Brown State: The Open Curriculum Meets the Gridiron
Nicholas Miller
January 14, 2022
On Saturday mornings in the Fall, ESPN’s College Gameday airs for a whopping three hours in preview of the day’s most prominent college football matchups. Filmed live on the campus to host the most enticing game, commentators speak in front of a sea of students who, while brandishing signs that creatively bash the opposing school, seem to never stop screaming. It is a weekly celebration of college football culture, showcasing the tribal pride, social unruliness, and unparalleled extravagance of football at large state schools. On a brisk September morning, I grabbed a bowl of dry Bran Flakes and a blanket, and tuned in. The show was in State College, Pennsylvania to preview the ranked clash between Auburn and Penn State to be played later that night. Much of the conversation centered around the game being a “White Out,” meaning that Penn State was instructing all fans in the 106,572-person capacity stadium to wear white. Students and fans would consent with remarkable unanimity and produce the tremendous visual effect of a pulsing, pure-white oval. The crowd at Gameday was already properly dressed. An anchor joked that they weren’t loud enough, a dangerous stunt that triggered an auditory explosion. It was with this ringing in my ears that I started getting ready for my own Gameday: Brown University edition. This story is not about the grandeur of football at a huge Southern state university, nor is it the underdog story of a small college finding pride through its football team. This is the story of a fabulously wealthy, elite institution, its terrible football team, and a student body, that for the most part, thinks of it all as a joke. That Saturday, Brown was to host the University of Rhode Island in the Governor’s Cup: a matchup 112 years old. It would be the team’s first game in nearly two years after the Ivy League, the only Division I conference to do so, cancelled all athletic competition during the 2020-21 school year because of Covid-19. As a result, it was my first time attending an athletic event as a college student, and even though I knew Brown has overall the worst sports teams of the Ivy League, general memories of college students storming the field or roaring thunderous chants still fueled my excitement. But before I got to the game, I had to find the shuttle bus, the required first leg of a Brown University gameday. The football stadium, built in 1925, is more than a mile and a half from the center of campus, an irritating quirk that forces the University to call upon the might of its shuttle bus fleet to ferry students to the game. If Brown were to imitate the “Tiger Walk”—a tradition originally of Auburn in which the football team marches to the stadium flanked by masses of rambunctious students—players might become rather tired traversing the hills of the tranquil residential areas between campus and the stadium. I walked to the shuttle’s pickup location with my friends Miles and Eshaan. Miles, a lacrosse player with curly brown hair, thick eyebrows, and broad shoulders, received his college football education growing up next to the stadium of Boston College. He was already lamenting Brown’s inferior athletic culture. “My dad always says I should’ve gone to a big state school,” he told us. Eshaan, a spectacled computer science major whose arm lay in a sling after recently breaking his collarbone in a biking accident, was more concerned about reinjuring himself amidst a rowdy student section. We soon joined the blob of students waiting on the sidewalk. When the bus arrived, those in the back of the congregation who had entered too late to find any empty seats were told to plop down on the floor. They formed a single-file line in the bus’s aisle, like a team of rowers readying before the start of a race. There was certainly a buzz about. Conversation hummed; people called to their friends on the other side of the bus. All sported some sort of Brown-licensed apparel. And yet, even amid the excitement, it was clear that this was not a case of avid fandom and genuine pride for a school’s football team. Brown football had won just five of its last 31 games, and the bus’s passengers seemed hyper-aware of what they should expect. Someone cracked a prediction to his friend: “URI by 38.” Eshaan called to his friend two rows ahead and jokingly posed a question: “Over or under 5 and a half 3-and-outs?” After some laughing, “Over” came as the reply. There seemed to be a sense that we were going to the game ironically, understanding that the combination of college football and Brown University was a prime target for jokes. “Oh my god, there actually is a spread,” one kid next to me said, referring to the game’s betting odds (URI was an 11-point favorite). A similar joke would be made later by the “brownumemes” Instagram page, which pointed out that the Google search “uri brown spread” only produced results about the spread of Covid-19. We arrived a little late, in the middle of Brown’s first drive, but the unenclosed Brown Stadium allowed us to watch as we walked to the entrance. Surrounded by a track, the field is a bright green of alternating shades with the endzones a clash between the brown background and the red outline of the words “Brown” and “Bears.” The turf was added earlier this year to replace what was the Ivy League’s only remaining grass football field, which Coach E.J. Perry said had an uneven, “domed” shape. The stadium itself consists of two stands: on Brown’s side, a tall concrete structure sits with open arches supporting a trapezoidal arrangement of metal bleachers; and on the other sideline, a short, uniform rectangle. As we walked around the field to the Brown side, we caught a long look at the home stand: loosely populated with pockets and slashes of empty bleachers, depressingly conspicuous. Brown Stadium holds 20,000 people, but for Brown’s season opener, only 5,243 attended. The student section didn’t at first make itself obvious, so we sat down in an open spot of bleachers at midfield next to two 70-something year old men. They were alumni, one told me; they try to go to every home game. A survey of the crowd replicated this theme: the older people were a lot more invested than the students. On every Brown kickoff, a middle-aged man two rows in front of us yelled, “Hit someone, Bruno!” in a powerful, gravelly voice, producing a snicker from the students behind. The man’s demand for violence seemed to belong more in the era around the turn of the 20th century when football, in the time before the forward pass, consisted exclusively of running plays and brutal techniques—the most famous being the flying wedge, in which both teams charged full speed into each other. In 1905, a year in which football caused 19 deaths, President Theodore Roosevelt threatened to ban the sport. Ivy League schools, as some of the first colleges involved in the development of American football, were the kings of this bloody era. An Ivy won at least a partial share of each of the first 31 National Championships beginning in 1869 and a majority of titles in the 1900s and 10s. Brown, although never a national champion, achieved a Rose Bowl appearance in 1915 and had a winning record in 22 of 24 seasons between 1902 and 1926. The final year of this run became a part of Brown football legend when the same eleven men played for the entirety of two straight games, and 58 minutes of a third. The eleven were nicknamed the “Iron Men,” en route to the only undefeated season in program history. But now, with athletic budgets that dwarf those of large state schools—Penn State’s budget is about eight times that of Brown—combined with the inability to give out athletic scholarships, Ivy League schools can hardly compete with the best of the country. But this Saturday against URI, Brown effortlessly drove down the field on their opening possession, which ended with quarterback E.J. Perry supplying a perfect looped touchdown pass to the back of the end zone. I jumped up in surprised elation, turning wide-eyed to Miles: “Maybe we’re not so bad!” I saw now where the student section was. A few rows of kids were standing up and hollering in the bleachers on Brown’s 40-yard line. It was obvious how far away we were from the thrilling revelry of typical Division 1 college football. The touchdown produced a moderate cheer rather than a roar: a self-conscious, uncertain applause rather than unmodulated, elated screaming. A group of students behind me stayed seated, managing a few loud but uninspired claps. Perhaps giving in to true celebration of something as mainstream as football was a little too awkward for our ironic sensibilities. We are the “cool” Ivy, after all. But the amateurish organization of the game didn’t help the atmosphere either. During a timeout in the middle of the first half, the scoreboard lit up to display in big, white block letters “T-Shirt Toss,” signaling Brown’s cheerleaders to run towards the bleachers clutching rolls of cloth. It was Brown University’s devolved version of the T-shirt cannon, the beautiful American sports tradition in which T-shirts are fired into the crowd at high speed. While Auburn uses a humongous gatling gun to mow down its fans with clothing, Brown relies on the arm strength of its cheerleaders, a lucky fact for those sitting in the first and second rows. Later in the half came the “Punt, Pass, Kick” event in which a student starting from one endzone had to cumulatively punt and pass the ball as far as he could to set himself up for a field goal attempt at the other end. After the event was announced, but before he was able to begin, the teams returned to the field, forcing him to awkwardly run off. When he was finally able to show off his skills during the next timeout, his shanked punt actually hit the Brown defense’s huddle. Perhaps the most professional facets of the game were the exorbitant concession prices–$8.00 for a small sausage sandwich—or the men’s bathroom: a grimy square that opts for long troughs instead of urinals. “Our uniforms are so ugly,” Miles said to me. They were a purplish brown, with silver helmets, white numbers, and bright red outlines. The ivy-intertwined “B” on the helmets was a completely different shade of brown than the jerseys. I thought again about the “white-out” that Penn State would have that night. It appeared that Brown couldn’t organize color uniformity on its own uniforms. And our crowd, an ugly rainbow of shades within the realms of brown and red, reflected the disjointed branding of the university overall. On the field, the team was able to hold its own for the first half, entering halftime losing only 17-14 and preserving my own delusions for the moment. At halftime, I suggested we move to the student section, which now seemed to cover about 15 rows. Eshaan, still worried about his collarbone, was hesitant. “Dude, look at them,” I said, pointing to the tranquil congregation of students. “You’ll be fine.” There, the crowd was packed far closer together, but most still appeared relatively apathetic about the actual game. The main source of sound was side conversation, rather than cheering or hollering, and as the second half began, any remaining traces of genuine fandom dissolved. A URI touchdown and a Brown three-and-out had people again making deprecating jokes. After another three-and-out, the subsequent Brown punt was shanked much like the one during “Punt, Pass, Kick,” traveling a whole 15 yards before going out of bounds. The crowd emitted a collective “Oohh,” which was not quite a groan, but more a cringe, simultaneously conveying sympathy for the punter and the humor wrapped into the entire experience of Brown football. Now people started to leave, and those who remained seem to have lose all interest, using the time to take group pictures or to meet up with other friends. I didn’t even notice when our running back fumbled inside the URI 20-yard line. As we started to gather our things ourselves, a girl in front asked us if we were travelling to Boston for the Harvard game next week. “I think it’s our rivalry game,” she said. “Rivalry” would prove to be a stretch. We would go to the Harvard game, and we would again leave in the third quarter, this time after a Crimson touchdown made it 49-3. The Brown vs. Harvard game was far more demoralizing a defeat than the Governor’s Cup, which ended 45-24. Harvard’s pass-rush bullied our offensive line; their running back shrugged off our tackle attempts; their receivers glided past our coverage. It was an absolutely one-sided beatdown. And yet, interestingly, for about a quarter and a half, the Brown community, in a beautiful display of school pride and imagination, pretended it was actually a rivalry, as if Brown actually had footballing clout. Swarms of students had made the trip, wreaking havoc on transportation the way sports fans are supposed to. On the 5:30 p.m. train from Providence to Boston, a trail of people searching for empty seats trekked up and down cars filled by Brown students. My brother, a Cambridge resident, texted me saying that Brown chants arose during his subway ride. A man on the T informed me slightly accusatorily that a Lyft ride from South Station to Cambridge cost $50 because of the surge of Brown students trying to get to the game. For a night, Brown University had invaded the Amtrak, the Boston subway, and Harvard Square, all a week after large swaths of Brown Stadium had been left empty during the team’s first home game in two years. After arriving at the Harvard T stop, we walked past the overwhelming buzz of Harvard square, across the Charles River sparkling with the lights of Boston’s skyscrapers, and through the gates of Harvard’s athletic complex. The environment was completely the opposite to that of the previous week. We walked past ticket lines that stretched to the street, zig-zagged through a plethora of food trucks, darted through chaotic blobs of people on the concourse, and gazed up at Harvard Stadium’s iconic horseshoe-shaped stands, the sides of which were nearly packed. Advertisements
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And yet, tonight, our traveling pack seemed to have matched Harvard’s energy, supplying a good percentage of the game’s 20,748-person attendance. I crammed into a visitor’s section that was nearly full. The crowd didn’t hum with conversation but swelled and popped along with each play. A third down got everyone on their feet; a pass breakup prompted demonstrative sweeping gestures with outstretched arms, and a questionable call drew boos. A group of kids in front of us stood up, turned to the crown and started chanting “Let’s go Bruno.” Later, another section directed a “safety school” call toward the Harvard side, supplying the pettiness necessary for a college student section. Although still a long way away from State College, we were unrecognizable from the half-interested crowd of last week. I asked people why so many students made the trip. Some told me it was because of the “aura of Harvard,” saying the fame and notoriety of the school draws people. Perhaps in that sense, the pilgrimage is a product of an intra-Ivy inferiority complex, or a desire to assert ourselves against the grandeur and prestige of Harvard and Boston, hence the “safety school” chant. But more superficially, students, some of whom say they don’t plan on going to another game this year, told me they came because their friends were going, or because they heard it was a Brown tradition. This social aspect points to the Harvard game as a cultural creation, a sort of manufactured event in which students ditch their disparaging scoffs and ironic chuckles and agree to temporarily buy-in to a different Brown University, one of school pride and athletic extravagance, where students travel with and excitedly support the central representatives of their school: the football team. Advertisements
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Sadly, however, this fantasy of Brown State quickly deteriorated. Brown’s first possession ended after two plays and a fumble on our own five-yard line, allowing for an easy Harvard touchdown. After a series of Bruno punts with a missed field goal in between, Harvard was up 21-0. A tall, blonde-haired kid to my right turned to me, in a humorous but sad scoff: “We are so bad.” A promising drive took Brown to the Harvard nine-yard line until a Perry pass was intercepted and returned 77 yards. Harvard was up 28-0 with three minutes left in the first half when Miles and I descended into the concourse to get something to eat. When we climbed the stairs again, Miles looked at the scoreboard and stopped in his tracks. “Oh my god, look.” Harvard: 42. Brown: 0. Still the first half. It was now impossible to maintain the collective illusions we created for the night. Miles seemed genuinely disappointed. “I’ve lost so much school pride,” I heard him tell several people later that night. Others expected this. I said to the blonde kid next to me, “I didn’t realize we were this bad.” “Oh, I knew we were,” he replied with little hesitation. People started to descend the stairs towards the concourse, never to return for the second half. Those remaining had again lost interest. The same picture-taking routine started up again. Chants and cheers beyond the sarcastic kind were long gone. It was a sad ending to the night, but I was intrigued at the Brown I saw earlier. Even if it only lasted for about an hour, Brown students unified in an expression of true, collegiate festivity and pride that I wasn’t sure existed in our strange cultural mix of bohemianism, intellectuality, and nerdiness. Whether this was just an ephemeral illusion, or a true subsurface part of Brunonian culture, or even just a more elaborate expression of self-deprecating irony, remains unclear. Certainly, College Gameday isn’t coming to the Main Green anytime soon; but the beautiful phantom of Brown State might just appear again.
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