Bull Gators take their college football partying seriously, but it's hard to top super fan Stumpy Harris.
By DAVE SCHEIBER
Published October 16, 2004
[Times photos: Stephen J. Coddington]
After a day of serious pregame tailgating, Gordon "Stumpy" Harris continues the party with family and friends inside his skybox at Florida Field on Saturday. The Orlando lawyer, known as the "Tailgator Litigator," is among 615 Bull Gators who donate $12,000 to $100,000 a year to fund student-athlete scholarships or athletic facilities.
Stumpy Harris owns a ring from Florida's 1996 championship season, the same one given to players and coaches.
Stumpyville is in full swing as Stumpy Harris laughs with Carol Brathune, left, and Donna Gaff during a pregame party Saturday.
GAINESVILLE - The lounge of the downtown Hilton is hopping at 3:30 p.m. Saturday. Kickoff for the LSU-Florida game is more than four hours away, but a little pre-tailgate party in the land of the Bull Gator has begun.
On the big-screen TV just beyond the bar, Tennessee is tussling with Georgia and a cluster of fans - including big-name former basketball coach Jerry "The Shark" Tarkanian - have gathered to watch before heading off to nearby Florida Field.
Tarkanian will be a special guest this day at the Red Baron Frozen Pizza tent, a regular hotspot for the movers and shakers of Florida fandom. They are the upper echelon of the university's avid athletic backers, the Bull Gators, whose generous financial contributions earn the right to experience Florida football home games in high style.
And nobody does this better than Stumpy.
Just before 4 p.m., a short, stocky man steps off the elevator and into the Hilton lobby, ready for action. He may only be 5 feet 31/2, but Gordon H. "Stumpy" Harris stands tall among Bull Gators. There's no mistaking him in his usual game-day attire: orange Florida hat, blue Florida shirt, khaki shorts that extend past his knees and matching orange-and-blue Florida sneakers.
Look a little closer, though, and you'll see some serious school spirit that sets Stumpy apart in the crowd as much as his name does - a miniature silver alligator embedded on each arm of his eyeglasses, Gator emblems adorning his belt, socks, shoes and pockets, a Rolex watch with a Gator hand-painted on it, and - most impressive - a huge diamond-studded ring from Florida's 1996 championship season, the same one given to the players and coaching staff, in honor of his support of the program.
In keeping with his home-game tradition, Harris - who graduated from UF in 1961 and got his law degree there in 1965 - has booked the Hilton's presidential suite for his family, including wife Dottie, son Bruce with his wife and two kids, and daughter Sarah with her husband and three children.
The entourage is filled out by visiting relatives from Ohio, longtime friends, and business associates from his Orlando law firm of Harris, Harris, Bauerle & Sharma, specializing in eminent domain cases.
But Harris, with his ever-present cigar, has forged another tradition that has made him a celebrity among Bull Gators. He is a master in the art of tailgating, proclaiming his well-known identity on the rear door of his customized orange-and-blue high-top conversion van parked outside:
"Tailgator Litigator."
The van is merely one part of Harris' high-profile presence at UF games. "Stumpy's Gator Fleet" - as pictured on the back of his business card - also features a matching Ford F-350 pickup truck, bathroom trailer, luggage trailer, and storage trailer (which, by the way, holds an identically painted vintage 1952 MG TD, four bicycles, two motorscooters and a children's wagon, all similarly Gatorized.) The massive orange-and-blue motorhome in the photo was donated by Harris to UF's athletic program, and the school was able to auction it off for $40,000.
"It's been an evolutionary process," says Harris, 66. "We literally started out with a plain pickup truck and put the tailgate down. But as my family got older, everything just grew. For me, that's what this is about - family, friends and everyone having a good time."
For Harris and hundreds of other Bull Gators last week, the fun has barely started.
* * *
It certainly doesn't take big money to have a blast tailgating at a college football game. All you need is a little grill to throw the bratwurst on, a space to squeeze your vehicle into between the RVs, a decent radio and some good company.
But when it comes to taking in a game - before and during - it's a far different story for the average fan and the favored fan. In the world of the Bull Gators - all 615 of them, along with their families and game-day guests - the party is hard to beat.
There's just the tiny matter of the cost of admission: a $12,000 donation per year, with the range extending as high as $100,000. All money goes to funding scholarships for male and female student-athletes or toward athletic facilities.
In return, Bull Gators get a package that includes eight football season tickets, access to the lavish food spreads from 90 minutes before kickoff through the end of the third quarter, and two parking passes - one of which comes with a personalized spot in a choice lot, a stone's throw from Florida Field.
At 4:30, the skies have turned gray, but nobody minds in Lot One, a prime Bull Gator tailgate location across from the O'Connell Center. At the Red Baron tent, a rock duo is playing tunes from the Eagles to Van Morrison as the gathering dines on a Cajun-style fishfry to fit the Louisiana theme of the day.
Tarkanian has arrived. "I'm a big football fan," he says. "Every year, I take five or six of my friends and we go to a college football game." Last year, it was OU-Texas. This year, Tarkanian chose LSU-Florida because he had a speaking engagement with the Fightin' Gator Touchdown Club during the week. When UF coach Ron Zook heard he was in town, he invited Tarkanian to address the team. And now he has been invited to the Red Baron bash.
Everywhere you look in the packed lot, tailgate parties are in full swing. Apparently many fans have planned their menus with LSU in mind - jambalaya, gumbo, crawfish and shrimp delicacies abound. Ed Nimnicht, 60, a Bull Gator who runs a Cadillac and Saab dealership in Jacksonville, has arrived with about 12 other family members and friends in an old light green GMC motorhome, parking in the same spot he has had for nearly 15 years.
"I think we're heading in the right direction," he says of the Gators. "When we got Zook as coach, I knew that recruiting-wise, he would do a good job."
Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of the lot, Stumpyville has blossomed to life. No detail has been overlooked. Some 30 family members and friends gather near the portable street sign that Harris had made. It's placed out prominently for each home game, marking his location as the intersection of Florida Avenue and Gators Drive.
The anchor of the tailgate site is a big tent (yes, orange and blue), complete with color-coordinated metal chairs. But the star of the show is the Gator pickup truck, dubbed Mothership II. On the front of the truck, the hood ornament of choice is a regulation-size Florida helmet. On the rear of the truck is an orange brace. It holds in place two long poles with UF flags fluttering, and Stumpy's tour de force: a realistic, growling gator head.
There's a story with that. Back in 1979, Harris explains, the team logo was the unthreatening Pogo-ish gator. Charley Pell was in his first year as coach, and Harris developed a friendship with him.
"So one day, I called him and said, "Charley, I don't like our mascot,' " he says. "It's not very ferocious. It looks silly and I think we need something better. So he said, "Why don't you call Walt Disney World and see if they can make us one.' "
Harris did just that, and Disney obliged, producing the prototype that would become UF's more fearsome-looking Albert the Alligator. "Albert was born in the spring of '79," Harris says. Not long after, a friend presented Harris with the original prototype, which makes its appearances at home games. "We lock it away when we go into the game," he says, "because there isn't another like it in the world."
Harris makes the rounds, and people wave and call his name, "Hey, Stumpy!" Harris likes his nickname, which he earned as a high school lineman: "I was as hard to move as a tree stump." He's comfortable enough to joke about his short stature and unusually long torso. "Hey, I almost won a sitting down contest with Shaquille O'Neal," he says. He pulls a photo from his orange, alligator skin wallet. The shot shows the 7-foot-1 O'Neal sitting with Harris, appearing just a few inches taller.
"He doesn't beat me by much!" he says. "But when we stand up, I'm looking at his navel."
Harris, soaking up the good vibes, soon returns to his tent. He used to have three tents, but three years ago, he purchased a skybox, where the pregame parties continue when the tailgating ends.
"That caused this to tone down a little, because we discovered that the women didn't like cooking and bringing the food," Harris says. "They wanted to go up in the box where there are bathrooms and AC. I'd look around 90 minutes before kickoff, and all the women would be gone."
* * *
The skyboxes are the ultimate in Gator game luxury, many towering high above the highest reaches of the stadium, with stunning views of the field, and filled with TVs and a seemingly endless supply of food and drink.
There are 80 in all, and the annual pricetag covers eight football events: six home games, the Gator Growl and the spring game. They range in price from $38,000 for end zone views to $48,000 for sky suites that seat 20 to the ultra-roomy, megasuite. It's a double-size suite that seats 30 and costs $72,000. Only three of them exist at Florida Field.
One belongs to Stumpy.
In fact, he's among several boosters credited with making the new skyboxes possible, with his $1.5-million in contributions to date, earning him the status of "Distinguished Director." Stumpy has added his special touch to the place, prompting Bull Gator director Doug Brown to take visitors on tours of it.
Inside, one wall is covered with framed photos of vintage photographs of Florida Field from different eras, from 1923-2003. There's a children's play area with a table for coloring, two big-screen plasma TVs (and two small ones), a high-end sound system surrounded by blue sofas, a signed football from the 1996 championship team, a certificate proclaiming Harris as an honorary UF letterman, a well-stocked kitchen, even Gator hand towels in the bathroom.
"We have many passionate fans, but there are very, very few who take it to Stumpy's level," Brown says. "He's really one of a kind."
By kickoff, his suite is jammed. People pack the three rows, cheering the Gators on loudly, while little kids find the play area more interesting. There's an abundance of snack food - sandwiches, veggie dip and chips. But in the long, spacious hallways outside the suites, the Bull Gators and their guests can dine on all kinds of goodies throughout the game on several different skybox levels.
It's all part of the package: tables with roast turkey, sliced for you by a man in a white chef's jacket, seafood, more jambalaya this day, salads, elaborate desserts, and endless hotdogs. TVs mounted overhead allow you to make food trips to the hallway without missing a play. Young boys toss footballs in the hall and a lifesize replica of an alligator greets new arrivals by the elevator.
Harris sits in the front row, holding some of his grandchildren. But he circulates often as well, making sure everyone is having a good time as the Gators let LSU pull to within 21-14 at the half.
"He just loves this," says Dottie, his wife of 43 years. "He's like a kid."
"Having this is a way he can share something he loves," adds his daughter, Sarah Overmeyer.
Harris hasn't only shared his wealth with UF athletics. When he heard that his housekeeper's daughter wanted to attend Florida, he told her that if she could get accepted, he would pay her way. She did, and he has. "I told her it's not a loan, you don't have to pay it back - I just want you to help somebody else down the way," he says.
Out in the hallway, a familiar face appears at the ice cream line - it's Tampa resident George Edmondson, better known to UF fans as Mr. Two Bits. A Bull Gator, Edmondson, 82, led his "Two bits, four bits . . ." cheer on the field just before kickoff, as 90,000 or so fans bellowed along.
"I can't go down a street in Florida without somebody recognizing me if I'm dressed like this," says Mr. Two Bits, clad in his trademark yellow shirt, orange-and-blue striped tie and seersucker pants.
Indeed, as he heads for his seat, a boy high-fives him, and two young women ask if they can pose with him for a snapshot. In the stands, Edmondson leads a rousing two bits cheer. The crowd goes nuts.
Unfortunately, all is not going well for the Gators. They lose a 21-17 lead in the final minute, falling to the Tigers 24-21. The shouts and screams inside the Stumpy suite give way to groans and silence. But Harris tries to keep it in perspective.
"I have a 24-hour rule - I give myself that much time to celebrate a victory or grieve a loss," he says. "You can't let it affect your whole week."
After all, there's always another round of Bull Gator tailgating, and Stumpy's Fleet will be there to enjoy it.
