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Reporting from: Ryan
Field Stadium Club
Its the morning of October 14th, our first Big
Ten home game against Purdue. My friend
had mentioned earlier in the week that his family had box tickets, but he
didnt think there was enough for me. Fine, no big deal. I
love the student section, and since I wasnt on campus during New Student Week,
thisll be my first home game. And, its
a nice day. Double
plus.
My phone alarm wakes me up at 10:00,
and as I turn it off, I see the text message:
Wanna sit in the press box? U and 2 others might be able 2 come.
I called him, found out, eh, maybe not, and figured, oh
well, its too good to be true. I fall
back asleep, planning to roll out of bed at 10:40,
throw on a sweatshirt, and head up to the stadium.
Then, I get another call around 10:45were back on.
I get to the stadium a little late, around 11:30.
Score: 7-0, NU.
First surreal part of the day: asking one of the security guards, how do I
get to the press box elevator?
Turns out its not too far from the student section, so I go
in through the T gate, get my wildcard swiped, and head over to the elevators,
where my friend has our press box tickets.
Second surreal moment:
entering the elevator and seeing the buttons for floors 5 and 8
pushed. I reach over to press the 7, the
Stadium club (or box) floor (which is where were going,) but my friend
simply says, 7, and an ELEVATOR USHER pushes it for us. Apparently one of the perks of being among
the football watching elite is that you can completely avoid those pesky
buttons.
The first thing that struck me as I got out of the elevator
was how BIG this thing was. Were
talking 5 or 6 sections wide and 4 rows deep.
Other than that, initially, it was pretty much what I had expected. Thing is, Im not too comfortable with
feeling all elitist and Northwestern, so it took a minute or two for me to
get truly comfortable and appreciate the box for what it was. I felt a little out of place, even though I
clearly blended in.
Second thing that struck me, something my friend pointed
out: how damn clean the glass was. This
was thick, airplane style glass that looked brand new, like they change it
after every game or something (which, at NU, I wouldnt be surprised if they
did.) One of my other friends wondered
if birds ever flew into it.
(See, if that had actually happened, that would have been a
good segue. But, alas, it didnt.)
Its like watching the field through a ginormous
high-definition TV.
Touchdown, Purdue. 7-7.
Then theres the view.
Almost breathtaking. You face east, so over the multitude of trees
with just-starting-to-change leaves, you can see the expanse of the lake in the
background. Bahai Temple
surprisingly nearby to the North, downtown Evanston in the
foreground and downtown Chicago way in the distance to the South. Plus, it looks like theres some sort of
football practice field just to the east of Welsh-Ryan. On the top of the locker room, theres lots
going on that you cant see from the student section, including a few painted
Ns and some stuff for kids. Ive heard
complaints (and made them) that about the aesthetics and layout of Ryan Field,
but its hard not to appreciate its beauty on a crisp fall afternoon from seven
stories up. I kept looking around to see
if anything else would spring out of the landscape and surprise me. I dont know how the suits could pull this
off, but if it was possible to give all the stadium goers that view, no one
would complain about the field or the walk ever again.
And, its nice to be able to actually see the scoreboard (still the worst part about where the student
section is located) and hear the PA
announcer.
Theres also lots of free food (well, free in the same sense
that our admission to the games are free.)
Fruit trays, potato pancakes with sour cream and applesauce, and
Chicago-style build-your-own hot dogs with the buns even heated. Mmmm. I also thought the coffee was surprisingly
good. Then I re-realized where I was,
and it wasnt so surprising.
Groans. TD, Boilermakers. 14-7.
As I was eating my brunch, an older man comes up to us, and
says, Do you feel guilty being up here, with all those peasants down there in
the cold?
We laugh (because he said peasants, for Gods sake) then
unpredictably he says, I do.
(Side note: if the
students were the peasants, I guess that made us the landed gentry. Or something.)
This place has carpeted floors and comfy chairs. NU official gameday
magazines aptly yet cheesily named it The Den. (Incidentally, I forgot to pick one of these
up.) It has a bar with lots of shtuff, from the alcoholic to the simply carbonated. Theres a standing area with a counter just
behind the seats, so I felt like a student for like a nanosecond while I was
standing up watching the game.
Halftime: Weve
traded field goals. 17-10,
Purdue.
We could actually SEE what formations the band was
making. They were pretty good and bigger
than I remember. (Note: my editor wants me to describe more about the
band here. Problem: I dont remember a.) what
music they played and b.) couldnt tell exactly what
pictures they were supposed to be making.
But they looked good, I promise.
I guess I was still acting like a typical student in this respectnot
really paying attention.)
It was also around this time that I realized the noise we
heard wasnt coming through the glass. Oh,
no, were too fancy for THAT. Every six
feet or so, there are speakers near where the ceiling meets the glass that pipe
in the sound from the outside.
(Incidentally, this means that when the band is in its gametime home amidst the student section, you can hear it
really well, but when it performs the halftime show, all you can hear are the
different tones of the bass drums.)
Also, the student section sounds fairly loud from up there. I was proud, considering the fact that we
really couldnt be tucked away in a more isolated corner of the stadium, and
that we didnt have much to cheer for during the game.
It actually gets kind of loud in the box too when we do
something good, and the groans are pretty loud too when we let up a touchdown
(or three at this point24-10.) Youd
think in such acorporatesetting, people would only care about their next
vodka martini. But many people up there
were beer-drinking purple-wearing fans who, until the score hit 31-10, paid
remarkably close attention to the game. As
someone whose nails are usually gone by the end of any type of sporting event,
that impressed me. Maybe these are the
NU-ers who actually care about football and follow it
after they graduate. God knows we could
use more of those.
My friends and I watched most of the miserable second half
sitting down in the second row, until Purdue scored its last touchdown (31-10.) We actually left the box early, but still had
to walk down the stairs because everyone else was leaving too.
But wouldntcha know itthey had
desserts for us too for the way out.
I never got to meet Pat Ryan or President Bienen or anything, but I didnt have to. (I heard they were sitting outside a level
below us.) Theres a mixed emotion that
comes with wealth and powerthe thought that you can sit in a heated box or out
amongst the people. I mean, really, you
could do either if you wanted, and if you could pay
for it. But I dont think it makes you a
true fan. Youre not on par with the rest of the people in the stadium.
Ive told many people that my dream in life would be to own
a professional sports team. (This will
happen after I become a professional sportswriter) But I think I may be too na�e thinking I
could stand watching each game from a distant perch behind thick glass. I love sitting out in the stands too much to
do that. Theres a solidarity you
develop with the person next to you when youre with them for 3 hours on a
cold Saturday afternoon, living and dying with each forward pass.
Did I feel guilty being up there? Sort of.
Sure, it was a great one-time experience that I may not have
again for a long time.
However, I cant help thinking Id rather have been among The
People in the student section, flicking off the refs after a bad call, doing
that claw thing we do to psych out the opponent, singing Hey, Baby with the
band, and commiserating with my fellow free-admission-payers as the clock ticks
to triple zeros instead of walking down 7 flights of cold stairs with
3:20something left. Sure, theres a lot I
gained up there. Its a great story to
tell, a great column to write. But
something gets lost in the translation.
I cant wait until the next game, when some old guy up in
the box can look down at me, with my free admission, and secretly (or
outwardly) wish he was just another poor peasant. Because that old guy knew what he was missing. He knew what
I was missing. Maybe it was his first
time up there, maybe his 100th, but he knew.
And now I do, too. The
best things in life are free, and Im not talking about my free ticket up to
the box. Im talking about my Wildcard,
swiped at the T gate, allowing me to sit with my fellow peasants in the cold 4
or 5 Saturdays every fall and cheer my heart out.
Hate mail wont be
accepted or returned. Love mail, however, will be. d-marlin@northwestern.edu
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