With hundreds of drunk, angry people looking for excitement, all it takes is a catalyst — in this case, a flying beer bottle — to incite a riot.
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Any evening involving tear gas is one worth remembering.
Bloomington, Ind. is an impressive college town, the home to Indiana University. It is an academic haven nestled into central Indiana, an hour’s drive from the capital city of Indianapolis. The beautiful campus features late 19th-century architecture sculpted of Indiana limestone. Some of the brightest students in the country come for its top-tier schools of law, business and music.
But one night, I found myself in the middle of a full-blown riot.
I ended up choking on tear gas. And I wasn’t even supposed to be there that day.
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Indiana, for as long as I can remember, has been known for its love of basketball. And the Hoosiers, not the NBA’s Indiana Pacers, are the kings of basketball in the state. The passion was so strong that my bosses at the Evansville Courier & Press would often send me to shoot their home games three hours away. If the team was having a special season and there was money in the budget, they would even spring to send me to important road games.
In 2003, the IU basketball team made an unexpected and thrilling run towards the NCAA Championship, culminating in their appearance in the national championship game against Maryland in Atlanta, Ga.
“Vince, I’m not sure this is going to happen,” he said to me, finally looking into my eyes to gauge my disappointment. “There is a really good chance that they will lose the first game and we might not even make deadline.
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I wasn’t assigned to that game, unfortunately. For a newspaper to get a photographer credentialed to the Final Four, they needed to have been credentialed and photographed all of the tournament games leading up to the championship.
I had covered a number of the Hoosiers games that year and we were all set for me to travel with the team. That is, until the schedule was announced.
I watched the announcement, hoping they would be placed in San Antonio so I could hang on the River Walk for a few days while shooting some hoops. It turned out that they were scheduled to play in Sacramento, Calif. This was a way more expensive trip than San Antonio. A second negative was that their first game wasn’t scheduled until 10:30 p.m and it would be pushing it to get a photograph transmitted in time to get into the next day’s paper.
Undaunted, I walked into the managing editor’s office with the flight options, the most reasonable hotels and all of the scheduling already researched.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, and looked out his window towards the parking lot.
“Vince, I’m not sure this is going to happen,” he said to me, finally looking into my eyes to gauge my disappointment. “There is a really good chance that they will lose the first game and we might not even make deadline. That’s a hell of a lot of money for us to send you to California for that.”
I wasn’t disappointed. I was prepared. I told him that I understood his point. I then asked him if he knew that if IU won their games in Sacramento, that they would then be playing in the sweet sixteen against Duke, the top ranked team in the country, only a few hours away in Lexington, Ky. And if they somehow made it through there, that they would play in the Final Four in Atlanta, which was a six hour drive?
“This would be the only expensive trip,” I argued.
I had made a compelling argument. One that would have worked if the decision wasn’t already made.
“If they play Duke or make it to the Final Four, you can kill me for it,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think it’s going to happen.” Indiana promptly went to Sacramento and won both games.
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He told me they were going to send our reporter Gordon Engelhardt, but they didn’t have the money to send us both. I was pissed, but even more so because I’d found a cheaper flight for Gordon earlier that day. So not only did I save the paper money on his flight, they cut my trip completely.
“If they play Duke or make it to the Final Four, you can kill me for it,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
Indiana promptly went to Sacramento and won both games.
I was at my desk Monday morning, fuming. I wondered if he would come into the photo room to apologize or if I was going to have to go into his office and scream. To his credit, he came right over to my desk, and with his imaginary hat in hand over his chest, gave me a sincere apology.
‘You called it,” he laughed, even though I wasn’t laughing. “No chance they beat Duke, though.”
The night of the IU-Duke game, I was assigned to shoot the half-empty NCAA Division II playoff game in Evansville, a far cry from being courtside at historic Rupp Arena. Periodically throughout the night, the PA announcer would update the small crowd with the score from the Indiana-Duke game. An update late in the second half had Duke winning, but it was still a close game.
If Indiana could pull off the upset, it would be the biggest upset in the tournament that year. My body was in Indiana but my heart was in Lexington. I was shooting the game but kept imagining what it was like in the other building.
During a timeout late in my game, the PA announcer interrupted for one last update.
“Final score from Lexington,” he said and the crowd went completely silent.
“Indiana 74, Duke 73!”
He did his best to say that the Hoosiers had advanced to the Elite Eight, but the madness of everyone in the building going berserk drowned it all out. I stared down at the wood floor imagining the celebration going on at that moment for Indiana. I looked up and just shook my head. I still remember smiling. It was a sarcastic smile because I knew then that they were going to make it to the Final Four.
I should have just bought the plane ticket on my own, I said to myself.
Indiana’s magical run continued, beating Kent State in the Elite Eight and advancing to the Final Four in Atlanta. Gordon, the reporter assigned to IU, followed them all the way. Indiana won their semifinal contest in Atlanta and was now one win away from their sixth national championship and their first since Bob Knight led them to the title in 1987.
♦◊♦
Bloomington was ready to explode. The title game was on Monday night and reporter Dave Hosick and I were assigned to drive to Bloomington to report on the madness that was about to happen, win or lose.
It’s an ironic situation when you have hundreds of people looking for excitement but nothing to be excited about. They weren’t so drunk and angry that they wanted a riot. They just wanted to watch someone else riot. All it takes is a catalyst at that point.
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Hosick and I made the drive from Evansville that morning, settled into our hotel and got prepared. We made reservations at the Nick’s English Hut, one of the most popular bars in town. The mood inside the dark pub was euphoric prior to tipoff. They jammed together, dressed in Crimson and Cream, cheering even during the warmups. There was an assumed vibe that a championship was only hours away. When a team wins so many games in a row, it’s hard to imagine them ever losing again.
The game turned out to be a dud. The play was lackluster on both ends, and both teams missed more shots and had sloppier play than at any point during the tournament. Maryland took control in the second half and easily put the Hoosiers away to win the national championship.
The frustrated crowd filed out of the bar into the streets. There were still a handful of fans driving up Kirkwood Avenue waving their flags and honking car horns. There were some that were ready, and looking, for trouble.
Hosick and I went out into the streets to watch what was going on. Students began funneling up Kirkwood looking for something to happen but there was nothing going on.
Dave and I were discussing it, and we wondered if the night would just fade away and end without incident.
Drunk and disappointed, there were many that were standing on the corners looking for trouble, but they weren’t going to be the ones to start it.
One by one, the crowd started growing. I’m not sure when the mood turned from disappointment to anger, but it didn’t take tremendously long. Within minutes, the streets were three deep full of students and their focus was no longer on basketball. It had shifted to the security and the police patrolling the area.
It’s an ironic situation when you have hundreds of people looking for excitement but nothing to be excited about. They weren’t so drunk and angry that they wanted a riot. They just wanted to watch someone else riot. All it takes is a catalyst at that point.
The catalyst came in the form of a beer bottle flung from someone deep in the crowd.
Crashing down in front of a police officer, that bottle was all that was needed get the party started. The seal was broken, and people in the crowd began throwing more bottles and other objects around.
By now, the streets were littered with people on the ground crying, furniture on fire in the streets and students being hauled away in police cruisers who would no doubt miss class the next day.
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The police, decked out in riot gear, tried their best to keep control but they were overwhelmed by the volume of students involved now. Fights broke out all over Kirkwood and students were now destroying cars, park benches and anything else they could get their hands on. Hosick and I were separated at that point as we tried to work and stay safe at the same time.
Things quickly started spiraling out of control. Students began setting fires to property throughout the area.
The police repeatedly called for an end to the madness, which fell on deaf ears. Left and right, kids were being arrested. Their intoxicated friends got angry and fought back, and some of them were arrested as well.
With seemingly no other choice, the police filled the noisy air with tear gas. I was not prepared for it but apparently the students were. Many of them had their goggles ready.
Hosick and I did not. Choking, with tears streaming down my face, I tried to make photographs of the wild scene. I could handle it for a while, but would quickly be overwhelmed by the fumes. I ducked into a sandwich shop to try to wash my eyes but was met with a line of people trying to do the same.
By now, the streets were littered with people on the ground crying, furniture on fire in the streets and students being hauled away in police cruisers who would no doubt miss class the next day.
The final tallies had more than thirty people being arrested for public intoxication, four people arrested for battery of a police officer and 6,000 people dispersed with tear gas.
Hosick and I eventually found each other in the mayhem and stumbled slowly while walking back to our hotel. Dazed, I immediately headed for the bathroom to try washing the tear gas out of my eyes. Our clothes stunk and our eyes burned.
Again, I couldn’t help but think: I should have just bought the plane ticket to Sacramento on my own.
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Photo credit: Author
This post originally appeared on Into the Uncommon.
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