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That's No Moon, It's...
AUTZEN STADIUM
Posted - 11/16/03 4:03 PM PST
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Autzen Stadium looks like the Death Star sliced in half. If the Empire's planet-sized galaxy bouncer crash landed in Oregon and was overtaken by the local NCAA franchise, this is what it would look like. It's easy to imagine the stadium's "Megavision" scoreboard firing lazers at a rag-tag group of rebels as they try to destroy this fully operational battle station and put an end to all those Saturday afternoon traffic jams.
Built in 1968, Autzen Stadium was named for Tom Autzen, a Portland philanthropist who contributed $250,000 to the original construction. Until a recent renovation, the stadium, buried in a dirt mound, resembled a long-lost, stillborn member of the Cascade mountain range. Despite its grandiosity of Autzen 2.0 and the money that went into its updating, the gates are only opened six time a year.
Being the largest outdoor venue in the state, Autzen was once used by touring bands. In 1997, after U2 showed up on a weeknight during their US "Pop Mart" tour, angry neighbors petitioned to put an end to future concerts. The Rolling Stones skipped an Oregon stop on their Bridges to Babylon tour because of this. They later played the Rose Garden on the final leg.
Those other 359 days, Autzen sits alone and vacant, like an unspiked punch bowl at a prom. But for those six Saturdays, it's a 21st century Thunderdome.
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Autzen Stadium has the ability to take Duck fans from all walks of life and turn them into bloodthirsty automatons. Complacent grandmothers deck themselves in neon yellow sweatshirts and rhinestones caps before pouring their rage over misbegotten penalties into plastic duck calls. White-colored business men don $150 "O" jackets and channel lost Neanderthal instincts to shout like devils at anyone in a black stripped shirt. As one former Oregon Commentator columnist once noted:
"Take a walk down 13th on any given weekday. In those few blocks you'll pass: steakheads, indie rock poseurs, Frog-devotees, alumni, dormrats, exchange students, the homeless and lonely girls obsessed with 'Family Ties.' A pretty diverse crowd with differing morals, tastes and grooming habits. Now, take every one of these people, stick them in Autzen Stadium and watch them quickly become absorbed in the spectacle. A few seconds in Duck Central can mutate the most uptight recluse into a drooling fanatic."
There should be a term for this strange transformation. Duckmorphosis? Autzenphrenia? Something else? You decide.
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Despite its population of over 100,000 people, Eugene manages to maintain the aura of a city a tenth its size. Everyone seems to know one another. Eugene's tallest building is a mere 12 stories and it still doesn't have a Red Lobster. How can a thing like Autzen Stadium exist in a place like this?
On a game day, Eugene's quiet streets begin to resemble the Brooklyn Bridge during a Manhattan blackout. All common etiquette regulating pedestrians and motorists is immediately disregarded. SUVs covered in Duck decals barrel down MLK at a million MPH, with horns blasting. Human lemmings, numbering in the thousands, tear through high-speed traffic in their exodus into Autzen. Rent-a-cops and squad cars, scattered in the most random of places, attempt to contain the madness. The only reasonably safe way to arrive at the stadium is via teleportation or blimp.
Some opt to wait in several mile long motorcades to pay for parking near the stadium. Others commute via shuttle buses. Most spectators seem to hike in from campus through Alton Baker Park, along the banks of the Willamette River. It's surreal to be among thousands, all dressed in licensed merchandise, marching through the woods as if on a nature hike. As you round a corner, the rural foliage gives way to emptiness with Autzen dominating the landscape. The transition is like being abruptly whisked from Yellowstone to the Vegas strip.
An RV encampment forms on the other side of the stadium the night before a game day. For 18 hours, the Autzen parking lot becomes a township. Generations of families gather over barbeques and coolers. Outdoor living rooms are set up in the shadows of Winnebagos. Sports radio blasts out of truck cabs, competing with the audio of portable TVs. Children dart between houses on wheels. Strangers throw green footballs to one another and shout.
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A visiting coach once remarked that Autzen is the loudest stadium in the country. At key moments of game play, the crowd volume can become deafening. Walls of green and yellow scream at the field as a neon sign with angry letters orders "NOISE!" Despite the unifying, frenzied mindset of the crowd, the majority can be divided into five distinct classifications:
STUDENTS: With free tickets, they show up no sooner than the beginning of the second quarter. Regardless of the score, they leave no later than five minutes into the fourth quarter.
FRAT BOYS: They scream "DUCKS!" at the real-life ducks paddling around the Mill Race during the hike into Autzen. They can be identified by their backwards baseball caps, peach-fuzz goatees and tendency to rape anything with a vertebrae.
FORMER FRAT BOYS: The scream "DUCKS!" at the real-life ducks paddling around the Mill Race during the hike into Autzen. They're prone to exchanging high-fives every five seconds before, during and after games. Despite paying steep-prices for lower level seats, they prefer to congregate in the beer garden at the nearby Moshofsky Center.
FORMER FORMER FRAT BOYS: From the comfort of their XE Edition Coachmans, they monitor the game on TVs. Those that do enter the stadium, for no apparent reason, listen to the game on AM headsets. If they were still physically capable of hiking in from the campus, they'd probably scream "DUCKS!" at the real-life ducks paddling around the Mill Race.
FEMALES: Despite boasting the most U of O paraphernalia, everything from hats to and necklaces with rubber ducks, they have absolutely no idea what's going on. They scream when their male counterparts do and are prone to questions like, "what's a safety" and "do they really have to stop this game every two seconds?"
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And what serves as the figurehead of this NCAA feeding frenzy? A happy, chubby duck borrowed from Walt Disney.
To a standing ovation, the Oregon Duck roars out on the back of a motorcycle at the beginning of each home game. After touchdowns, he cheerfuly performs a push-up for each point scored by the home team. Last year, the University attempted to replace the effervescent mallard with a pumped-up mascot called Mandrake. The new chiseled duck, complete with fake six-pack abs, was immediate failure and quickly became a punch line. With a fan base this rabidly devoted, Mandrake seems like a perfect match. Somewhere in the depths of Autzen, this costumes sits in a locker while the original still waddles and blows kisses to the crowd.
Despite the rabid devotion of its fans, the Ducks themselves are coddled. Phil Knight, the university's uber-wealthy alum dolls out endless financial support. Autzen Stadium itself is state of the art. Players can now access their stats from internet terminals attached to their lockers and control their Xbox doppelgangers on nearby plasma screen TVs. This is the house that Joey Harrington, the epitome of blue-eyed yuppiedom, built or least helped remodel.
After a win at home, the crowd storms the field and...mingles. Fans at other universities tear apart field goal posts and burn trash in the streets. Maybe Donald Duck is the perfect emblem for these fans- prone to emotional outbursts but still fat and complacent. Autzen Stadium is an overgrown country-club, an autumn weekend retreat for locals, alumni and students to get their ya-yas out.
After a late season push, the Oregon Ducks will most likely go to a championship game this year. It could be the Continental Tire Bowl or the Outback Steakhouse Bowl. Regardless of the outcome, Eugene will treat its team like conquering heroes.
Now watch the Ducks score a touchdown:
This footage has been retransmitted without the expressed, written permission of the National Collegiate Athletic Association.
Uh-oh.
Next time: Fun with guns!
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