The University of Virginia’s Foxfield is a horserace, but it’s more of a place where people urinate like racehorses. It is also one of the pinnacles of collegiate excellence. Collegiate excellence is directly proportional the number of croakie wearers shouting “I don’t give a fuck” in a given place. The more croakie-wearers shouting to nobody in particular, the more collegiately excellent.
There is no question that Foxfield is a must for any college or post-collegiate bro. Here’s why:
*note: this was written following 2012's Foxfield. But with the exception of the weather, all themes very much apply:
When it comes to “siiick” events, bros are very much like third grade girls on the first day of school; outfits are meticulously planned to the point of extreme annoyance. If you disagree, there is a good chance you are also not a person.
Since Foxfield requires one to dress like a southern version of Brother Mouzone, the outfits are utterly tremendous. Bowties, Seersuckers, and suspenders are not so much an exception as they are the norm, and the unbelievably competitive outfit oneupsmanship is phenomenal. I challenge you to find another place where bros could get away with collectively looking like the Rainbow Fish. Honestly, Bubba Watson’s freshly minted Green Jacket would barely stand out.
It also goes without mentioning that due to the nature of female attire, you have try pretty hard not to be hot. Like, it’s actually impressive if you aren’t hot.
We all know that complaining about the terribleness of one’s cellphone ranks pretty high on the list of all-time favorite collegiate activities. The trend to iPhones has unfortunately threatened the growth of this great tradition, but Foxfield provided quite an immaculate cell phone complaining environment.
If the lack of service was impressive, Foxfield's ability to make one’s cellphone die within like 10 minutes was straight up dope sauce. Muploading and instagram definitely took a huge hit, thus enabling CPC’s to go above and beyond the usual standards of excessive complaining.
Alumni (also known as old people) are one of the more interesting species out there. On one hand, their presence at events like Foxfield usually indicates their strong desire to relive their glory days. On the other hand, they (a.) talk about real people things that are pretty impossible to be interested in after about 2 minutes, and (b.) when it comes to acceptable standards of binge drinking, are often placed on the physically unable to perform list. My older brother, for instance, despite raging rather competitively during the day, was unable to continue into the night. I’ve gotta chalk this one up to age. He’s approaching post-Miami Shaq territory and, although inevitable, it’s sad that we’ll likely never again see the MVP numbers he used to put up.
Elevated Surface Specimen
Elevated Surface Specimen tend to dominate debauchery filled environments, and Foxfield was certainly no different. You could generally find the male ESS raging on top of a car, his mastery of the open-hand fist pump second to only Avicii. The female ESS often shared her newfound height with her equally trashed best friend. From my undoubtedly astute reporting, I’d say there is a 50/50 chance that most female ESS’s will actually remember rocking the elevated surface.
Foxfield is one of those events that’s predicated on making fun of bros who sweat too much, and is thus at its finest when the weather is reminiscent of those Coors Light Silver Bullet commercials. Saturday gave our deodorant-deprived friends a nice break, which unfortunately meant that the weather was rather sh*tty. But as we all know, it is in times of great peril where bros truly shine. The morning downpour meant that heavy drinking was not only encouraged, but absolutely necessary. Raincoats were trumped by beer coats, and the rain stoppage in the early afternoon brought the rage factor to a whole new level.
Not Actually A Horse Race
I’d be very shocked if you found anyone at Foxfield who was actually there for the horserace. Yet, it’s pretty much that aspect of the whole thing that makes the event undeniably awesome. It’s clearly an excuse to go to a giant field, wear ridiculous clothes, and in the words of the famed poet Soulja Boy, get silly. Yet while it’s about all that, it’s also about so much more. It’s about shotgunning in a bowtie with someone who you just asked to take a picture of your friends, only to discover that you have a bunch of mutual friends in common. Both of you lied about how well you know said mutual friends, but that doesn’t matter so much now that the number exchange is cemented. It’s about not giving a sh*t about much else other than where the bathroom is. It’s about celebrating for celebratings sake, which is always the best type of celebration. It’s about taking it all in while you can, because at this point, you don’t really have any other option. It’s about those four years that will always be those four years. And shit like Foxfield is the reason why.
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