By Rogan Nunn '10
Contributor

Harris Teeter is out of fresh mint, the racks at Eljo’s are bare of bow ties, and Facebook is groaning under the weight of 3000 freshly uploaded photos. It can mean only one thing: the 30th running of the autumn Foxfield Races.

The sun was shining brightly on Sunday as hordes of preposterously dressed students unloaded from buses and started the approximately six-mile walk to the Law School plots where, safely insulated from easily mortified families, a tailgating spread second to none awaited. Enormous hats rode sundress rafts through a sea of seersucker as sections met and mingled. Revelers darted in and out of tents and crowded around five-gallon coolers of mint julep, each desperate not to be the only one left sober at noon. Event security patrolled the area with an ever vigilant eye, keeping the peace and providing helpful tips.

“If you’re going to spew, point it away from the children,” one advised a celebrant already double-fisting mimosas.

The official festivities kicked off with the national anthem playing over the loudspeakers as a man parachuted down trailing a huge American flag. The crowd had already gone back to their drinks when he landed in a nearby copse of trees, temporarily blinded by the reflection from several pairs of Nantucket Reds.

It wasn’t long before the real entertainment began. For the uninitiated, the races themselves are a sight to behold: the proud animals straining at the gates, bursting forth in a surge of acceleration and coursing down the track, muscular bodies driven by countless generations of careful breeding as they deftly negotiate jumps and turns. As they enter the final stretch, each gives his all in a last, desperate surge, and the first to scoot through the hay bales gets a milkbone. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is the main attraction, the proud terriers of Foxfield. On a related note, Law Weekly also received scattered, drunken reports of horses appearing later in the day, but so far has been unable to confirm.

As the afternoon progressed, the carousing became ever more raucous. Neckties were loosened, drinks made stronger. The section F/J tent had the turkey basters from its gin bucket confiscated because, as the officer sensibly explained, that constituted binge drinking. Meanwhile, roughly ten feet away, a group engaged in another rousing round of “dunkaroo,” a game involving shotgunned beers, a cooler full of water, and the inverted suspension of the participant (because nothing says refreshment like beer and hair gel going up your nose).

By the end of the day, the once pristine grassy hills looked more like the fields of Antietam than the infield of a racetrack. Hats, jackets, cups, and other sundry detritus littered the ground around fallen celebrants just “resting their eyes for a minute.” Some slid down against a convenient ambulance, thankful for the shade. Eventually, most made their way back to the waiting buses. After seven hours of drinking in the sun, all anyone wanted to do was get to . . . 2001 Ivy Road.

That’s right, law students being the indefatigable champions they are, the group soon found its second wind at the after party, spirits bolstered by five kegs and 70 piz

zas delivered by a convoy of Dominos delivery cars. With the party back in full swing, discussion turned to a cultivated discourse on the events of the day.

“Best [expletive deleted] Foxfield [expletive deleted] ever, man,” opined a well-lubricated third year.

“[Expletive deleted] right,” agreed a slightly tipsy friend.

While section dues got burned through in an afternoon and not a lot of cold calls were answered correctly on Monday, the general sentiment was consistent: it was worth it. For those that didn’t make it: first, shame on you; second, don’t feel too bad. Just get your yellow linen pants dry cleaned or that fake bird glued back onto your hat, because before you know it, spring Foxfield will be here.