The first Saturday in September, and the field was gleaming.

The stadium grass and the north Georgia sky were impossible colors, the kind of green and blue that first-graders slather with broad strokes. The bass drum of the band was thick and loud enough to reroute heartbeats. The crowd pulsed in a sea of blue and red, the colors of its beloved Deep South University. The sorority girls with canyons of cleavage, the frat dudes already sweating cheap tequila through their pores, the kids with their foam Bootlegger pistols getting a fast education in the ways of the world, the alumni trying to convince themselves that they hadn’t picked up inches around the waist and lost them off the hairline, the jocks and stoners and geeks and hotties and skanks and douchebags and MILFs and everyone – all these and more all beat in time, all with one overriding mantra: Game on, man. Game on.

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