Food. Food. Everywhere is food. Catered food, with meats you cannot name and ingredients that are a mystery. Comfort food on a grill requiring charcoal, secret sauces and ribs from a generous pig.

It's Saturday, a day of contrast, a day when people define fun in their own special way.

Lunch is served at the Steeplechase at Callaway Gardens, on a Harris County hillside dotted with colors an artist couldn't match. Hundreds of shrimp give their lives so people can eat. Tables are covered with linen. Champagne is poured into goblets.

Before you get there, you creep along Nelson Road. Left lane for the Terrace. Right lane if you don't have tickets. Traffic is so bad that the wife of founder Mason Lampton misses the opening moments of the 23rd running.

The pre-game meal for the 18th Fountain City Classic is on the grounds of the South Commons where Albany State and Fort Valley annually play. Generators provide power and Peavy speakers provide sound. Beer is cold and music is loud.

Before you get inside A.J. McClung Memorial Stadium in Columbus, officers in uniform redirect you to a grassy field down Victory Drive. You pay $5 to park and board a Metra bus. In that field are scores of people who don't even pretend they're going to a football game.

That was me you passed on that dirt road inside Callaway Gardens and if you thought you saw me in traffic on Victory Drive -- you did. I was likely the only person foolish enough to test crowds at both events.

We have watched these events from puberty to maturity. They cater to different audiences with identical gameplans. Each depends on corporate generosity. Each puts on a show and throws a party. Each delves out money to worthy causes.

Contrasts are many, the most obvious being race. But for the first time, I saw more than a few scattered African-Americans attending the Steeplechase. Since the two schools are historically black, their football fans are black. White faces are few.

Each event is more social than sporting. Few people can tell you which horses won the races and fans come to the game every year and never enter the stadium.

Each is an outdoor bazaar. At Callaway, the cookies from Queenie's are as large as a catcher's mitt and hats from Happy's are really happy. At the Classic, "girly" drinks are sold in slender plastic glasses and vendors sell colorful shirts that display loyalty to a person's fraternity.

This was the way I spent Saturday and I confess I never saw a horse hurdle a fence or a football player score a touchdown. And don't ask me who won the game either.

This was a day to explore who we are. We're the man who rented a stretch Hummer limo to go to the horse races and the women grinding through a dance contest in a parking lot outside the football game.

That's us, and we all had fun.

This article was provided by: Ledger-Enguirer
Written by:Richard Hyatt