"Anyone sitting here?" I mumbled while putting my hand on the empty bar stool.
"You," responded the man I had asked.
"As long as you're an FSU fan," joked his buddy.
At least I thought he was joking. You can never be sure when it comes to rabid Florida State and University of Florida fans — especially on the day of the Big Game. I grinned, nodded politely and took my place at the packed bar. It appeared to be the only unoccupied seat when I entered Walter's Press Box Sports Emporium & Eatery in South Tampa last Saturday. The place has been around for two decades. It has a low ceiling and windowless, wood-paneled walls adorned with memorabilia, making it look and feel like a Northerner's den — or a fallout shelter for the ultimate sports geek.
The UF vs. FSU showdown had just started. Although the game didn't have national championship ramifications as in years past, it's still an extremely important date for Florida gridiron junkies, especially for those who attended one of the schools.
Bragging rights are a big deal for the people who drive around with orange-and-blue vanity plates or garnet-and-gold flags attached to their pickup trucks. These are the suckers who disregard the spread and make brain-dead bets to show the extent of their school pride. This special breed of fanatic will brawl to defend the honor of his favorite college football team — even if he never actually went there.
The UF-FSU rivalry piqued my curiosity just about as soon as my family moved to Tampa from Hershey, Pa. in '89. I had just entered the sixth grade, and on the second day of school I saw two kids engaged in a heated shoving match because one had on a Gators T-shirt while the other wore 'Noles colors. I didn't get it.
My only college football experience at that point in life had been attending a Penn State game at Beaver Stadium with my pal Ummy and his parents. My eyes bugged out when I witnessed the tent-city-like parking lot, and I enjoyed the pre-game feeding frenzy, but the four quarters of play nearly bored me to tears. We sat on metal bleachers in the freezing rain for three hours. I left cold, with my ass itching, never wanting to attend another football game — ever.
No one talked about college ball, let alone argued about it, at Hershey Elementary. The only games that mattered took place at recess, P.E. or after school. Pushing a kid who neck-tackled you was one thing. Fighting over the games our dads watched on TV would've been silly.
There were no shoving matches at the Press Box last Saturday. At least not while I was there.
After finding a seat, I watched Florida practically march down the entire field before I got a drink. The pair of tools to my left knew the bartender and had cocktails and bottles of that overpriced shit beer Heineken in front of them when I arrived. I finally got my domestic draft as the guy closest to me on the left ordered a big blue concoction that he still hadn't finished when I fled the place. Next, he and his loud buddy ordered shots of Hennessy. Mind you, these clowns still had unfinished Heinekens in front of them.
As the first half neared an end, with Florida pulling away, Team Heineken arrived: two young pretty girls and a mustachioed sleazeball with a Panama hat toting a set of beer-can-shaped congas. That's right, Heineken drums. And the bastard started banging on 'em with all the skill of my 2-year-old nephew.
"Man, that's annoying," I said to the fellow on my right, the one by himself quietly drinking a beer. I think his name was Gus.
"I just block it out," he said in a way that made me think he was the kind of man who could sit through six-hour insurance seminars and other forms of torture and not even squirm; the kind of guy capable of staying cool, calm and collected in situations that would make me want to murder someone.
With less than two minutes left in the half, I got my tab. A hulking cameraman from Fox 13 had positioned himself right behind my stool. Luckily, he was shooting the dining area and not the bar. The last thing I wanted was to appear on the nightly news along with couples waving stuffed alligators and wearing Indian headdresses in honor of their respective teams.
"Would you like a Heineken?" asked the pretty blonde promo girl just before I split.
And I accepted. Because free beer is free beer. Even it's shit beer. I gulped down the Heinie just like I choked down the rubbery chicken wings I ordered earlier and then got the hell out of there — but not before witnessing a frat-boy type screaming at the "Lobster Zone" machine. Yeah, it's a game where people pay two bucks to try and "capture" a living crustacean with a crane and claw. I had definitely seen enough of the Press Box.
Walter's Press Box Sports Emporium & Eatery, 222 S. Dale Mabry, Tampa, pressboxsports.com.
This article appears in Nov 28 – Dec 4, 2007.