All around the parking lot, frat boys and sorority girls unloaded large coolers from SUVs. Black men ranging from elderly down to about the same age as the college kids milled around, ready to carry the coolers from the parking lot to the tailgate area for a fee. Arch and I had no cooler—we were still underage, and anyway, Arch never drank anywhere he thought he might get caught. He admonished me to abstain as well, in order to avoid being on the annual docket of careless Yeatman boys to end up with citations and a trip before the disciplinary committee. Dean Varnadoe had lobbied for years to make the T-Cup off-limits for Yeatman boys, but every time he brought up the idea, he was shot down by Dr. Dodd, who argued that banning the T-Cup sent the wrong message, both to the community and to the boys themselves. How could Yeatman claim to be succeeding in its mission to cultivate gentlemen with good manners and judgment if we couldn’t be trusted to behave well at a popular social gathering?

I followed Arch across the parking lot toward the gate, walking past a tall, burly frat boy in a green shirt, madras bow tie, and Nantucket Red pants. An old black man with a thin white mustache followed him, carrying an enormous red cooler with a Confederate flag painted across its top.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“It’s just a flag, Charlie,” Arch said.

“Not to some people,” I said.

“Yeah,” Arch said. “Well, that guy will probably make more today hauling coolers than he makes in a month. Assuming he even has a job.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Lighten up, will you?” Arch said. “We’re supposed to be having fun.”

By the time we reached the infield, I’d spotted at least twenty Confederate flags—stickers on the backs of trucks, flying off bamboo poles beneath fraternity flags, hanging from portable cabanas next to the state flags of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Alabama. We spotted Jamie on the roof of a Jeep Wagoneer with two fraternity boys. The three of them took turns waving a large battle flag and attempting, with limited success, to engage the surrounding crowd in a sing-along of “Friends in Low Places.” After they repeated the chorus for the last time, Jamie threw his head back and held his arms up to the sky.

“This . . . is . . . heaven!” he bellowed.

Beneath him, a group of black children scooped up discarded beer cans and stuffed them into plastic garbage bags.