I Survived ESPN’s College Gameday

By Jake Owens and Paige Harris

As you’ve surely heard by now, because it’s been impossible to escape, College Gameday came to Vanderbilt this weekend. It’s been on every Instagram story, every GroupMe, every email from the Diermeier pretending he’s ever watched a Vandy football game. What was supposed to be a celebration of Commodore pride quickly devolved into a test of physical endurance, psychological stability, and faith in humanity. We went in as students. We came out as survivors.

We arrived at the set at 4 p.m. on Friday, bright-eyed and full of hope. Spirits were high. Strangers became friends. We were united under a single goal: to make it into the front pit and be on live TV for three seconds. For a while, the vibes were good — we got ESPN interviews, ran into friends, it felt like any other day on the lawn. This lasted until about 5:30pm. That’s when the line opened up. It was our first taste of the savagery that lay in store for us. First, silence. Then one person started running. The other hundred or so campers were quick behind them. I was mid sandwich bite as the stampede began, and it cost me a good thirty spots in line. 

After this, things began to settle down. For those of us already in the line, life was good. You could come and go from your spot in line and a sense of comradery with those around you would form. We ordered pizza, took shifts watching out for line cutters, even shared portable chargers. We were all in it together. This lasted until around midnight, when whispers of doubt began to ripple through the crowd. Someone said, “They’re gonna take our blankets.” Someone else said, “They won’t let us go to the bathroom.” The laughter died. Hope became a fragile concept.

At 2 a.m., the order came down: “All belongings must go.” Blankets, coats, snacks, water: gone. We handed over our possessions like contraband at customs. We watched people part with beloved Stanley cups and sleeping bags. The ground was littered with the remnants of a happier time.

Then came 3 a.m. The Standing Hour. Security ordered us to rise, shoulder-to-shoulder, bodies pressed together like commuters on the world’s saddest subway. We stood for hours, swaying gently in unison, a single, sweating organism bonded by desperation and school spirit. Someone whispered, “I can’t feel my legs.” Someone else said, “Good.”

By 5 a.m., the tension reached its peak. The gates, those shining beacons of deliverance, loomed ahead. The crowd pushed forward, but there was nowhere to go. Metal barriers buckled under the pressure. People screamed. We swayed helplessly, packed tighter than ever. In that moment, time stopped. I remember thinking, If this is it, tell my mom I loved her, and that I never got the free t-shirt.

At 5:45, they began letting people in. The pace was glacial, but each step forward felt like salvation. When we finally stumbled into the pit, we collapsed into each other’s arms — laughing, crying, jumping for joy, and promptly realizing it was only 6 a.m.

For the next two hours, we just stood there. No food. No water. No purpose. Occasionally, ESPN staff would appear with a box of “swag”, hard hats, football gloves, t-shirts, and unleash them into the crowd like tributes in The Hunger Games. People fought tooth and nail for a single branded glove. We saw a girl trade her phone case for a hat. We saw a man lose his shoe and never look back.

By 8 a.m., when the cameras finally rolled, we had achieved a level of exhaustion usually reserved for marathon runners and reality show contestants. Lee Corso could have put on the Missouri head and we might’ve cheered anyway. We were too far gone. The next hour and a half was a blur. Nick Saban showed how easy it is to win over Vanderbilt students. A pimp crip walked across the stage. A man in what looked to be a revolutionary war costume won best dressed. A girl next to me was hit in the head by a flying hard hat, knocking her out. Those behind her eagerly took her spot in the pit, stepping over her unconscious body. The only thought I could muster is that if I won the kick raffle, it would all be worth it. I did not win the kick raffle. 

Was it worth it? Absolutely not.
Would we ever do it again? Never.
Will we tell this story for the rest of our lives as though we stormed the beaches of Normandy? Without a doubt.

Because we did survive. We survived College Gameday. And while our bruises have faded and our bones have mostly realigned, the memory of that 5 a.m. crush, the sound of the metal railing groaning under the weight of our collective ambition, will haunt us forever.

We lost many good men out there. Some never made it back to their dorms. Others were last seen chasing a free t-shirt into the sunrise.

But us? We lived to tell the tale. And if you listen closely on a quiet night, you can still hear the faint chant echo through the campus air:
“Anchor down.”