Wolfpack 17 at the half.

The second half opened with Jeremy Maclin drawing single coverage on a fly pattern. Here’s what that looks like: A cornerback running stride-for-stride with Maclin, Chase Daniel putting the ball well out in front of both of them, and Maclin separating by several strides and hauling the pass in like a Transformer in a Michael Bay movie. If I were that cornerback I would have tripped and fell and then cursed an imaginary seam in the turf so that nobody could see how much slower I was.

With the outcome well in hand, Chase Patton and Blaine Gabbert substituted for Daniel and rotated series, just as they had the week prior. They both directed scoring drives and played well, except that following Daniel, who was 25-for-28 passing, a normal completion rate makes the quarterback look like he’s struggling.

The rain came harder, and as the Tigers tacked on an early 4th quarter field goal to make the score 62-17, my niece clearly wanted to leave. She was right, of course, except that she doesn’t know the experience of watching the Tigers on the wrong end of games like this. We compromised, watching the end of the game at Booches over a celebratory burger and my delicious first beer of the day.

Afterward, I received a guided tour of the new journalism school addition. The unveiling the week before had coincided with the program’s 100th anniversary, and the detritus from visiting dignitaries remained. I asked her if the journalism professors seemed to favor Obama over McCain, and she told me the presidential campaign didn’t come up all that much. Then we walked past a photojournalism display of black-and-white pictures. One featured Obama looking resolutely into the future, his wife and children in fuzzy focus behind him. Next to it stood a shot of John and Cindy McCain being wanded for metal as they passed through airport security.

Driving home, the weather continued to deteriorate. The ESPN scoreboard update marveled at the Tigers’ offensive output, and Chase Daniel in particular. He had now directed scoring drives in his last 13 possessions—12 for touchdowns—vaulting him to the front of early Heisman trophy discussions. Maybe GameDay would make it to Columbia this year after all.