From College Park to Lincoln.
If the sheer excitement doesn’t wake you up, the frat party’s bass will.
As dew turns to fog, leaves reveal a yellow crisp, the band warms up at Revelli Hall and the sun creeps over Ann Arbor’s tree-soaked streets, an energy mounts elsewhere in the city.
Townies try their darnedest to get errands out of the way, youth soccer games are deliberately scheduled to wrap up in the morning and by the time 8 a.m. rolls around, you better hope you slept well enough. Because the music is only getting louder, and the party’s only getting started.
While New York City drops the ball on New Year’s, Punxsutawney awaits a groundhog in February, Chicago dyes the river green in March and Boston lights up the sky in July, college towns rule Labor Day weekend as the schools' football programs are reintroduced.
College football has grown into the most uniquely American pastime, intersecting America's love for football, America’s college pride and America’s love of a top-notch tailgate. Opening weekend especially stands out: Everyone’s undefeated, everyone waited at least nine months for the season to begin and the thrills of summer are happily tipped on the side to ring in a fall full of the grueling contact sport.
In towns like Ann Arbor, things are cranked up a notch. What is a universal holiday across the country takes on a new meaning, as the whole city presses pause on life to pull off a party that defies logic. Many towns' holiday is Ann Arbor’s heartbeat.
That is, until this year. Due to the COVID-19 coronavirus pandemic and decisions made out of most fans’ control, the party is canceled throughout the north and in pockets around the country, and Ann Arbor is left scrambling without its heartbeat.
(Photo: Marc-Gregor Campredon, MGoBlog.com)
Today, on what would have been opening day, that lack of a pulse is felt on every street within three miles of Michigan Stadium.
The dad who spent the whole week preparing chili for his son’s Hoover Avenue tailgate is instead wasting his talents on his crockpot at home. Same goes for the breakfast sandwiches on Pauline Boulevard and the maize and blue cookies on White Street; not so much for the blue-dyed eggs gone wrong on State Street.
The touch football game brewing among kids in the Pioneer High School parking lot — complete with impersonations of Kwity Paye, Nico Collins and Michigan’s other stars — is canceled indefinitely. Someone’s tricked-out RV with three flatscreen TVs looks comically out of place in their backyard, as opposed to the Crisler Center parking lot. WTKA's radio show won't be broadcasting live from Main Street.
Beer pong tables will collect dust in basements, police won’t block off streets for the marching band’s parade to the stadium and those selling parking on Sybil Street will have to find a new way to pay their utility bills.
Good luck singing Mr. Brightside with a stranger today, or running into a friend you haven't seen in five years on Packard Street. The conspiracy theorists on Greene Street will have to yell at empty streets. The friends reuniting by shotgunning beers on the Michigan Golf Course would be escorted off the property if they tried that stunt this morning.
The frats may still play music on frat row, but no one’s parents are ripping a beer bong from the roof today. The party bus with a winged helmet that’s usually parked on Hill St. and Fifth St. is now … well, actually, if anyone knows what that bus is up to this fall, a certain writer wants to tell that story.
There are plenty of legends told about the magnitude of Michigan’s home games: That a quarter-million people participate despite the town only being 120,000 and the stadium only fitting around 110,000. That houses just west of Michigan Stadium earn up to $40,000 per year from selling parking alone. That Ann Arbor’s businesses collect more than $10 million in revenue each home weekend.
Whether those figures are exactly accurate or not doesn’t matter these days. The party has been canceled, and a town once flush with pride, energy and eagerness is left waiting for good news.
Today, there won’t be traffic. Visitors won’t not-so-subtly pee behind anyone’s apartments on Division Street, and no one will stumble into Michigan’s historic libraries asking where the slightly less historic bar is. No one is ordering Mr. Spots at 9 a.m., no one is rallying with a nap and Cottage Inn and no one is closing the night off with a bar push. Saturday jogs will occur without interruption or heckling, no one will name drop their sister’s friend’s ex to get into a mosh pit with hay bails and everyone’s going to have proper working cell phone service.
And what on earth is the fun in any of that?
Beyond the absurd stories, what made game days in Ann Arbor truly special was that it felt like it was for everyone.
Whether a fan had been going to games for seven decades and donated millions of dollars to the University or their mom got them an oversized jersey for Christmas and scored nosebleed tickets, they weren’t alone at Michigan Stadium.
Whether they flew across the country to finally see a game or grew up so close they could hear the elegant, legendary Carl Grapentine announce the down and distance from their house, whether they stopped for pregame donuts or reconnected with their oldest, closest friends, they had strangers next to them ready to high-five, debate which quarterback should play or even literally lift them up after each touchdown.
Truly putting the fanatic in fanhood, every fan joined in the songs, persisted all weather and financially invested at levels that would make any religious institution jealous. Be it an introduction, reunion or time-honored tradition, fans entered Michigan Stadium with an indelible sense of pride, and left with memories they’ll pass on for decades.
Ann Arbor is far from alone in these rituals. Every town has wild tailgates and postgame bars. In many ways, that’s part of the fun.
2
COMMENTS
But today, with everything put on pause, the reality sinks in of what could have been, and how badly Ann Arbor needs Michigan football.
So to the smiling event staff volunteers, the hard-partied students, the straight-laced reporters, the drum major, the long-timers and the kids who don't even know what they're missing: I hope you find another way to wake up today, and I hope we're all back to normal soon.
If the sheer excitement doesn’t wake you up, the frat party’s bass will.
As dew turns to fog, leaves reveal a yellow crisp, the band warms up at Revelli Hall and the sun creeps over Ann Arbor’s tree-soaked streets, an energy mounts elsewhere in the city.
Townies try their darnedest to get errands out of the way, youth soccer games are deliberately scheduled to wrap up in the morning and by the time 8 a.m. rolls around, you better hope you slept well enough. Because the music is only getting louder, and the party’s only getting started.
While New York City drops the ball on New Year’s, Punxsutawney awaits a groundhog in February, Chicago dyes the river green in March and Boston lights up the sky in July, college towns rule Labor Day weekend as the schools' football programs are reintroduced.
College football has grown into the most uniquely American pastime, intersecting America's love for football, America’s college pride and America’s love of a top-notch tailgate. Opening weekend especially stands out: Everyone’s undefeated, everyone waited at least nine months for the season to begin and the thrills of summer are happily tipped on the side to ring in a fall full of the grueling contact sport.
In towns like Ann Arbor, things are cranked up a notch. What is a universal holiday across the country takes on a new meaning, as the whole city presses pause on life to pull off a party that defies logic. Many towns' holiday is Ann Arbor’s heartbeat.
That is, until this year. Due to the COVID-19 coronavirus pandemic and decisions made out of most fans’ control, the party is canceled throughout the north and in pockets around the country, and Ann Arbor is left scrambling without its heartbeat.
(Photo: Marc-Gregor Campredon, MGoBlog.com)
Today, on what would have been opening day, that lack of a pulse is felt on every street within three miles of Michigan Stadium.
The dad who spent the whole week preparing chili for his son’s Hoover Avenue tailgate is instead wasting his talents on his crockpot at home. Same goes for the breakfast sandwiches on Pauline Boulevard and the maize and blue cookies on White Street; not so much for the blue-dyed eggs gone wrong on State Street.
The touch football game brewing among kids in the Pioneer High School parking lot — complete with impersonations of Kwity Paye, Nico Collins and Michigan’s other stars — is canceled indefinitely. Someone’s tricked-out RV with three flatscreen TVs looks comically out of place in their backyard, as opposed to the Crisler Center parking lot. WTKA's radio show won't be broadcasting live from Main Street.
Beer pong tables will collect dust in basements, police won’t block off streets for the marching band’s parade to the stadium and those selling parking on Sybil Street will have to find a new way to pay their utility bills.
Good luck singing Mr. Brightside with a stranger today, or running into a friend you haven't seen in five years on Packard Street. The conspiracy theorists on Greene Street will have to yell at empty streets. The friends reuniting by shotgunning beers on the Michigan Golf Course would be escorted off the property if they tried that stunt this morning.
The frats may still play music on frat row, but no one’s parents are ripping a beer bong from the roof today. The party bus with a winged helmet that’s usually parked on Hill St. and Fifth St. is now … well, actually, if anyone knows what that bus is up to this fall, a certain writer wants to tell that story.
There are plenty of legends told about the magnitude of Michigan’s home games: That a quarter-million people participate despite the town only being 120,000 and the stadium only fitting around 110,000. That houses just west of Michigan Stadium earn up to $40,000 per year from selling parking alone. That Ann Arbor’s businesses collect more than $10 million in revenue each home weekend.
Whether those figures are exactly accurate or not doesn’t matter these days. The party has been canceled, and a town once flush with pride, energy and eagerness is left waiting for good news.
Today, there won’t be traffic. Visitors won’t not-so-subtly pee behind anyone’s apartments on Division Street, and no one will stumble into Michigan’s historic libraries asking where the slightly less historic bar is. No one is ordering Mr. Spots at 9 a.m., no one is rallying with a nap and Cottage Inn and no one is closing the night off with a bar push. Saturday jogs will occur without interruption or heckling, no one will name drop their sister’s friend’s ex to get into a mosh pit with hay bails and everyone’s going to have proper working cell phone service.
And what on earth is the fun in any of that?
Beyond the absurd stories, what made game days in Ann Arbor truly special was that it felt like it was for everyone.
Whether a fan had been going to games for seven decades and donated millions of dollars to the University or their mom got them an oversized jersey for Christmas and scored nosebleed tickets, they weren’t alone at Michigan Stadium.
Whether they flew across the country to finally see a game or grew up so close they could hear the elegant, legendary Carl Grapentine announce the down and distance from their house, whether they stopped for pregame donuts or reconnected with their oldest, closest friends, they had strangers next to them ready to high-five, debate which quarterback should play or even literally lift them up after each touchdown.
Truly putting the fanatic in fanhood, every fan joined in the songs, persisted all weather and financially invested at levels that would make any religious institution jealous. Be it an introduction, reunion or time-honored tradition, fans entered Michigan Stadium with an indelible sense of pride, and left with memories they’ll pass on for decades.
Ann Arbor is far from alone in these rituals. Every town has wild tailgates and postgame bars. In many ways, that’s part of the fun.
2
COMMENTS
But today, with everything put on pause, the reality sinks in of what could have been, and how badly Ann Arbor needs Michigan football.
So to the smiling event staff volunteers, the hard-partied students, the straight-laced reporters, the drum major, the long-timers and the kids who don't even know what they're missing: I hope you find another way to wake up today, and I hope we're all back to normal soon.
