Bulldog Expereince
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The Bulldog Experience
I wake up early Saturday morning after a long night of anticipation. Dreaming about what I was going to do the fallowing day, and that day has arrived. I am preparing to leave this quant little college town aptly named Milledgeville, and head out to the granddaddy of all college towns and my home, Athens, Georgia. The most exciting season of the year is beginning this day: The college football season and, more importantly, the Georgia Bulldogs season opener. I rush out of bed and begin to pack some cloths and any other necessities I might need for a weekend excursion back home while quickly brushing my teeth and shoving some breakfast down my throat. I gather up my personals, dawn on my red and black, tell my buddies goodbye, and start to load up my Jeep for the short hour and a half jump to the Mecca of college football USA.
Georgia football just comes with the territory of being born and raised in Athens. I was bread to bark like a bulldog and trained to bleed red and black, its what I know best. The most familiar voice to me, along with my mom and dad, is Mr. Larry Muson. He is the voice of the Bulldogs on the radio and the king of play-calling and game commentating in all the college land. I grew up listening to Larry on the radio since I can remember and I cant go a game without hearing him rant and rave about our beloved Dawgs. The Bulldog faithful love Larry so much that when the Georgia games are televised, most people mute the T.V. broadcasters and have Larry commentate the game instead. You dont want to listen to a game with a crew of broadcasters who dont really know or even care about your team; you want to listen to a dedicated Bulldog fan that is passionate about his work and team.
During the drive home all I can think about is the ball Im going to have at the game today. Im practically shaking with anticipation of attending an event that I have been going to almost every year since I was I little kid and it only gets better and more exciting every year. The top is off my jeep and the wind is rushing by my face at seventy-five miles per hour. I can practically smell the scent of blood, sweat, and beer begin to creep into the cabin as I notice myself inching ever so closer to Athens. I can virtually feel the vibrations in the air from the 92,000 plus screaming Ðdawg fans as I pass the sign that reads: Athens 9 milesÐ I finally exit on to College Station Road and I begin to see all the traffic packing into this quiet city preparing to nearly triple the population for the weekend and man, does it feel good to be home.
I weave in and out of lanes rushing to the game, cutting off slow RVs and campers filled with family and friends, zipping around all the giant truck with huge Georgia flags hanging from their tailgates until the very top of Sanford Stadium barely starts to come into view as I stop at a packed red light. While stuck in the traffic I look around at all the cars around me baring “G” magnets on their doors, little flags hanging from atop the doors that read “Go Bulldogs,” and even entire cars that are painted red and black in respect to their passion for football in Athens and I suddenly find myself truly enlightened about how much these game day experiences and rituals mean to these people, mean to me. Its almost like its a part of life down here. The passion runs so strong and its great to see everyone so united for one cause: To see this football team win, for they represent the city of Athens, the state of Georgia, and, moreover the entire Bulldog Nation.
I finally get out of the bumper-to-bumper traffic and find myself a nice parking space that leaves me only about a fifteen minute walk to the stadium. I meet up with my buddies that are coming to the game with me and we head over to our tailgate area at the Tate Center, which is directly behind the stadium. Everyone is so excited to see each other again and meet up in such a vibrant atmosphere. We tell jokes, predict the days outcome, and down as many Keystone Lights as our stomachs can handle while reminiscing about how many times we have done this same thing year after year while it never gets old. My buddies and I sit in our foldable lawn chairs with beers in hand and watch all the beautiful southern bells walk by. They all have on their Georgia colors arranged on their bodies in some shape and form weather it be a dress, skirt, t-shirt, tank top, or a nice red or black pair of Capris. Many of them seem to taunt us as they walk on by showing a lot of skin and not leaving much for the imagination. Some of my rowdy, less respectful friends, bark and whistle at them in hopes that one might turn around