"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." - President Josiah Bartlett (maybe Margaret Meade)
Substitute "functional alcoholics" for "citizens" and you've still got a useful maxim without losing much truth. And so it was, on cold, rainy February afternoons that a small band of students hauled sofas to the hillside, covered them with tarps and staked claim for a season in Right Field at Oxford University Stadium, cheering on an Ole Miss baseball team that hadn't won a conference championship since 1977.
Grills and coolers were brought out for what is the closest many will ever come to owning a luxury box for a sporting event. And when the sun finally arrived, those noble sooners were able to hold court around their hard-fought outfield homestead.
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| A few cracks in the vinyl just helps you find the groove. |
Now that Ole Miss Baseball has missed out on postseason play for just the third time since Mike Bianco was hired in 2000, it's time for another brief session of fond remembrance; some reaffirmation of why we do this and how far we come. If you were lucky enough to have spent time on the Swayze hilltop between 2000 and 2006, you shouldn't have to look too far.
"Start turning the girl into the ground, roll a new love over." You think you're grown. You think you're a man. I'm 20 years old, for christsakes. I'm a Sophomore. I've seen some shit. There aren't a lot of surprises left. Got a slick fake ID and figured out the places that will take it. There's some cold Beast Light in a rolling ice chest and some meat burning on a grill. A little sun, a little baseball...holy shiiiit.
Beer drops to the ground, splashing and hissing against the coals below. Mouth slacks and eyes come to a squint. Through the brightness of the solar flare, she walks up the hillside in a jean skirt and a skin-tight black Allman Brothers Band t-shirt, sunlight reverently breaking in front of her; leaving a heat wave wake. There were soft curves and stretched black cotton all joined together into a gentle, rhythmic sway.
With pupils fighting to process through the bright at full dilation, screaming to look away or go blind, in the moments just before permanent optical damage set in, I think I saw Jesus smiling over her left shoulder.
Beer drops to the ground, splashing and hissing against the coals below. Mouth slacks and eyes come to a squint. Through the brightness of the solar flare, she walks up the hillside in a jean skirt and a skin-tight black Allman Brothers Band t-shirt, sunlight reverently breaking in front of her; leaving a heat wave wake. There were soft curves and stretched black cotton all joined together into a gentle, rhythmic sway.
With pupils fighting to process through the bright at full dilation, screaming to look away or go blind, in the moments just before permanent optical damage set in, I think I saw Jesus smiling over her left shoulder.
It was probably on a similar March day in 1969 when two brothers and their wandering collection of major-label musical rejects decided to stay together. "We can't give up guys," I imagine Duane saying. "In 40 years, a kid in Oxford, Mississippi is going to find religion when some girl wears one of our t-shirts to a baseball game. If we break up, that might never happen."
As with all Ole Miss athletic events...and perhaps life in general, the key is to attract the casual follower into a sport is to create something that is more cocktail than competition. That finally took hold during these formative years. It was the debters, ramblers and second sons of the Grove empire exiled to fight out their own space in the wilderness. Right Field at Swayze was the Australia to the Grove's Great Britain-- a rough penal colony imitation of the establishment.
Once the dingos were fought off, the Indian attacks died down and some basic supply lines were established, the pioneer women arrive. Without the pretensions and pearls of settled society, frontier women are little more rough and tumble-- and lot more practical. Gone are the cocktail dresses and heels of football weekends. Mom and Dad probably aren't in town, and Sorority initiation is long over. Baseball was all flip-flops, short shorts and the occasional bikini top.
God bless them all, but especially those of the jean skirts and rock shirts. And of course, God bless Duane Allman.
Once the dingos were fought off, the Indian attacks died down and some basic supply lines were established, the pioneer women arrive. Without the pretensions and pearls of settled society, frontier women are little more rough and tumble-- and lot more practical. Gone are the cocktail dresses and heels of football weekends. Mom and Dad probably aren't in town, and Sorority initiation is long over. Baseball was all flip-flops, short shorts and the occasional bikini top.
God bless them all, but especially those of the jean skirts and rock shirts. And of course, God bless Duane Allman.
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| God bless you, Duane. |
"In the middle of the day, there's a young man rolling around in the earth and rain." What are now carefully terraced, pea-gravel flats with clearly marked edges were once little more than a slightly flat spot on a hillside. You dug the front legs of your folding chair into the dirt and rocked your weight to your heels to keep upright.
Of course this wasn't always successful, especially into later innings. And when it rained, the whole slope turned into a rolling avalanche of bodies sliding into the trough at the base of the right field fence.
Once you find yourself in the puddle, you might as well roll around in it for a second.
What were earlier seen as embarrassments began to look like good fun. Given time and encouragement, people begin purposefully flinging themselves, belly first, onto the muddy slick, splashing through the catchment at the bottom and occasionally thumping into the backside of the wall.
There's something amazing about tearing down a really good, winding dirt road. The slip, drift, dust and bare illusion of control is everything that makes fossil fuel consumption emotionally worthwhile. Today, they're being paved over and straightened. Sure, it's a more efficient, safer way to travel, but it's also a bit mindless and cold. Dirt is warm. The old right field was a dirt road paved over-- and that's probably for the best-- but it's just not the same.
"Keep turning the wool across the wire." Heckles. Heckles, I Say. Baseball fandom was built on the very special relationship between the outfielder and the over-served outfield attendee. But like any relationship, the discourse is helped by taking the time to really get to know the person with whom you're discoursing. And so, a plucky local weekly paper began doing some light internet research and putting together quick profiles of each weekend's visiting Right Fielder.
Just simple things. His full name, hometown...perhaps the name of a female relative or any interesting bits that might be pulled from a hokey media guide profile-- favorite meal, favorite movie, maybe a quote of inspiration. And unlike a football game where you can only be heard as part of the deafening throng-- either as just noise within noise or part of simple chants-- the small collective of spectators directly overlooking an outfield provides the intimacy for a real, substantive conversation; To really dig deep into the individual's persona, hopes, dreams and shortcomings-- like a Festivus airing of grievances shouted from 10 yards away.
Just simple things. His full name, hometown...perhaps the name of a female relative or any interesting bits that might be pulled from a hokey media guide profile-- favorite meal, favorite movie, maybe a quote of inspiration. And unlike a football game where you can only be heard as part of the deafening throng-- either as just noise within noise or part of simple chants-- the small collective of spectators directly overlooking an outfield provides the intimacy for a real, substantive conversation; To really dig deep into the individual's persona, hopes, dreams and shortcomings-- like a Festivus airing of grievances shouted from 10 yards away.
And sometimes, the baseball gods just toss out a piece of bloody red meat to the Coliseum lions.
It was a great day when that opposing squad took the field. You didn't need to pull up the profile from the paper. His entire being was printed cleanly across the blades of the Right Fielder's back. His last name was "Glasscock."
I don't remember if Ole Miss won or loss. I don't even clearly remember what team young Glasscock played for. I just remember that was a good day on the hillside.
The section was also directly overlooking the opposing team's bullpen. The outfield was the first to know when a pitching change was coming and greeted the incoming hurlers as they readied to take the field. It came to its peak on a cold, rainy afternoon in an early season game against a small school from New Jersey. One of the remaining few fans, driven mad to match the conditions, climbed the walls of the bullpen like a steel cage wrestler, screaming derisive comments to a shaken relief pitcher probably on his first (and likely only) trip to the state of Mississippi. The bullpen has since been moved.
"Get right to the heart of matters, it's the heart that matters more." For the first few years, the only way to sit in the outfield and follow a game was to break out an old-fashioned hand-written scorecard. The only visible part of the scoreboard was the back, and even after a small, rear-facing display was added, it only gave the bare minimum-- score and inning. The official announcer was barely heard and scarcely understood through the struggling lone megaphone spliced to the back of the main scoreboard.
It created discussion-- what's the count? Who's up? Who's that warming up in the bullpen? It was the original crowdsourced, shared experience sporting event.
The regulars, the keepers of the sofas, the holders of the grill flames, became the community elders-- setting the tone for those in attendance, forming them into a functioning whole with just simple rules of basic decorum.
When to chant "Dirt." Keep your beer in a cup. When to start a Hotty Toddy. After the between-inning outfield warm-ups, the Ole Miss outfield's warm-up ball was tossed to the right field stands for safe keeping. The elders made sure it was secured and returned when the outfielders returned to the field. Most importantly, they made sure any girls in attendance had a seat and a beer.
The regulars, the keepers of the sofas, the holders of the grill flames, became the community elders-- setting the tone for those in attendance, forming them into a functioning whole with just simple rules of basic decorum.
When to chant "Dirt." Keep your beer in a cup. When to start a Hotty Toddy. After the between-inning outfield warm-ups, the Ole Miss outfield's warm-up ball was tossed to the right field stands for safe keeping. The elders made sure it was secured and returned when the outfielders returned to the field. Most importantly, they made sure any girls in attendance had a seat and a beer.
Concessions were non-existant. Parking was free and first-come-first-serve. Admission was free. For the first few years, there wasn't even a security guard. The closest thing to an "official" University presence was the Port-O-Johns that were placed, and even occasionally emptied, at the entrance. It was a laissez-fare, free form, student driven experience that has largely disappeared from American universities and college athletics in particular.
Gradually, it was chipped away. You had to pay for parking. A private security guard was sent to patrol the stands. Later, it was uniformed UPD patrols, complete with cooler searches and admonishments for illicit language. It wasn't a "family environment," but it wasn't supposed to be. Anyone who wandered into Right Field with children was obviously lost and kindly directed elsewhere.
Gradually, it was chipped away. You had to pay for parking. A private security guard was sent to patrol the stands. Later, it was uniformed UPD patrols, complete with cooler searches and admonishments for illicit language. It wasn't a "family environment," but it wasn't supposed to be. Anyone who wandered into Right Field with children was obviously lost and kindly directed elsewhere.
"If you're gonna walk on water, could you drop a line my way?" 2001 was when the dreams of winning more than the party really started to fester. After each victory, fans filed out to the tune of the Counting Crows' "Omaha" struggling through the aged megaphone.
It was a hopeful thing. The logistics of a road trip to Nebraska became a common topic of conversation among the couches. The team finished 2nd in the West and was invited to an NCAA regional. It stumbled in 2002 with a baffling collapse in conference play, but rebounded for Regionals and Super Regionals from 2003-2010.
It was a hopeful thing. The logistics of a road trip to Nebraska became a common topic of conversation among the couches. The team finished 2nd in the West and was invited to an NCAA regional. It stumbled in 2002 with a baffling collapse in conference play, but rebounded for Regionals and Super Regionals from 2003-2010.
But as postseason efforts fell short, often in heartbreaking fashion against superpowers like Texas, Miami and Arizona State, the post game "Omaha" chorus turned from hopeful anthem to a crushing taunt. And in this way, Ole Miss baseball fell into the sad "not ready for primetime" malaise of the rest of the athletic structure. Perhaps it was even more bitter because the team had shown such consistent success. You couldn't ever be justifiably angry or distraught...just disappointed, and that eats at you even more than outright ineptitude.
"Think you better turn your ticket in, get your money back at the door." One day, the hard scrabble homesteader wakes up to the sound of sirens and horns. He looks out his door and the scrap of land nobody wanted is now full of conveniences and costs. The neighboring families that were there at the beginning are long gone, replaced by a thousand strangers with security fences, car alarms and children tethered to leashes. There's no place for old couches and open flames and the "security" for your own good would never allow you to roll down a hill into the mud. It's been whitewashed and institutionalized.
Not that it's not still good. At its core, it's still college kids sitting in the sun and watching baseball, and that's pretty hard to frown on. From 2000 to 2009, overall attendance at Ole Miss baseball went from a season total of 40,130 fans to 273,111, and the resources granted to the previously neglected baseball team have ballooned to set a national standard for facilities, atmosphere and revenue-- no small feat for a school like Ole Miss. Of course, a lot of that has to do with the success of the team itself-- the talent of the players and the work of Bianco. It also had to do with fundraising and leadership from the boosters and administration of the university.
But somewhere, lost in the shuffle, is the impact of those dedicated few who showed up, game after game, with cheap beer on tattered sofas and pioneered something unique and organic. Institutions pay untold millions to far away consultants in an effort to officially cultivate atmosphere and tradition that ultimately feels like lunch at the Madison Applebees. The Swayze Right Field was something honest and uncontrived. And in college sports, certainly more than pro, talented players are attracted to fan enthusiasm and today's beer swilling outfield bums become tomorrow's high-dollar luxury box donors.
Modern Ole Miss baseball, a nationally-relevant program that generates revenue for the school, could not have happened if it were not for those who braved the cold February days on the hillside. And for those of us who saw it happen, it'll be hard to ever completely cut yourself off from the school, the sport and the program that were at the heart of it.
Modern Ole Miss baseball, a nationally-relevant program that generates revenue for the school, could not have happened if it were not for those who braved the cold February days on the hillside. And for those of us who saw it happen, it'll be hard to ever completely cut yourself off from the school, the sport and the program that were at the heart of it.
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