To appreciate the story, you have to understand that, for me, going back to the south for a football game is like Christmas for a seven year old. I get excited, I can hardly wait, and invariably, in my mind, I begin to envision the events that will occur over the next few days. And just like a child, there is usually disappointment, because while the occasion is everything that it should be, there is absolutely no way that it can live up to the expectations that have been thrust upon it within my own mind. Either that, or something goes terribly wrong. Like the time that I went to the Independence Bowl.

Ole Miss, as a football program, has a very rich and storied history. One of the top programs in the south during the fifties and sixties, the team produced championships, created heroes, and gave young boys in Mississippi something to dream about for their future. All before I even became a glimmer in my parents’ eyes. Since I had been following the Rebels, they had been average, with up years and down years, and this year was no different. After racing out to a 5-1 record, the team had dropped 5 straight, and only a victory in the last game of the season, over Mississippi State in the Egg Bowl, had made the team bowl eligible. Sliding into the Independence Bowl gave both the team and the fans a chance to end the an otherwise average season on a high note. Finding out that their opponent in the Independence Bowl would be the Nebraska Cornhuskers only made the opportunity that much better.

I had to go to this game. As far as the history and nostalgia of college football goes, Nebraska has to be one of the top five programs of all time. To have the chance to see Ole Miss go head to head with such a historically dominant program was a chance that I simply couldn’t pass up, and I knew it would be a great game. Even if both teams were 6-6.

I was in Jackson for the Christmas holidays and had talked my managers into letting me work from the Jackson office for a few days so that I could use my one remaining vacation day for the day of the game. The plan was to get up early on gameday, a Friday, and to make the trip as quickly as possible, to insure as much drinking time as possible, and that’s exactly what we did. In fact, we may have carried our plan out a little too well, as we arrived in the parking lot outside Indepenence Bowl stadium about six hours before the opening kickoff. We quickly met up with other friends, and began to get ready.

I was exhausted. I looked at my watch, and it was 5:43, less than twenty minutes until game time. We were moving toward the gates, but slowly, and people all around were getting edgy. The last five hours or so we had been busy. Many beers, many bourbon and cokes, and way too many cigarettes and cigars had been consumed. A golf cart had been stolen from a security guard. A sign had been placed on the back of a Nebraska fan that read, ‘Nothin says lovin’ like cousins kissing cousins. Go Huskers.’ We had been the life of the party in section E-12, and now we were paying for it. Well, they were paying for it. We had lost two already. Both were in the car, passed out, the victims of a poor decision to mix alcohols. The rest of us were weary, but ready, and as the warm bourbon passed through our cold bodies, we became excited about the praspect of seeing Ole Miss play.

I wish I could say that the game was memorable. That I remember the key stats, and the MVPs and what the turning point was. But it wasn’t, and I don’t. It was just like every other Rebel game that I’ve been to. There was a lot of nail biting, and yelling, and giving high fives to strangers, and this time the Rebels won.

Those of us that had attended the game had cut back on our drinking, and the concession stands had stopped serving after the third quarter, and upon returning to the parking lot we discovered that our fallen friends were not only awake, but were up and drinking again, and ready to go. It was decided that a night on town was in order, to celebrate the win, and so we packed up and headed to the Day’s Inn to book rooms for the night.

After checking in and dropping off bags, we headed for grub at a Waffle House. This would be my downfall later. Already, some were getting rowdy again. I had seen this many times before with my friends, andthat some were going to burn out early once again. Finally, we got to a bar, one of those dance type clubs with separate areas for rock, rap, and an 80’s themed dance area and bar. We chose the 80’s area because the waitresses were hotter. It was quiet among us, and the club hadn’t really gotten going yet, but I was ready. Unfortunately for me, the others with me were not. We lost quite a few very early on, and all that remained were a small dedicated group of us. We had some beers, and we had some shots, and then the damnedest thing happened. People started showing up. In droves. It was as if every single Ole Miss fan in Shreveport had decided to show up at the same time, and my friends and I were the only ones that hadn’t gotten the memo. I thought that would definitely liven up my crew, who were beginning to look like the fat bridesmaid at the end of a wedding reception. I was wrong.

Slowly, and quietly, my friends began leaving, sneaking out of the club and into waiting cabs and rental cars outside. I didn’t notice for a while, but even once I did, I didn’t care. I was drinking; hell, I was drunk, and I was having to much fun dancing and chatting up anyone that I vaguely knew about the game, and whatever other nonsense was passing through my head at that moment. This went on until about two in the morning, when, after making one, or two, or five trips through the club, I realized that I didn’t recognize a soul in there, and I was completely shitfaced.

I made my way out and down the street, to a smaller pub like bar. After ordering my umpteenth bourbon and coke, I began to chat up a Nebraska fan about the game, and about how his team sucked. And then I spilled my drink on him.

After being kicked out of that bar for being loud and obnoxious and, well, for spilling drinks on people, I made my way back down the main stretch of bars looking for a cab. A strip club that was still going strong had a woman in a bikini and hooker boots out on the street trying to drum up business. I walked up to here and as she turned around, I asked her if she wanted to come back to my room with me. To my amazement, she said yes, and without much hesitation either. “Damn, I’m good”, I thought. What happened next was heart breaking. The woman thrust herself out into the street with arm raised, and within seconds, a cab appeared in front of us. She offered for me to get in first, and I obliged. With that she closed the door behind me. “What’s going on?”, I called out to her. “Oh, I’ve got, to work a little bit, longer, I’ll meet you at your hotel room a little later” was her reply. “But you don’t even know where I’m staying,” I called out, my voice trailing off as the cab driver drove away under her instructions. D’oh! Outsmarted by an stripper! With that, the cab driver asked me where we were going, and I told him, “I’m staying at the Day’s Inn.”

I feel like this is the point of the story where I should give you, the reader, a little background information on the wonderful city of Shreveport, Louisiana. Like many other cities of similar size, Shreveport has quite a few smaller outskirt cities that act as suburban areas for the mainly mainly urban major city. One of the cities in the group surrounding Shreveport is Bossier City. Bossier City is home to many great neighborhoods and restaurants. It is also the actual home of Independence Bowl Stadium. As well as the Bossier City Days Inn. Where my room was. It’s just too bad that my cab wasn’t heading in that direction.

The real kicker in this whole situation is that the Days Inn in Shreveport has a Waffle House right next to it, just like the one in Bossier City. I really think that’s what did me in. Feeling very happy about the fact that I was almost to a bed, I climbed the stairs and began searching for the room. Room 241. I had quite a hard time finding it, but finally I lloked up and there it was. I knocked on the door in three sharp, loud beats. Nothing. I knocked again. A light came on inside the room, and I faintly heard a pair of feet shuffling along the floor. As the door opened in front of me, and the face of the rather large, rather angry man appeared to me, I finally began to sense something was up. Still, for some reason, I felt the need to make sure. “Where’s Todd?” I asked, hoping that the man would tell me that Todd was in fact inside, and he was Todd’s uncle, or some other such perfectly reasonable explanation, and that I should come on in and get some sleep. What I got was, “Who the fuck’s Todd?” I turned and walked away without answering, and headed down the stairs and across the street to the Waffle House.

I sat at a booth near the front, and ordered a cup of coffe. I still believed that I was at the right hotel, and simply couldn’t remember my room number, so as I finished my coffee I decided to make my way around the hotel parking lot, figuring that I would just sleep by my friends’ car once I had found it.

After a half hour of looking and three trips around the hotel parking lot, I made my way over to the Waffle House once again, because I really wasn’t sure what else there was for me to do. Coming into their restaurant twice in the middle of the night was reason enough for the waitresses to strike up a conversation with me. I began to explain my situation to them, and as I did, the mystery began to unravel itself in my head.

“Are you sure you aren’t staying at the Days Inn in Bossier City?”, she asked me as she refilled my cup of coffee. “What?” was the only reply that I could manage. I finally knew what was going on, and even though there was relief in knowing that my friends hadn’t up and left me in the middle of nowhere, I still had to find a way to get to the right hotel before they did up and leave me.

Luckily, when you have a story to tell, like the story that I had about that night, people tend to take quite a bit of pity on you. The good people at the Waffle House called a cab for me and kept me loaded up with free coffee until it arrived. The cab driver, bless her heart, heard my story, and dropped me off for what little cash I had left in my pocket, which was well short of the actual fare. And Todd, after I climbed the stairs at the Bossier City Days Inn and knocked, with trembling hand, on the door of room 241, opened up on the first knock.

The ride home the next day was brutal, as I tried to sleep off a hangover in the backseat of a Ford Explorer. But I was leaving with a Rebel win, and with one hell of a story. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m never going back to that God forsaken town.