Saturday, January 18: LSU Tigers 81, Vanderbilt Commodores 58
(Pete Maravich Assembly Center, Baton Rouge, LA)
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| See that small white speck behind Death Valley? That's where LSU plays basketball, a foreign sport unknown to most Tiger faithful. |
The last 40 miles of highway before Baton Rouge scream Louisiana, although there's never an indication that you're fast approaching one of the largest and most passionate campuses in the country other than the occasional "BATON ROUGE 28" sign. During one particular 18-mile stretch, there is no land beneath the road -- just swamps. Endless swamps. To the uninformed and possibly paranoid, the idea of being swallowed whole by a 38-foot alligator or grabbed by a gigantic crawdad and dragged into the marshy muck below is a very real possibility. The locals, however, see it as opportunity: these are prime fishing waters! If you didn't know exactly how much further you were going, you would never know how far you had left to go -- until you exit the marshland and approach the bridge, seemingly out of nowhere, that takes you out of Duck Dynasty, across the mighty Mississippi and into Tigerland.
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| The north, downtown side of Baton Rouge bears little resemblance to the LSU campus that dominates the south end. |
On seven or eight Saturday nights every fall, there are few places on Earth that any sports fan would rather be than tailgating around Tiger Stadium, the true Death Valley. On this sleepy Saturday in January, however, the sign on the highway pointing towards New Orleans -- only 80 more miles! -- is sorely tempting for even the most ardent college basketball fan. But today we were on a mission. On a day where the Commodores introduced Derek Mason, it's possible that my wife and I would be the only black-and-gold supporters at the "Deaf Dome" for Vanderbilt's annual good-luck-finding-it-on-your-cable-package tilt with LSU on the hardwood (except for, presumably, the parents of Baton Rouge-bred Commodores Dai-Jon Parker and Damian Jones). And it was entirely likely that said 13,000-seat arena might only be half full, despite LSU's mild success this season, without the legends of Pete Maravich, Shaquille O'Neal, or Big Baby Davis waking the purple-and-gold faithful from their winter football slumber.
Kentucky (and possibly Arkansas) notwithstanding, there is no SEC town in this country that truly comes alive during basketball season. Hell, you'd be hard-pressed to find many in Tuscaloosa, Auburn, Athens, Oxford, and every other town in the conference that could even find the team's arena on a map, much less attend an actual game. Go to North Carolina, Indiana, or Kansas, and the opposite is true. It turns out those three states, despite being located in and around the football-crazy SEC, have such strong ties to James Naismith that basketball is truly in their blood. For the rest of the South, those diamond-in-the-rough seasons bring out the die-hards in full force with a slew of bandwagoners, clinging to school pride and yelling their ass off despite not knowing the difference between a block and a charge (just yell BOOOOO!!!! whenever it goes against your colors). Examples of such excellent crowds include LSU in 2006 (Davis' Final Four team almost sold out its finale against last-place Ole Miss), Tennessee in 2007 (Bruce Pearl's glory year), Vandy in 2008 (the Stallings team that should have gone to the Final Four), and Florida in ... oh wait, Florida fans never know that their basketball team exists.
Every other year, though, you'd be hard-pressed to drive into a place like Baton Rouge on a Saturday in winter and have any idea that a major sporting event is imminent. And frankly, it's hard to blame the average student or victory-lapper for not passing up $3 pints of Abita, $6 dozen oysters, and blackened alligator po-boys (the fare at the famous Chimes restaurant adjacent to the LSU campus) for a relatively meaningless game between two teams that (likely) won't go anywhere come March. And that's exactly what an average Saturday in Baton Rouge turned out to be for the listless Commodores, my wife, and me -- relatively meaningless.
Well, except for that blackened alligator. That was damn good.
Saturday, January 25: Vanderbilt Commodores 66, Texas A&M Aggies 55
(Reed Arena, College Station, TX)
It's hard not to attend any game at Texas A&M (some 97 miles from the west side of Houston) and not notice the Yell Leaders. Somehow, our previous venture into Aggieland passed without a discussion of these male "cheerleaders" that have become as much a part of Aggie football tradition as the team itself (personally, I blame my wife for feeding me too much Lonestar beer and breakfast tacos, which were better than any tacos I've ever had north OR south of the border). As tradition goes, every Friday night before a home game, the entire campus has "Yell Practice," which basically consists of the Yell Leaders teaching the Yellers how to properly Yell during the Yell Match (er, game). Yellers would yell between downs when the other team had the ball, between downs when the Aggies had the ball, when the Aggies scored, whenever Johnny Manziel ripped into his teammates, or whenever anyone in the crowd took a swig of Garrison Brothers.
Yelling takes place at Aggie basketball games, too, but with far different effect. Yelling takes place so infrequently, and with far fewer people, that it can be downright eerie. A deafeningly silent Reed Arena during an opponent's free throw (in this case, Vanderbilt) jerks out of its shoes, with the student Yellers causing the shooter (in this case, James Siakam) to have a "Fucking Shit!!!" moment and heave the ball sideways into the tuba. I'm not sure what they said exactly, but it sounded like it was straight of the Exorcism of Emily Rose. Not to be outdone, the other side of the arena featured a band member who would hit her throat while screaming, sounding like a freaking cuckoo bird during free throws. So yeah, the Yellers at basketball games were a little weird.
None of it helped the hapless Aggies on this doubly sleepy Saturday (the announced crowd of 6,520 must have included a few thousand kernels of popcorn), as Vandy avenged its two straight losses with a rousing victory in front of, well, at least four Commodore faithful. It's been a long year for the 'Dores on the hardwood, but the Road to 592 will never pass up the opportunity to Anchor Down within driving distance of home.
All told, that's 744 miles in two roundtrips. These Road 'Dores are road weary.
College basketball count: 23/347; Total count: 61/592.
Next One Up: The Road to 592 is headed to the magical city of Austin, Texas to catch Saturday's top-25 matchup between the Longhorns and the Kansas Jayhawks. It's possible we'll take in a bit of barbecue and live music while we're there... Follow along with the Twitter hashtag #ATX592.
--The Road to 592 is a pipe dream started by a diehard Atlanta fan trying his best to keep up with all the new stadiums (being Atlanta and all). Read up on my unending pursuit here and check out the full list of venues here. For those sick of conference realignment, you can also relish in another pipe dream of mine -- the 28-team SEC. Follow me on Twitter @andrewhard592.
Kentucky (and possibly Arkansas) notwithstanding, there is no SEC town in this country that truly comes alive during basketball season. Hell, you'd be hard-pressed to find many in Tuscaloosa, Auburn, Athens, Oxford, and every other town in the conference that could even find the team's arena on a map, much less attend an actual game. Go to North Carolina, Indiana, or Kansas, and the opposite is true. It turns out those three states, despite being located in and around the football-crazy SEC, have such strong ties to James Naismith that basketball is truly in their blood. For the rest of the South, those diamond-in-the-rough seasons bring out the die-hards in full force with a slew of bandwagoners, clinging to school pride and yelling their ass off despite not knowing the difference between a block and a charge (just yell BOOOOO!!!! whenever it goes against your colors). Examples of such excellent crowds include LSU in 2006 (Davis' Final Four team almost sold out its finale against last-place Ole Miss), Tennessee in 2007 (Bruce Pearl's glory year), Vandy in 2008 (the Stallings team that should have gone to the Final Four), and Florida in ... oh wait, Florida fans never know that their basketball team exists.
Every other year, though, you'd be hard-pressed to drive into a place like Baton Rouge on a Saturday in winter and have any idea that a major sporting event is imminent. And frankly, it's hard to blame the average student or victory-lapper for not passing up $3 pints of Abita, $6 dozen oysters, and blackened alligator po-boys (the fare at the famous Chimes restaurant adjacent to the LSU campus) for a relatively meaningless game between two teams that (likely) won't go anywhere come March. And that's exactly what an average Saturday in Baton Rouge turned out to be for the listless Commodores, my wife, and me -- relatively meaningless.
Well, except for that blackened alligator. That was damn good.
Saturday, January 25: Vanderbilt Commodores 66, Texas A&M Aggies 55
(Reed Arena, College Station, TX)
It's hard not to attend any game at Texas A&M (some 97 miles from the west side of Houston) and not notice the Yell Leaders. Somehow, our previous venture into Aggieland passed without a discussion of these male "cheerleaders" that have become as much a part of Aggie football tradition as the team itself (personally, I blame my wife for feeding me too much Lonestar beer and breakfast tacos, which were better than any tacos I've ever had north OR south of the border). As tradition goes, every Friday night before a home game, the entire campus has "Yell Practice," which basically consists of the Yell Leaders teaching the Yellers how to properly Yell during the Yell Match (er, game). Yellers would yell between downs when the other team had the ball, between downs when the Aggies had the ball, when the Aggies scored, whenever Johnny Manziel ripped into his teammates, or whenever anyone in the crowd took a swig of Garrison Brothers.
Yelling takes place at Aggie basketball games, too, but with far different effect. Yelling takes place so infrequently, and with far fewer people, that it can be downright eerie. A deafeningly silent Reed Arena during an opponent's free throw (in this case, Vanderbilt) jerks out of its shoes, with the student Yellers causing the shooter (in this case, James Siakam) to have a "Fucking Shit!!!" moment and heave the ball sideways into the tuba. I'm not sure what they said exactly, but it sounded like it was straight of the Exorcism of Emily Rose. Not to be outdone, the other side of the arena featured a band member who would hit her throat while screaming, sounding like a freaking cuckoo bird during free throws. So yeah, the Yellers at basketball games were a little weird.
None of it helped the hapless Aggies on this doubly sleepy Saturday (the announced crowd of 6,520 must have included a few thousand kernels of popcorn), as Vandy avenged its two straight losses with a rousing victory in front of, well, at least four Commodore faithful. It's been a long year for the 'Dores on the hardwood, but the Road to 592 will never pass up the opportunity to Anchor Down within driving distance of home.
All told, that's 744 miles in two roundtrips. These Road 'Dores are road weary.
College basketball count: 23/347; Total count: 61/592.
Next One Up: The Road to 592 is headed to the magical city of Austin, Texas to catch Saturday's top-25 matchup between the Longhorns and the Kansas Jayhawks. It's possible we'll take in a bit of barbecue and live music while we're there... Follow along with the Twitter hashtag #ATX592.
--The Road to 592 is a pipe dream started by a diehard Atlanta fan trying his best to keep up with all the new stadiums (being Atlanta and all). Read up on my unending pursuit here and check out the full list of venues here. For those sick of conference realignment, you can also relish in another pipe dream of mine -- the 28-team SEC. Follow me on Twitter @andrewhard592.
