A resurgent Texas A&M makes unity seem possible

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‘The Most American Sport’ is a four-part series exploring the culture of college football and how the sport is a melting pot of America.

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COLLEGE STATION, Texas – The cannon detonation sends a tremor through your chest. The student section, 30,000 deep, is a boiling mass of maroon and white. Led by five young men wearing denim overalls embroidered with symbols of common faith, the crowd fills the stadium with yells, declarations, and whoops that are a language of devotion all its own.

And this is just the rehearsal. Kickoff is 12 hours away.

Welcome to Midnight Yell, where the Texas A&M Aggies gather the night before football games. It’s one of the most famous traditions in college football, which is a sport steeped in more traditions than any other. I’ve come to College Station to begin an exploration of the culture of the game – the beliefs and values, rites and rituals, and ways of life that makes college football the most American sport of them all. 

What does it mean, in these divisive times, to be American? Definitions vary by what team we represent, but certain ideals remain prevalent:

We value hard, physical work – on the playing field or the factory floor. We believe in the literal pursuit of happiness – we run to the daylight of opportunity, by wagon train or NIL-funded Dodge Charger. When things look bleak, on fourth-and-long, we trust that progress is possible. And above all, America is a nation of many, with ethnicities from across the globe, still figuring out how to win as one.

College football is more diverse and more watched than the NBA, MLB, hockey or soccer. The size of its audience trails only pro football’s, but while the NFL is played exclusively in major cities and games have a similar feel from stadium to stadium, college football Saturdays happen in places large and small, urban and rural, bringing out the entire breadth of the nation. College football’s scars – exploitation, greed, legacies of racism – also reflect American culture. Each game is a strand in the American tapestry.

That’s why I came to College Station on the first weekend in September, a few days ahead of Texas A&M’s 44-22 ritual sacrifice of Utah State, and a week before its 41-40 stunner over Notre Dame. If there is one place that best exemplifies college football’s mix of tradition, race, myth, money, and the overwhelming hunger for victory, it’s Aggieland. And nothing is more Aggie than Midnight Yell.

First, some things to know about Texas A&M:

It is huge: Enrollment is more than 79,000, second most of any college in America after Arizona State. 

It is a playoff contender: The No. 10 Aggies secured their biggest win in years on Sept. 13 with a last-second touchdown at Notre Dame. Under second-year coach Mike Elko, A&M has its first road win against an AP top-10 opponent since 2014 and is moving past the disastrous Jimbo Fisher regime. Former Aggies in the NFL include the Browns’ Myles Garrett, the Ravens’ Nnamdi Madubuike, and the Bucs’ Mike Evans, plus Lions head coach Dan Campbell and Jets head coach Aaron Glenn. You might also have heard of Johnny Manziel.

It loves tradition: A&M was founded as a military school in 1876 and still has a uniformed Corps of Cadets. From the ubiquitous “Howdy!” greeting to the student section, called the 12th Man, standing on its feet for the entirety of every football game, Aggies cherish a long list of phrases and rituals. For the record, “Gig ‘Em!” refers to killing frogs.

It is not that other Texas school: Aggies refer to the University of Texas as “t.u.” – lower case. Their hated rival, located in liberal Austin, has a highfalutin’ reputation compared with blue-collar A&M, which stands for Agriculture and Mechanical and boasts a Meat Science department. Aggies have good reason to feel slighted: The Texas state constitution still mandates that two-thirds of all Permanent University Fund revenue to go to the Austin school, compared with one-third for A&M. (Insert hiss here.) 

It is “one of the most conservative colleges in the nation,” which is a proud quote from Texas A&M itself. Political pressure led to an A&M professor being fired on Sept. 9. In 2023, the same dynamic sank the appointment of a Black woman to run the journalism department.

Its student body is 3.75% Black, and 25% Hispanic.

Its football team, by my eye test, is more than 60% Black.

These are the ingredients for Midnight Yell. It begins with the five Yell Leaders, elected by their fellow students, leading the marching band and the collie mascot Reveille X (who has her own golf cart, cell phone, and 107,000 Instagram followers) into the enormous Kyle Field. Two of the YLs then pace the field in a routine that dates back to the large feet of a cadet named Peanut. The five crew-cut cadets wear overalls, with creases ironed into the legs, and sewn with a variety of phrases, symbols and patches, including an A and M on the left and right butt cheek, respectively. 

After the students arrive, junior cadets have the privilege of gathering on the field level, just beneath the spectator area, with freshmen, sophomores and seniors in the stands. In a flip of the normal pecking order, juniors are run through calisthenics by underclassmen. Like many Aggie traditions, from the outside, these human pyramids and barrel rolls might seem silly. But they connect to a deeper meaning – in this case, the A&M tradition of selfless service, regardless of rank or station. Those pampered t.u. nabobs would never. 

The fun continues with the actual Yells. There are no gymnastics. Aggies don’t cheer – they Yell, led through elaborate vocabulary and movements by the Yell Leaders. The internet likes to mock the YLs, but as I watched and listened, their customs reminded me of other Americana – the elaborate handshakes created between friends; the call-and-response of Black fraternities and sororities; the slang my kids use that I’m not supposed to understand. 

“We want to embody our core values of respect, excellence, leadership, loyalty, integrity, and selfless service,” said the Head Yell Leader, Kyler Fife, when I spoke to him before the event. “Everything that we do, it’s not just about football. It brings the whole community together.” 

That unity includes players when they’re on the field. “I definitely feel a crazy connection,” said defensive end Cashius Howell, who tallied three consecutive sacks against Utah State. “As I’m making plays, I just feel the energy, you know, from the 12th Man and the fans. And I feel like I pick back up off their energy. It allows me to have a better chance at making more plays, kind of like a positive domino effect.”

Fife, born and raised in Odessa, Texas, was student body president at Permian High, the school chronicled in the book Friday Night Lights. During our interview, he wore a khaki cadet uniform and the high leather boots, complete with spurs and gold-stamped insignia, worn by seniors. The boots cost $2,500; cadets make their first payment as freshmen. At games the Yell Leaders wear white coveralls, a tradition that goes back about a century.

“In the NFL, it’s a lot of politics, it’s players getting paid hundreds of millions of dollars,” Fife said. “College football is like kids I grew up with in Texas. It’s the people who are bought into their community and their culture.”

“When you pack 115,000 people in Kyle Field – Black, white, it doesn’t matter where you’re from, it doesn’t matter what your story is, how you got there,” he said. “In that moment, you are all Aggies.”

That’s the American story, too: E pluribus unum – out of many, one. But the distance between story and myth is short.

I was curious about the Black Aggie experience.

Walking out of Kyle Field, I found Anthony Mabins – a cadet in the marching band – shirtless and sweating beneath his overalls from pounding his bass drum in the hot Texas night. The 20-year-old junior from San Antonio is an aspiring military lawyer, the son of a Marine mechanic and a Navy medic. He called A&M and the Corps of Cadets “a really inviting community,” noting that he was able to earn the competitive positions of bass drummer and combined sergeant major. Performing on the field against the Austin school last season, he said, the crowd at Kyle Field was so loud “you couldn’t hear yourself play.”

“There’s a lot of words I can use to describe A&M,” Mabins said. “One of the main ones is unity. You go to some of these traditions, and we all come together as one.”

That made me think about something Fife had told me: “It’s like, buy into your school. Buy into that. And understand, we all have schools … Black, white, your ethnicity doesn’t matter. We’re all bought into the sport, and it brings us together.

“And another thing that brings us together is hoping the Longhorns lose,” he joked. “I mean, everyone’s rooting for that.”

Fife was right – everyone within his college football tribe is against the school in Austin. Mabins is all Aggie. He wears Aggie colors, enacts Aggie rituals, and values Aggie traditions. When he marches to battle against the Longhorns, he represents his Aggie tribe to the fullest.

There are tribes within America, too. They battle every day. Sometimes, there are casualties.

A few hours before the Yell, walking near the Memorial Student Center, where signs instruct all entrants to remove their hats out of respect for Aggies slain in war, I hear a Ford Mustang rumble to a stop at an intersection. It’s the kind of muscle car almost exclusively driven by young men. Blasting from the windows is the song “Jolene” – not the recent Beyonce hit, but the original Dolly Parton classic. When the Mustang pulls off, the engine is loud enough to drown out Dolly’s voice.

The next day – game day against Utah State – it’s Beyonce’s turn. Kyle Field is smack in the middle of campus, a short walk from the student center. The most prestigious tailgate area is Aggie Park, right across the street from the stadium. I hear beats, and follow them to the primest piece of Aggie Park real estate, where a DJ is spinning Beyonce’s version of “Before I Let Go” beneath a tent bearing the sign SOUL OF AGGIELAND: MORE THAN A TAILGATE.

The event, held every home game, is organized by a group of Black Aggies. “This is not DEI. This tailgate is for everybody,” said Mayphous Collins, a 1994 graduate, tech company founder and the first Black trustee of the 12th Man Foundation in its 75-year history. He’s decked in a maroon Aggie shirt with matching suede Adidas. “We have videos of all races of people dancing together, having a great time, and that’s the story we want people to know about Texas A&M.”

This story, though, is written on their terms. “We have an exclusive spot, really premium, right in front of the stadium,” said Tommy Bankole, a junior at A&M. “It’s a way for us to have fun and play our own music, do what we like to do, and not worry about, like, not being ourselves. When you go to those other tailgates, you’re always worried about trying to fit in. But at the Soul of Aggieland, you’re able to fit in and feel welcome on this campus.”

“We have it right here so we can be a part of everyone else,” said Bolu Adelugba, another junior. “It’s not anything different. We should be part of these organizations, part of these leadership positions, be on the field, and be in these tailgates. Because we’re an Aggie just like everybody else.”

Inside the American melting pot, what happens to the original ingredients? How much are they changed, and how much do they change the recipe? Those questions are more urgent in college football, because unlike in pro sports, each school is itself a community. 

Being a Black Aggie “is the same as being a Black American,” Kaku Barkoh, a spine surgeon who graduated in 2007, told me at the tailgate. “A&M is just a microcosm of the greater world. We still will take up space and tap into these resources because it’s our birthright. It is frustrating at times, but you try to find your people and your tribe and you all fight together for that progress.”

The fight doesn’t dent his devotion to A&M. “Again, it’s the same thing as being an American, right? I don’t agree with everything that this presidential administration is doing, but I’m still proud to be an American.”

Out of many, one. Current events can make it hard to believe in our national motto – even the legal definition of “American” is being challenged. Using sports to promote one view of America can be problematic – as Howard Bryant has written, a form of politicized sports patriotism took hold after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, demanding loyalty and punishing athletes who challenge injustice. 

But America also is built on optimism. I met two elders in College Station who made unity, however unrealistic it may seem, easier to believe in.

R.C. Slocum is the best football coach Texas A&M ever had. He won 123 games in 14 seasons, the most in Aggie history, and never had a losing season. His resume includes three Southwest Conference championships, a Big 12 title, and a decade-long stretch when he only lost four home games.

When Slocum started as an Aggie assistant in 1972, college football in the South had barely and reluctantly started to integrate. Gene Stallings, while coaching A&M in the 1960s, said Black players would hurt the cohesiveness of his team. But Slocum grew up in the housing projects of Orange, Texas, shining shoes and selling newspapers to make money. Struggle made him empathize with Black athletes, and he recruited them enthusiastically. 

I interviewed Slocum, 80, by phone on the Friday before Utah State. He delighted in telling stories about his ongoing relationships with players like Richmond Webb, Ty Warren, and Jacob Green.

“I’ve said many times that coaches and maybe ministers, but coaches for sure had more to do with speeding integration than anybody,” he told me. “Those kids would come in there, and they’d go play those games together and compete together and practice together. It was like family. It’s unfortunate that (race) was ever an issue, but we all know it was. And I’m proud of the role that coaches played in saying, ‘Come in here. We’re gonna all be a team.’ ”

On Saturday, as I walked through Aggie Park before the game, my phone rang – it was Slocum. He wanted to meet up. During about 45 minutes together, he couldn’t take a dozen steps without being stopped for a picture. A half-dozen former players recognized him and said hello. Slocum was fired as head coach in 2002 after losing 50-20 to the Austin school, but he stayed at A&M another two decades as special adviser to the president, a two-time interim athletic director, and the living embodiment of everything good about college sports. 

One of Slocum’s favorite stories is about winning the 1998 Big 12 championship in a double-overtime thriller over Kansas State. When they handed Slocum the trophy, he asked all his players to hold it up. “I said, ‘Look up at those hands. We got some Black hands in there, we got some Vietnamese hands, we got Tongan hands, we got white hands,” he told me. “This is what happens when all those hands work together.

“In New York, when they were doing the 150th anniversary of college football, I told that story. I said, ‘We need more of that in our country right now. We need those hands working together.’ ”

On Sunday afternoon, Slocum texted me: “Hope you enjoyed your visit to Aggieland. I am watching one of my guys Aaron Glenn and the Jets vs. the Steelers … very proud of A.G.”

To some, Slocum’s outlook might seem hokey or paternalistic, but I found him completely genuine. And I heard similar themes when I asked Albert Broussard, who has taught Black history at A&M for 40 years, what aspects of Aggie football remind him of America.

“The will to win, to want to win, to be on top,” said Broussard, 75, sitting in his campus office filled with books and Black art. “To be the top dog, to strut like a peacock. Another thing I would like to think reminds me of America is the diversity. There certainly is more diversity in sports, the same way there’s more diversity in the military, than there are in other sectors of American society.”

Born in San Francisco and raised in the Fillmore District housing projects, Broussard played youth football against O.J. Simpson, starred at defensive back at Polytechnic High, and developed a lifelong passion for the game. He attended Stanford, where he didn’t play but watched Cardinal quarterback Jim Plunkett win the Heisman. After receiving master’s and doctorate degrees from Duke, Broussard taught at Southern Methodist while Eric Dickerson was running the football for the Mustangs and driving the gold Trans Am that Aggie boosters had futilely bought for him. Broussard arrived in College Station in 1985 and served two terms on the faculty athletic advisory council. When Manziel won the Heisman, he attended every home game.

But Broussard maintains a scholar’s distance from A&M football – he refers to the Aggie faithful as “they” – and believes that A&M invests far too much money and energy into sports. A few years ago, a TV network started broadcasting games during hours when he was teaching classes. Broussard was told to move his car from the faculty parking spot that he paid $1,000 per year for, or it would be towed.

He also calls out the hypocrisy of recruiting athletes with low academic scores – “in much the same way as thinking these Black players are gods as long as they’re making revenue for the school and giving the fans some kind of vicarious thrill for three or four hours on a football field.”

Near the end of our interview, I asked Broussard: What do you think is special about America?

This was a few days before the assassination of Charlie Kirk. I did not go to College Station looking for football to save us from ourselves, or for a politics-free place to bury our heads in the sand. None of that is possible. I went because college football, more than any other sport, reflects America. 

I saw promise in Aggieland. Unity. Belief. 

“Maybe I’m projecting my own sense of who I am, but I am still very optimistic,” Broussard said. “When people talk to me about how bad things are, I have to say, ‘I am a historian. I take the long view of everything.’ And then, in addition, I remember my own story, where I started, how I grew up, how I had to scratch and claw and work really hard.”

That optimism helps explain why, despite Broussard’s criticisms, he still watches the Aggies play. It’s too much hassle to attend in person, but he watches on TV. Maybe not against Utah State, but definitely Notre Dame.

The reason, he said, is simple: “I love college football.”

ESPN senior college football writer Adam Rittenberg contributed to this story.