As the shouts from the game echoed beyond the walls of the stadium, I sat on the curb outside the stadium jail cell, a journalist disguised in my game-day gear watching for some sign of drunken debauchery. Officially titled the “designation area,” and colloquially called the “drunk tank,” the stadium jail cell is infamous for sucking in fun-loving drunkards like a black hole, so I was surprised to see so many escape unscathed. For example, a Notre Dame student draped with a flag bearing the ND emblem staggered past me. In keeping with his makeshift cape, “Captain ND” must have consumed enough for a superhero because he had to be led by a modern- day Good Samaritan — a fan from the opposing team — to maintain a vertical position.
After this comic-book-gone-biblical episode, the drunkards seemed to swagger out of the woodwork. They wandered past the designation area, some lucky enough to dodge NDSP and others not so fortunate. A group of girls stumbled past me, followed by a handcuffed redhead, obviously Notre Dame affiliated, wondering why the luck of the Irish did not apply to him. Other students who had finished their pre-gaming late resorted to running in a single-file line, each taking turns to sprint to the lead while maintaining impressive coordination. Drastic measures are a must when attempting to enter the stadium before the second quarter, especially after a rousing morning of kegs and eggs.
Soon, I noticed an increasing number of individuals following their police escorts to the prisoner transport car and decided that was where all the action had shifted. After I carefully peered around the open door into the van, an officer asked me to “Step away from the vehicle.” Though not wanting to mess with authority, I stayed in the vicinity long enough to hear an enthusiastic drunk advise me to refrain from playing beer pong prior to the game. Thanks for the tipsy tip!
My thorough fieldwork also led me into the actual drunk tank, where my expectations for entertainment were quite high. And entertained I was. I was the only sober one at the party. As I entered the tank, I overheard slurred snippets of a conversation between a police officer and a 23-year-old girl — or maybe she was 22; her story changed many times. Various students fumbled for their IDs, and as the stench of last night’s Sbarro reached my nostrils, I decided to retire the investigative beer goggles and enjoy the game from my seat, far from the drunk tank.
– Claire Kenney
The views of this author are not necessarily the views of Scholastic Magazine.
