Savoring the euphoria of an unexpected win, the season ticket holder made his way through a sea of red and black and orange and blue past the stadium gates, then hooked a left for the short walk to his car. As he ignored the occasional taunting of “Florida still sucks” by snake-bitten opposing fans not yet lucid enough to recall the appropriate boundaries for personal space, he side-stepped the crushed Bud Light cases and instinctively remembered the aisle where his silver Mazda awaited. Twenty spots down he reached his destination, and forgetting in his haze that he still didn’t have his keys, he grabbed the handle of the driver’s side door, which opened immediately. Lying on the floorboard beneath the steering wheel were the Doctor’s wallet and cell phone, now fully drained of power. But the Doctor was nowhere to be found.

He suddenly realized he may have a problem.

Further inspection was warranted. He circled to the back hatch to take inventory. It popped open, also having spent the last five hours unlocked. The television had not been stolen and remained plugged into one of the two portable batteries he had acquired years ago from an auto supply shop to power the entertainment for his modest tailgate parties. The 36-inch flat screen had been pressed back toward the lowered rear seats, behind the two collapsable chairs that had been stowed haphazardly. The bunny ears were still connected by coaxial cable to the rear of the television. The handle of Crown Royal, now nearly empty, sat beside the tv with the last two liter of ginger ale. Three beers remained in the cooler, along with the sandwiches and two bottles of water he had saved for the drive back to Orlando.

Amazing, no one took anything, not even the beer. Nice to be in a Big Donor lot.

But where the hell was the Doctor?

The Doctor had never made it into the game. That was not much of a surprise. It was not the first time one of the friends he had invited to use his second ticket to a Florida football game had never made it to the seats, as he was careful to only extend invitations to reliable drunks who could tolerate his own gameday antics.

And besides, this was no ordinary college football game. It was Florida-Georgia in Jacksonville, the featured attraction of the biggest weekend exhibition of socially acceptable adult debauchery east of Mardi Gras. More than half the people that show up for the pre-game party never make it into the stadium, and for good reasons. Some lose consciousness or control over their mental or gastrointestinal faculties. Others get sidetracked by the attractions along the walk to the game, mingling with dancing lushes, shot-gunning beers with peer-pressuring strangers, or becoming ensnared in hour-long slurring and incoherent debates about tailbacks and bad referees. Many forget that any game is going on at all. It can be hard to keep track of everything, and football can seem like an afterthought for those who are not truly die hard.

The Doctor had apparently fallen victim to the party. For the first time all day, the season ticket holder began to ponder the possibility that the whacked-out bastard may actually be missing. And he had the fucking car keys.

Returning to protocol, he dug through the glove compartment and found the pack of emergency Newport Lights from last season and lit a cigarette while running down his mental checklist for missing persons. There was nothing to do but wait for the Doctor to return. Thank God there was still at least an hour of juice left on the second battery and no one took the beer. He could be in for a long wait.

He peeled off his sweaty t-shirt and grabbed the spare behind the passenger seat, then pulled out the chairs, adjusted the bunny ears, and found a 7:30 game with minimal static on the local ABC affiliate. It would be an hour before they could have gotten out of the parking lot anyway, so he may as well get comfortable and restore his buzz. Judging by how much booze was left, the Doctor should be sober enough to drive by the time he finds the car. That would be his punishment for all the fuss.

So the season ticket holder cracked open the first lukewarm Miller Lite and sank into his canvas throne, turning the volume to 100 percent to drown out the honking of impatient drivers uselessly lining up at the parking lot exits. The stars were out and the sea breeze was cool. There was no use worrying yet.

***

“Wai, wai, wait. It’s like niney minuess before the game starss, and the gate’s right there.” The Doctor had lost his bearings and pointed toward Tallahassee, then turned and lifted his sunglasses and pointed toward the stadium towering 80 yards behind them. “I mean right o’er thah. You wanna go in now?”

“The security is a nightmare, you drunk bastard, and I’ll need to piss at least twice before kickoff. The lines for beer will also be rusty catheters once the rest of these lunatics get inside. So it’s time to lock up and go.”

The Doctor did not respond. He had only caught the first few words and was staring again at the Georgia girls dancing in the bed of a nearby F-150.

“I’ll tell you what, here are the keys and your ticket. Just make sure you turn off the battery for the tv and pack up all this shit before you come in. And try not to creep out the locals.” The impatient season ticket holder then grabbed a fresh beer for the walk in and left his guest to his own devices.

They had left Orlando at 7:00 a.m. and had now been hitting the Crown for four hours. The obsessed Gator fan had managed to bring his buzz right to the rim of oblivion before leveling off about 30 minutes ago. He had little to worry about, no matter how incoherent he still felt. He has always been able to harness a preternatural instinct for finding his way to numbered seats through even poisonous levels of intoxication, and he knew any spins or loss of focus would be burned away the minute he began yelling. And with him, that always begins as soon as the band comes on the field 20 minutes before kickoff.

It was disappointing this year to miss the fun in Jacksonville the night before the game. Even back then when he was beginning to sniff his 40s, he rarely missed the depravity on the Friday before the Florida-Georgia game. Beyond being a pilgrimage for rabid fans of two charter members of the Southeastern Conference, the neutral site game between Florida and Georgia always falls on the weekend of Halloween. The Landings in Jacksonville, largely ignored for the rest of the year, have long been the epicenter for most alumni and undergrads on Friday. The bars and the plaza there on the Friday before Florida-Georgia are crammed tighter than Tokyo subway trains, and waits for oversized cans of PBR can feel like flight delays. By Saturday night, a new walking surface of crushed beer cans four inches thick covers all exterior surfaces.

For the last decade or so, he had begun spending Fridays before Florida-Georgia games at Jax Beach, where the bars are less crowded and less expensive, and you have the added bonus of local community college students in Halloween costumes. Among the droves of salivating middle-aged married fans in red and blue college shirts are hordes of dirty nurses, dirty stewardesses, and sexy cops and criminals. The spring break mystique never seems to leave Jax Beach, and the locals seem desensitized to being gawked at by the weekend warriors. They always take their artless come-ons in stride.

Since finding a beachside hotel several blocks from all the action, the season ticket holder had found nirvana in recent years getting blitzed among the Halloween set at the seaside dive bars, taking occasional breaks to cross the sidewalk to the ocean and join kids shedding their costumes for midnight dips after passing around joints. Jax Beach was his fountain of youth, and it was worth a few hundred bucks each year for a one-night hotel stay, even when he had to go alone.

He had to skip all that this year. His daughter was about to turn three, and he did not want to miss trick-or-treating with her, which fell this season on the night before the game. So while he was biting his tongue trying to behave around Disney-obsessed neighbors, his people were at the beach indulging in more decadent holiday festivities.

But the payoff had been his good luck with the parking pass.

There is no bigger headache for anyone going to a Florida-Georgia game than parking. Most of the lots within a mile of the stadium sell out years in advance, and spaces anywhere within reasonable walking distance cost hundreds on the secondary market. But a diamond had fallen into the season ticket holder’s lap that year. A Bull Gator who owed him a favor had dropped a golden ticket for a spot in the prized lot beside the stadium, within the inner sanctum of the best tailgating in college football. It was not a bad compensatory draft pick for missing Jax Beach.

Most of the regulars he took to games were unavailable, so that year he took the Doctor. The Doctor was not a member of the Florida football cult, or even Georgia’s. His proclivities had always leaned toward Michigan, but he had played baseball at a small school with a compass direction in its name. Although he was not accustomed to SEC culture, he was reliable enough for the atmosphere, a stalwart veteran of the hard-drinking kickball scene and a festive, up-beat boozer. There would be no melodrama or gastric messes with the Doctor, and with the muscle mass he had retained from his playing days, he might even be reliable for protection if the shit got heavy in the stands.

The streets were already buzzing when they approached the stadium around 10 a.m., but they had no problem getting into the fat cat lot and were guided to a prime spot deeper within the belly of the beast than the season ticket holder ever dreamt he’d be. The college kids were still sleeping off their hangovers, and the portable toilet rental companies were just finishing depositing their wares at pre-purchased locations. As the pair of friends stepped out of the Mazda, the only other early arrivers were the well-rested old-timers, the standard bearers of SEC culture on their fourth or fifth decades of autumn gamedays. They had seen the wars, and they knew the drill. Like seasoned sappers, they were setting up their rows of canopies, televisions, speakers, and tables with trays of fried chicken with the dexterity that comes with years of practice.

The tailgate with the Doctor was to be far simpler, as the season ticket holder had not yet found a family of tailgating regulars. As always, he would use the rear compartment of the Mazda as a tv stand, the rear bumper as a footrest, and the floorboard behind the front passenger seat as the bar. He was not much of a chef, so there would be no food other than some pre-made grocery store Cubans and a bag of Sun Chips. They were not there to dine. The priority was football and the booze.

“I don’t know what the big deal is about this game, I don’t see any cocktail party.” The Doctor was a born skeptic.

“Give it an hour.”

Within 30 minutes, the parking lot was full and the jovial voices in the surrounding tailgates began rising as the beer began hitting the old timers. Occasionally errant footballs would hit the surrounding cars as uncles struggled to control their arm angles while trying not to spill their tall boys mid-toss. The pretty moms began splintering off into their sects as their laughter intensified, while the grandparents reminisced about how much ticket prices had risen since the advent of cable television.

Then just as the third drinks began ramming home, the party began erupting like a volcano. Blasts of competing dance music crashed like storm waves as the lanes between the parked cars filled with herds of college kids carrying cases of beer. Several sets of rich frat boys had used their trust funds to pool parking spots and convert adjoining spaces deliberately left unoccupied into outdoor dance floors. DJ booths were set atop the beds of pickup trucks beside ice luges and beer bongs. It was all open invite, especially for the growing crowds of girls in mini skirts and cowboy boots. The cream of the undergraduate crop had risen and was taking over.

Waves of youthful energy and libido radiated out from the makeshift dance clubs with the clouds of cannabis carried by the bay breezes. They mixed with chants of school cheers and country music into an electromagnetic pulse that added an extra punch to each beer and drop of liquor. This was SEC football.

This was not an NFL tailgate scene. The vibes at Florida-Georgia are euphoric, and aggression is unwelcome and seldom seen. All intercollegiate venom is saved for after the game, to be unleashed after the outcome has been determined and bragging rights restored or forfeited. Before the game, the holiday atmosphere is protected with vigor, and courtesy is enforced across party lines. The young and the old mix freely, exchanging beers and food. A neighbor’s misbehavior that would trigger calls to non-emergency lines of local police at home is accepted without complaint, even in the company of impressionable children. It’s just Florida-Georgia.

“Did you see what just walked by? I can’t believe they wear that to the games. No wonder you come here every year.” The Doctor was coming around.

“They’re a special breed, the Georgia fans. They drive like geriatrics, but they love their food and they know their football. And they’re the most beautiful women in the world. I’ve heard they actually weed out the ugly ones at maternity wards, send all the defectives to Boston and import replacements from Sweden off the black market. It’s all funded by real estate taxes, you know. Have to protect the brand.”

By noon, the first bottle of ginger ale had been killed and it was time to pick up the pace with the Crown. The Doctor was by then mixing with the other hooligans, as was the season ticket holder, in his own introverted way. He preferred to observe without interfering and soak in the energy. Besides, the clock was ticking, and it was time to get twisted. Better not to rely on $20 beers inside the cathedral.

“I thiiank I’m movin to Jaggsonville man.” The Crown appeared to be hitting the Doctor pretty hard by one o’clock. “How can you wash fuggin football righ now, mah? There’s a kiddie pool full of jello shots righ past that truck with all the blonde girls. Leh’s go see if they’ll come over heh.”

“Tell them to bring ice, and ask them if they have an extra lighter.”

The Doctor refilled his drink but forgot the ice and ginger ale, then was sucked back into the crowd, returning later empty handed. By 2:06 p.m., he needed to sit down, and the pair turned their folding chairs toward the crowd and watched the drunks like proud parents.

When the departing hour arrived, the Doctor was not yet ready for serious sport. “I-ahm jus gonna stay a lirrle while longer. Juss wanna make sure e’eryone is okay. I wone be too long.”

“Take your time. There’s a koozie in the side pocket of the cooler if you want to drink inside. Our seats will be in the sun early, so you may want to bring it if you don’t want your beer to be warm as blood by halftime.”

Distracted as he was to get to the seats, the season ticket holder never hesitated to leave the Doctor behind with his keys. He was, after all, a Doctor of Medicine.

***

“Outta the way, you pigs! We’re try’n da get through hee-ah!” The Doctor was growing impatient.

“Sir, would you mind sitting down while I drive the golf cart?”

“Was I standin? Mah bad, mah bad. I juss tryin ta fine my boy’s car.”

The trip back from the line of porta-potties at the back of the fat cat lot had not gone as planned for the Doctor. The urge to urinate had overtaken him with ferocity, and he had not counted on the ten-minute line. He had also dropped his sunglasses into the muddy water while trying to grip the door handle to find his way out.

As he returned to the light of day, the blast of sunshine stunned his vision and disoriented him. For a moment he forgot where he was.

Before him stretched a web of car lanes radiating out like the spokes of a bicycle tire. Somewhere out there was the Mazda. But where?

Posterity has still not established exactly how long he wandered among the labyrinth of flags and trucks in search of the season ticket holder’s car. But a later investigation determined that he found a trash collector on a golf cart and persuaded him to drive him around to aid in the search, while he repeatedly clicked the alarm button on his friend’s key fob, hoping to locate the missing vehicle.

“Wheah the hell coul tha damn thing be?”

“What kind of vehicle are we looking for sir?”

The Doctor was not prepared to answer, and apparently listed off several models from different manufacturers, including several that ceased production before the Great Depression. The driver of the golf cart eventually convinced the Doctor to hand over the key fob.

“We’ve already passed at least 20 Mazda’s. And I’m not supposed to drive other people in this vehicle.”

“No prol-bem bro.” The Doctor jumped out of the golf cart without warning and broke his fall with the bumper of a Camaro. “Thass cool bro. Irrm sure iss around here somewhah.” The Doctor bowed and bolted back into the abyss.

***

Twenty-five minutes before kickoff, the season ticket holder’s cell phone rang while he rested his feet on the still unoccupied seats in front of him, shading his second tall boy with his knee. The number was one he didn’t recognize.

“Is this Rob?” The female voice on the other end was unfamiliar.

“I’m not at liberty to say. Who the hell is this?”

“I’m here with someone who says he’s a friend of yours, and he handed me a business card with your name and phone number. Are you in Jacksonville for the Florida-Georgia game? We’re outside Gate 1, and he needs you to come get him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Suddenly a commotion was heard on the other end of the line, and a deranged kackle of a slurring demon with hints of the Doctor’s accent took over the conversation.

“Come ouh here an geh me, you pussy.”

“Get yourself together man. Are you on acid?”

“Wheah the hell is yer car?”

The phone was taken back by its owner.

“Mister, your friend is pretty drunk, and you’re going to need to come take care of him.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. We’re less than 30 minutes till kickoff, and there’s no re-entry.”

“Are you serious?”

“I know how this looks, but he’ll be fine. He has a pituitary condition and he has his medicine. He’s a Doctor of Medicine you know. If you give him a bottle of water, he should know what to do.”

The phone was pulled away, and he heard the woman’s voice rant with exasperation to unannounced companions, something about the friend being unwilling to come out because he doesn’t want to leave the game. Several male voices in the background mentioned something about needing to get through security with haste. Then the snake-bitten Samaritan returned to the line.

“I think your buddy is going to get arrested if you don’t come out here right now.”

“Look, the game starts in 20 minutes, and he has his ticket. I’d advise you to just point him toward the nearest entrance, place your foot firmly in the small of his back, push him forward gently but firmly, and then walk away before he turns to find you. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“That’s just not acceptable…”

At that moment the Pride of the Sunshine Band began playing the Jaws theme and the fans in Section 221 began chomping. The season ticket holder pulled the phone from his ear and shouted a final salutation, thanking the Samaritan for her service. He then hung up and began chanting with the rest of the maniacs in his section.

***

The sun had set when the Doctor woke up in a stupor, his frontal lobe pounding. The rocking of his brain from side to side within his skull distorted his vision, and he struggled to focus on his surroundings.

All around him were scenes of chaos, which he glimpsed as fragments between staccato blinks. A girl crying about a missing shoe, clearly in distress, her disheveled mess of blond hair grazing across the asphalt like a mop. A meathead chanting into his phone, over and over, Hey, Hey, Hey, You Gotta Come Get Me Bro. The distant barking of dogs. Paroxysms of screaming crowds, far away. But from where?

The Doctor tried to rise to his feet, but the ground shook and his flip-flops could not make purchase. He slumped to his knees, then returned to his prostrate position on the ground. Close the eyes again, maybe it will all be better if sleep is restored.

At that moment a fireball of bile shot up his throat, his stomach twisting again into a double-helix Charlie horse. No, now he must keep his eyes open, no matter what he has to see.

Still partially blind, he clawed at the ground around him, using his hands to search for some familiar surface. Anything to help him understand where in the holy hell he was.

The cross latches of a chain link fence behind him offered a clue. As his vision came into focus, he saw stationary figures in yellow and black shirts among the mass of the distressed. They seemed to have their shit together. They did not appear to be armed.

As best he could tell, he seemed to be in some sort of confinement pen. Perhaps he was to be shipped away. But if so, why were there no handcuffs?

His hand found an unopened bottle of water. His throat was parched. Instinctively, he ripped off the cap and poured its contents down his throat, swallowing the entire bottle in one serpentine gulp. An icy jolt pulsed through his brain, and the blur before his eyes came into slightly better focus.

He spied in the distance the top lit shadow of a stadium. He then felt a circular key fob in his pocket. He remembered his mission. That god damn Mazda was out there somewhere.

An impulse told him it was time to leave, to cross the darkened desert to search for a different place to perch for a better view of his salvation. He had no clue where he was, but if he just followed the sporadic roars of the crowd toward that monstrous shadow in the distance, he might get close enough to signal for help. He thought he could make it, he just needed to get past the sentinels in the yellow shirts.

He discreetly rose to his feet, stifling his breathing and avoiding any sudden movements that might draw attention. If he could just keep his eyes pointed in one direction, he might be able to stop that wretched rocking. Like a cartoon thief, he cautiously stepped among the broken drunks toward an opening in the fence line, gliding silently just inches behind the yellow shirts. None of them seemed to give a shit.

At last he was now free. But where was he going? Could he even make it there? Where was there?

***

The battery for the television died almost two hours after the season ticket holder returned to his unlocked car after the game. There was only one beer left in the cooler by then, and the Doctor was still nowhere to be found. It was now time to ponder what the hell to do next.

The season ticket holder’s efforts to learn anything about the Doctor’s whereabouts had proven fruitless, despite several promising leads.

The friendly Gator fans at the tailgate three cars down mentioned that the Doctor had left to use the portable lavatories shortly after the season ticket holder departed, and although he intended to return, no one had seen him since. He had also pilfered a hot dog.

The season ticket holder had called home to his wife to see if she knew anything. The Doctor was a family friend and she was not surprised. She reached out to his girlfriend, but neither had heard from the Doctor. He hadn’t answered any of his girlfriend’s calls all day, and trying the phone sitting now on the front seat would serve no purpose.

A friendly parking attendant initially had no information to share, but then learned from her supervisor that another employee who had ended his shift at 5:00 p.m. had driven an imbecile matching the Doctor’s description around the adjacent parking lot for 15 minutes while he attempted to locate the Mazda by triggering its alarm. But the pair had parted company, and no further details were known. The employee was reached at his home shortly thereafter, but he could provide no further information.

It was now nearly ten o’clock. It remained a beautiful, starlit night, and a surprising number of fans were still waiting around for traffic to die down before setting off for home. Left now were only the heart and soul of Southeastern football culture. Families sharing second courses of pre-cooked dinner heated with liquid fuel as patriarchs disassembled lawn furniture. Fathers and sons tossing footballs in the parking lot. Pretty mothers rocking sleeping children while grandparents watched the evening slate of games on generator-powered big screens. If you had to be stuck somewhere, this was a fine place to be.

“I’m sure he’ll show up eventually, buddy.” The friendly brothers from Ocala had stuck around an extra hour just to help look for the Doctor, and they left the stranded season ticket holder their last two beers and a six pack of Coke.

But a decision had to be made.

The lots around the stadium officially close two hours after the game ends, and although the season ticket holder suspected the traffic would keep the tow trucks at bay for at least another hour, leaving his car behind was out of the question. With the dwindling power left on his phone, he realized that his best option would be to call Triple A to have the car towed to a hotel, then crash for the night to recharge his phone and his liver and rent a car from the airport to drive home the next morning. Then he’d just have to get his keys and drive the three hours back to Jacksonville to return the rental car, before repeating the drive home in the Mazda. Presumably by then, someone would learn what happened to that rat bastard Doctor.

The season ticket holder’s wife was not pleased, but she agreed that he had little choice. A fine day appeared heading toward a most disheartening coda. He finished packing the chairs, opened his last beer, and raised his Bic to light one final cigarette before retrieving the card for Triple A from his glove compartment.

At that very moment, as he stared past the glowing orange crown of his Newport, a nearby conversion van pulled forward and uncloaked a slumped figure lying crumpled against the rear tire of a sedan. With disbelief the season ticket holder approached. There, just feet from a group of ladies playing bridge at a folding table beside the rear bumper, the Doctor lay passed out. For God knows how long, he had been just fifty feet away from where his adventure had begun.

“Oh good, he’s yours? We weren’t sure what to do with him.” The card playing grandmothers were surprisingly relaxed about the affair. “He’s been there since we got back. We decided to let him sleep.”

The Doctor opened his eyes and yawned. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Never mind that, you fool. We’re leaving as soon as I finish this beer. You’re driving.” The Doctor never did ask about the game.

The season ticket holder’s wife was relieved when she learned that the Doctor had been located. Her recommendation to find a hotel for the night was declined. Better to break free from this madness before their luck ran out.

The radio was turned to full volume as they rolled out of the parking lot, just to confirm that the Doctor’s cerebellum had sufficient motor function to make it all three hours back to Orlando. He complained at first, but he knew he had it coming.

As they headed down Bay Street toward I-95 with the windows down and the speakers blaring, the moonlit stadium disappeared in the rearview mirror. Somewhere the worn and the ragged were carrying the party on, celebrating the big win. But for the Doctor and the season ticket holder, it was time to get the hell home.

***

Rob Rogers is an award-winning writer and attorney from Winter Garden, Florida. His first book, Finding My Way Home: Fighting Depression Backpacking in Central Florida, won the Bronze Medal for Autobiography/Memoir at the 2025 Florida Authors & Publishers Association (FAPA) President’s Book Awards. Rob’s essays have been published in Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, Ponder Review, Still Points Art Quarterly, Four Tulips, and Thorn & Bloom. Rob also writes a blog called the Central Florida Backpacking Desk Jockey  (backpackingdeskjockey.blog). More about Rob can be found on his website: RobRogersWriter.com.