Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer: A Journey Into the Heart of Fan Mania by Warren St. John

Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer: A Journey Into the Heart of Fan Mania by Warren St. John

Author:Warren St. John [John, Warren St.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Anthropology, Autobiography, Biography, Cultural & Social, Football, Non-Fiction, Social Science, Sports & Recreation, Sports Psychology, Travel
ISBN: 9781400082971
Google: 73s7zfPb2L0C
Amazon: B000FC1W5K
Publisher: Broadway Books
Published: 2004-08-09T23:00:00+00:00


The crackdown on public drinking takes effect as I approach the stadium, though by normal law enforcement standards it isn’t much of a crackdown. The operation consists mostly of cops telling fans either to pour out or to finish their drinks before entering. The result is a series of police-supervised chugging contests up North-South Drive, leading to the main entrance of the stadium. Once inside, I ascend to my seat and find Frances, who is not happy. She’d sold her extra ticket to me at face value so she didn’t risk sitting next to a Gators fan, and yet directly behind us is a deranged-looking college student wearing blue face paint, a Florida hat and T-shirt, and holding an orange and blue shaker. He’s shouting as I take my seat:

CmongatorswegonebeatdesedumbrftnecksgatorbaitgatorbaitgatorBAIT!

Despite the soggy Florida heat, the cluster of Alabama fans in the end zone huddle together. There are about four thousand of us in this corner—the biggest concentration of red in the stadium—and with blue all around us, there’s a need to compress and close ranks. The sun blazes, the turf glows green, and the helmets of both teams reflect the sun like gemstones. The teams come out to a blast of brass and the pop and sizzle of the toms and snares. Then, that Nurembergian clapping routine again—Clap . . . . . . clap . . . . . . clap . . . . . . clap . . . clap . . . clap . . . clapclapclapclap—and kickoff.

In the early minutes, the Gators javelin-toss the ball down the field, but their first drive ends with a fumble, and Alabama recovers. We eke our way downfield, close enough for a field goal, and go up 3-0. The Bama fans in the corner are still celebrating when on Florida’s next play, the Gators quarterback flings a long parabola into the center of the field and into the hands of a receiver whose legs are churning like a whirligig in a stiff breeze. An Alabama defender dives for the ball and misses, and there’s no one else between the Florida player and the goal line. Amid the thunderous release in the Swamp, a single voice cuts through—that of the Gators fan behind us, who in the process of celebrating the score also manages a fusillade of insults, at machine-gun pace: Alabama fans are dumb rftnecks, assholes, cheaters, scumbags, morons—rftneck moron cheater asshole scumbags—as well as every conceivable derisive term for homosexuals. Frances and I trade forlorn looks. He is the one Florida fan in a corner of the stadium jammed with Alabama supporters, and it’s as though his isolation has awakened a primal defiance in him. I’m beginning to understand why the Bices aren’t here.

There’s hope though. Andrew Zow, the Alabama quarterback, is on. His passes are taut and linear, his delivery deceptive—the ball seems to accelerate toward his receiver’s hands, as though sucked toward a vacuum. Zow is young, a sophomore, but in the pocket, he has a calm that belies his age.



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