There are all kinds of shit-talkers in the world, but none make a man’s blood boil quite like an opposing football team’s fans on his home turf. They start popping up Monday or Tuesday prior to the matchup, and steadily increase in numbers each night until every bar on the strip is hosting hillbillies of questionable intelligence. It would be far more subtle if we just kept our disagreements on the football field, but we’re all in fraternities here and subtlety is not one of our strong suits. Every opposing fan is acting exactly the same as you would in their shoes (thus making them complete drunken assholes), but that doesn’t mean you don’t fucking hate them for it.
Every rivalry in college football has its own wonderful traditions and elaborate trophies, but absolutely none of that concerns us when we’re half a handle deep, blaring the Freebird solo on the frat castle lawn. One shout of “Fuck [insert your team here]” is enough to incite a shouting match at the very least, and possibly a massive brawl. They might be exactly like you in nearly every way: button-downs, boat shoes, visors, and other typical fraternity garb, but because of their team allegiance they become pure scum, falling neatly between Hitler and Richard Simmons on the “I fucking hate you” scale.
To clarify, I do understand perfectly why the visiting team’s fans have to be such assholes. They’re in a new college town, surrounded by fans chanting and performing their trademark hand motions. They have to work twice as hard to pick up local slams, simply because of the color of their clothes. It’s understandable that they may be a bit irritated, and the natural response is to take it out on the home team fans.
I’ve been in that opposing position before, and yeah, I probably was an asshole too. That’s the beauty of college football. You can be a fine upstanding member of society six days a week, but from the second you throw on that gameday polo, you become a beer chugging animal ready to defend your team come hell or high water. It’s a double standard (the good kind, not the kind psychotic feminists complain about) and it makes the football experience that much better.
As we dive deeper into an already phenomenal college football season, the number of assholes making roadtrips is bound to increase. Hell, I’m probably going to commit every single act I mentioned I hated in this column when I go on a roadtrip of my own. That’s just how it works. It’s a beautiful thing.