James Etheridge

DATELINE, November 5, 2021.  Thirty-three years ago today I went to the Georgia-Florida football game for the first time.  That was when it was still known as the World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party and was played in the old Gator Bowl Stadium, probably between the third and fourth time it had been condemned.  Georgia won 26-3, but this is not about the game itself.  This is about the experience of being there.  I’ve seen the Georgia Bulldogs play a lot of football games between the hedges, but have never been to a bowl game.  Friends have told me that the Georgia-Florida game is just like a bowl game, even better than a lot of them, especially since there are now over forty played and teams with losing records are bowl eligible.

It started early during the week leading up to the trip.  Wednesday evening I went to my parents’ house to pick up our daughter.  My father, who was a teetotaler for the most part, said, “Jimmy, I just watched th’ news and th’ Jacksonville chief o’ police was on there an’ he said they won’t be no drinkin’ at the Georgia-Florida game this year.”
“Well I don’t see how they’re going to be able to stop it.”
“He said anybody they see drinkin’ they gonna lock ‘em up.”
“I don’t think there are enough jail cells in the state of Florida for them to do that.”
“I’m jus’ tellin’ya that’s what he said, they gonna lock ‘em up.”
I coughed “Bullshit!” into my hand, collected my daughter and went home.

We all got off work around noon on Friday, my tailgate buddies Ugadug and his wife Tracy, our friends Mark and Steve, my wife Marie and myself.  We packed up our ’87 Chevy S-10 Blazer and put our Bulldog magnets on the sides.  With white shoe polish, I wrote “FLORIDA WEARS DRESSES” in big letters on the back window.  That was mild compared to some of the more colorful comments we saw along the way, particularly the ones about Florida coach Galen Hall’s wife and her sexual preferences.  We all met up at Ugadug’s house and took off down I-75 south.  That was when you could drive the speed limit down I-75 south and not be stuck in traffic from Stockbridge to Sycamore.  We got off at Hwy 341, had lunch in Eastman, then drove south through Waycross and into Jacksonville.  We arrived about 5pm, just in time for the afternoon rush hour.  That was when things got interesting.

I had heard that Jacksonville had the largest Georgia Touchdown Club outside of Atlanta, so I figured there would be more Dawg people in town than Gators.  I was wrong.  We were sitting in traffic and apparently a number of people took umbrage to my comment on the back window about Florida dabbling in female attire.  They were blowing their horns at me, giving me the finger and shouting what I can only assume was not, “Hey, neighbor!  Welcome to Jacksonville!”  Marie slumped down in the seat and hid her face.  “Pull over and wash that off our back window right now!” she said.  I pulled over into the first service station I saw and cleaned the window with the water hose by the pump.

After we pulled back out into traffic we passed a shapely young lady in a bikini standing by the street holding a sign advertising topless car washes.  There was a big tent set up behind her and a line of cars waiting to pull in.  We crossed over the St. John’s River at the Mathews Bridge and made our way to the Holiday Inn in Arlington.  We checked into our rooms and turned the local news on TV, just in time to see the police loading the girls from the topless car wash into the paddy wagon.  I didn’t see why there should be any problem.  They were washing the cars in a tent.  It’s not like they were right out there in broad daylight.  Maybe they were operating without a proper business license or something.

That evening we called a cab to go to the Jacksonville Landing for dinner.  About a half-hour later the front desk called to inform us that our ride was waiting outside the lobby.  The car wasn’t your typical Checker cab, but a blue 1967 Chevy Impala.  The driver was a man about our age with long hair and a beard.  Marie and I sat up front, Marie in the middle and me by the door.  Ugadug, Tracy, Mark and Steve squeezed into the back.  We took the Arlington Expressway across Mathews Bridge and headed toward downtown Jacksonville.  We crossed the bridge, exited the expressway and onto a road with five or six red lights in succession.  “I’ve got these things timed,” said the driver and floored the gas pedal.  We were flying down the road with the back fenders scraping the tires due to four people sitting in the back seat.  Marie leaned hard against me, put her hand on my inner thigh and began to squeeze.  The faster we went, the harder she squeezed.  We made all the lights green except the last one, which turned yellow and we zoomed under it just as it changed to red.  We pulled up to the curb at the Jacksonville Landing and piled out of the car, me limping on my soon-to-be-bruised left leg.  The driver agreed to pick us back up at 11pm.  We paid our fare and went into The Landing.

Our first choice for dinner was Hooter’s, but the line was backed up to Lake City.  “Looks like you’re out of luck with Hooter’s, guys,” said Marie, so we decided on Fat Tuesday’s instead.  It was a beautiful night and after dinner we hung out listening to the bands and enjoying what amounted to a large pep rally for both teams.  We met the cab driver at 11pm, he timed the red lights again and delivered us safely back to our hotel.  We all turned in and that night something happened that had never happened before or has happened since.  I had a dream about the game.  Our seats were in the end zone and wide receiver John Thomas made a sliding catch for a touchdown at the opposite end of the field.  Georgia won the game and the next morning I told Marie about my dream.  “That’s great, but I hope you didn’t put a hex on them,” she said.

We had breakfast at the hotel’s buffet and went back to our rooms to wait for Bob and Diane, who were two of our best friends and business associates of Marie’s.  They were also huge Dawg fans and had planned to meet us at our room at 9am.  Kickoff was at 1pm.  9am came and went.  No Bob and Diane.  This was in the days before cell phones.  9:30 rolled around, followed by 10am.  Still no Bob and Diane.  Finally at 10:15 we convinced Marie that they weren’t coming and we had to leave if we hoped to find somewhere to park.  She reluctantly agreed and we headed to the Gator Bowl in separate cars.  When we arrived, we were directed to the Jacksonville Suns ballpark across the street from the stadium.  They were parking cars in the outfield for $5 apiece.  While we were waiting in line we saw Bob and Diane walking through the gate to cross the street.  They saw us at the same time.  Marie let out a scream, jumped out of the Blazer and hugged them both.  They followed us back in and we parked in right field.  Ugadug parked next to us.  Our tailgate party was set.

It was a perfect day for football weather-wise, sunny and mild with a slight breeze blowing in from the Atlantic.  We had a couple of bourbon-spiked beverages, got into some friendly banter with a group of Gator fans parked next to us and enjoyed the growing anticipation you always felt before a big game.  The only bad thing was there were no restrooms.  This wasn’t so much of a problem for the guys, but certainly was for the girls.  “Come on Marie, I’ve got an idea,” said Diane.  They walked from our car, crossed the infield, climbed over one of the rails by the home dugout, went up the stairs and found a ladies’ room behind the field level seats.

After they returned, I looked at the stands and the infield, the pitcher’s mound in particular.  This was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I knew it.  I walked across the field, climbed the mound and toed the rubber.  A big sign with a Hooters girl on it was hanging from the bottom of the upper deck behind home plate.  I stood on the mound and wondered how anybody could concentrate on hitting the strike zone with her and her obvious assets smiling and staring at you like that.  I cleared my thoughts, leaned in, wound up and threw a breaking ball to the plate.  Strike one.  I wound up again and let go a slider.  Strike two.  I wound up a third time and threw him the gas.  Strike Three.  Sit down.  Then I walked off the mound, took my stance at the plate, waited for a hanging curve and ripped a long, towering shot over the left field wall.  The crowd went wild as I trotted around the bases.  The Hooters girl and her obvious assets were smiling at me as I rounded third and touched home plate.  I tipped my cap to her and the crowd, then walked back to our tailgate party.  “How’d you do, Jimmy?” asked Bob.  “Got him swinging on three straight, then went yard with the bases loaded.  Grand Slam.”  “Alright!” said Bob, laughing and giving me a high-five.

Around noon we packed up the cars and headed across the street to the stadium.  As we were waiting in line, I noticed a few places ahead of us were three guys.  Two of them were on each side of one in the middle.  They had his arms around their shoulders and their hands under his knees, carrying him.  His head was rolling around, his mouth was open and his eyes were rolled back.  He was completely inebriated, three sheets to the wind.  A ticket was stuck in one of his hands.  I pointed at them and said to Marie, “Watch this.  This is great.  They’re going to try to get him in.”  When they reached the cop at the gate, he took one look at them and said, “I’m sorry, fellas, but I can’t let him in.”  “Why not?” said one of his buddies.  “He’s got a ticket.”  The cop laughed, shook his head and said, “Look, guys, if he can’t walk into the stadium on his own two legs, I can’t let him in.”
“Well, what are we gonna do?  We’re parked way over there about two blocks over.”
“I don’t know, fellas, that’s not my problem.  Next, please.”
They got out of line and carried him away.  I looked at Marie and said, “I know what I’d do.  I’d drop his ass over there and sell that ticket.”  We made it past the cop at the gate, followed the signs to the north end zone and found our seats.  They were great, about twenty rows up right behind the goal posts.  The Dogs were wearing their white jerseys.  I always liked the white jerseys best and wished that they would wear them occasionally at home games.  I was happy to be able to see them play in them.  Georgia took command of the game early and on several occasions the unmistakable smell of bourbon came wafting through the air.  Then in the second half it happened.  Georgia was driving toward the goal line on the opposite end of the field.  Wayne Johnson dropped back and hit John Thomas with a low sliding touchdown pass.  I went crazy.  Jumping up and down, Marie shouted, “Your dream came true, your dream came true!”

After the game we had dinner at the Red Lobster not far from our hotel.  I had deep-fried gator tails for the first and only time in my life.  They were served with a dipping sauce and fries.  We then went back to the bar at the Holiday Inn.  It was not your typical Holiday Inn bar.  The room was big, with a bandstand and a dance floor.  A pretty young brunette wearing a tight black top and a short red skirt was tending bar.  We sat down, ordered our drinks and I said, “How ‘bout them Dawgs!”  She looked at me, turned around, lifted her little red kilt and revealed a pair of orange knickers with GATORS in blue letters across them.  She dropped her kilt and said, “Our boss made us wear these outfits ‘cause y’all won.”  There was a barber’s chair next to the dance floor.  “What’s the barber’s chair for?” I asked the bartender.  “Oh, that’s for our spinning margaritas,” she said.
“What’s a spinning margarita?”
“We put you in the chair, pour the ingredients in your mouth, then spin the chair to shake it up.”
“Oh, man,” said Ugadug.  “I’ve got to try one of those.  How much is it?”
“Five bucks plus tip.”
“I’m in.”  He paid the bartender five bucks, after which she rang a big bell hanging over the bar and announced loudly, “Attention, everyone, attention!  We have a spinning margarita!”  People started clapping.  We all were laughing.  “I’ll bet he throws up,” said Marie.

Ugadug sat down the barber’s chair with the bartender on one side and a server on the other.  The server pulled the handle on the side of the chair and the chair reclined fully.  They spun the chair hard seven or eight times.  By this time the bar patrons were cheering, laughing and clapping. When the chair stopped spinning, the bartender did a five-second pour of tequila into Ugadug’s mouth, then the server poured in the lime juice.  The bartender followed up with triple sec and salt.  Neither one of them were shy about rubbing certain parts of their anatomy on his shoulders and head.  They grabbed the chair on each side and spun it rapidly about seven or eight more times.  After the last spin, the crowd began cheering and clapping.  The bartender and server curtsied and blew kisses, then helped Ugadug out of the chair.  He looked like he was about to spew.  We were all howling with laughter and slapping the bar, except for Tracy, who had her head buried in her arms.  Wobbling on his legs, Ugadug tipped the bartender and the server, then staggered back to his barstool.  He drank Cokes the rest of the night.

The next morning we packed up and headed home, stopping for breakfast at a Waffle House in Valdosta.  We would return for the game in ’89, but it wasn’t the same.  Sure, we had a lot of fun and Georgia won again, but it could not compare to the weekend we had spent by the St. John’s River the year before.  The camaraderie, the events and the thrill of the first time attending The World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail party could never be duplicated.  And I never saw anybody locked up for drinking.  Not even the guy with the ticket stuck in his hand.