When the sheaf of pages came in the fancy booklet from the athletic czar of many titles, it just seemed so....well, complicated. I remember simpler times when my Razorback (I'm assuming we can still use that word without getting sued) tickets just came in a nice, pouchy envelope with a thank you letter and a schedule magnet. I miss my magnet.
Thumbing through all the propaganda in the spiral-bound notebook, I couldn't help but think if the current fleecing, er Hog Call campaign or whatever the heck it's called, was paying for this overkill of stats, charts, and glossy paper. And I suppose the out-of-state bunch that now oversees all the propaganda campaigns has to keep busy to justify its pork.
When I finally got to my Little Rock season ticket pages (I don't go to Fayetteville any more unless someone comps me) and I slowly began edging my tickets from the perforations, I just couldn't help but think of some of the most glorious Hog games of all. The ones where no ticket was required. The ones where players like Alworth, Hatfield, Phillips, Crockett, Harry Jones, and Burnett roamed the War Memorial turf when it meant something. REALLY meant something.
For a young boy with no money, tickets were no problem. I didn't need to tear them out of a fancy binder. If I wanted to see my heroes play, and I did in the worst way, all it took was the guts to sneak in. I was not alone. There was a whole posse of us and here is how we did it.
Actually there were any number of techniques we Jr. high and high school sneakologists mastered over the years. This was the easiest and most dangerous.
Inside the fence on the north end was a rickety concession stand with a metal roof. I learned early that if you wanted to go over the top with the big boys, and I did, you had to be quick and nimble. Also vigilant for the men in blue. It's amazing what you can get by with when there's a huge crowd. Everyone is in a hurry, drunk, or don't care. And we took advantage of all of that.
Climbing the outside fence in waves at the chosen moment, we would ascend to the top of the concession stand where our footsteps would ricochet loudly off the tin roof and then the dangerous part. I'm not sure how high it was, but once you were on-top, the only way down was to jump off. That's when you were most vulnerable. If you stumbled or fell you were like a crippled animal out in the open, exposing yourself at any second to the vice-grip around your neck from security. I never fell.
Once on the ground, the mad scramble was on to slide down the hill under the end zone seats. Once we made it down the gap under the seats, we helped ourselves to the view at the bottom, peering out from the first row of seats in the end zone for the duration. There was just enough room to sit there. We were part of the atmosphere and really no one cared, except "Red."
Red was a cross between Popeye and one of those bar characters from the first Star Wars film. He was short, ugly and pissed-off a lot. And yes he had red hair. His job was to run us off. He tried, but never succeeded.
We had organization and youth on our side. Plus we were all athletes. When a look-out spied him coming all we did was run up under the seats like rats. He couldn't catch us, and plus he wasn't about to go up under there. We knew it and he knew it, but the game never stopped.
One night Red got too close for comfort. He had this pink skin and his eyes were always glaring and bulging as he would stomp our way. This night as he was cussing us and we scurried back in our hole, he flung something. It was a piece of metal. I will never forget it, and it hit Ricky King. Ricky's nickname was "Hoocho". He wasn't a big guy, but he was tough. It really didn't hurt Ricky, except his pride, and to all our astonishment he came out and confronted the little sawed-off demon jaw-to-jaw. Red backed off.
You know if you really, really think about that kind of stuff today, it almost seems impossible but besides Red and the cops, no one really cared back then. And all the cops would do was toss you out and in a little while, if you were a master, back in you'd go. At the recent Little Rock game I looked fondly down at those spaces under the end zone seats. Now there are barricades there. No way is any kid going to steal one second of precious Razorback game time without paying. REALLY paying.
Probably the most daring sneak-in technique was also the boldest. You had to pick the right dupe. A fatherly type with no kids about to get in line, and then slide-in right in front of him. As you approached the turnstile, your timing had to be prefect. As you pushed forward through the revolving arm, you simply said with a smile and a slight gesture back, "He's got them." Once the ticket-taker shifted his gaze and you cleared the arm, boom.....you were gone in an instant, running as fast as you could to your safe haven under the bleachers. There was no way the ticket-taker could chase you and leave his post. Not with hose rabid fans busting the turnstile to get in.
His call of "Hey come back here!", was laughable as you scurried away successful in your scheme. A determined and driven no-holds scheme to join your fellow crew under the seats to perhaps watch the defending national champions play. Or see a great football game against Standford, Southern Cal or Texas from our on-field perch. The ones we lost still hurt. Funny they don't hurt like that any more.
Did I say I missed my magnet?
