Don't be fooled by their display of masculinity through pink oxfords, bogus claims of horse sightings and slurred exclamations to the cops that they're just drinking straight-up ginger ale. Because around the next tailgate, in the deep depths of an igloo cooler or perched on the roof of a flatbed truck there could lurk one of "Mr. Foxfield's Eleven" - a gang so tough that there are frequent reports of Rugby Road warfare after a riotous night in the land Down Under. Sure they may look innocent enough as they casually gravitate toward your plot, but be warned, this garrulous gang is well armed with tonic water and finger sandwiches. Their mission: the final hour frenzy in the spring social scene.
Bios:
Mr. Foxfield
Mr. Foxfield is the ringleader of this not so covert operation and an easy "Where's Waldo" spot due to his fetish for seersucker. After tossing back a few Surge-O-Confidences (the sponsored beverage of the races) he forgoes all modesty and repeatedly proclaims, "I am Mr. Foxfield!"
If approached by such a character, you can delve into deep, thought provoking conversations on his latest works: "How to Slip Out of a Conversation Without Really Trying," and "The Joy of Cake Fights: My 21st Birthday." Last seen: April 2001, doing cannonballs into a hot tub.
Squeaky Clean
Favorite Foxfield hobby: looking for someone cuter to talk to.
He shampoos for a silkier shine with an egg yoke concoction that cleverly is disguised in an old Pert Plus bottle and always hidden in a leather shaving kit, next to a pig's hairbrush, and his mama's Aqua Net. The reflection in a streak free, and heavily Windexed glass or the back of a newly polished silver spoon always is a convenient way to check each strand's placement because in attempts for that naturally rustled and windblown look he surely spent hours preening and primping like an obsessive compulsive peacock. Whether he is drifting off into his Solo cup, or staring at the leggy brunette, his hair consumes his thoughts and he daydreams of the way it slicks back upon emerging out of a pool or tosses in the breeze as he drives a newly buffed Wrangler. And though the sky is ominous gray, and there is a 99 percent chance of rain, he slips on his sunglasses because he is on the prowl.
Today just might be the day when amid the ice buckets, he will uncover what he has been tirelessly searching for ... the absolute perfect female specimen.
Chicky Filet
Some blame it on April's sun; others are convinced she just had too many plus dollars to use up at the Pavilion. Yet, either way it was obvious that poor Chicky was burnt out. She once loved daisy chains, VW vans, the sun, the moon, the earth. But now it was drumsticks. Last Foxfield I came across her aimlessly wandering tailgates, continuously muttering, "We've got fried chicken. We've got fried chicken," as if she'd been possessed by KFC's Colonel Sanders himself. Yet, when she led me to her source, the tin was empty. She wiped her greasy hands in denial, and I knew she needed help.
White Rabbit
Coffee just isn't doing it for him anymore. I mean, he's tried Mountain Dew, Jolt, but it is all the same. Yet this morning, as he meanders down the corner, he sees what can only be a mirage in the humid air, a tale from the mouths of gullible first years ... the Red Bull promotional van. He loads up on free samples until the realization that he is "late, late, for a very important date!" Hands shaky, he books it to the fields and desperately hunts for a lime. And they call this Foxfield. Irate at the lack of fresh produce, he morphs into a bull and begins to head-butt friends in the stomach. The crowd goes wild, camera bulbs flash. Last seen: tampering with film development.
Dazed and Confused Duo
Theduo are the least threatening of Foxfield's Eleven since they still sport their Bahamas party gear - puka beads and all - and are out in the fields trying to see if they can find goldfish to swallow. Back in March his math skills were keen, and he worked out the best probable moment to approach such a girl - and she was difficult to approach since she blended into the bamboo sticks, or could of been mistaken for a tiki torch. But at precisely 1:07 p.m. he had snagged her with "Me Tarzan, You Jane," and his innovative line astounded her. Just kidding - she thought "he real smart boy."
Heart of Gold
No wonder this guy landed a big city investment internship this summer since he hustles around tailgates like a wheeling corporate office executive. He assesses when the chips and bottles are low - networks with the plot next door ... goes in for the drink steal and convinces the other party that it's a merger. Yet, he is not all business, and after spilling his drink, he spills his heart to a couple of girls who catch sun in the grass away from the mob (it's all about location, location) that he doesn't want to be just another number.
The Swinger
His daddy always told him that college girls were like digital cable channels - late at night it's really fun just to keep scrolling through the menu. "Oh boy!" he squealed and with visions of ESPN I-XXVI in his head, and he headed off to this little land called college. Yet last year, upon arriving at his first Foxfield, the Swinger's face became as washed out as his perfectly faded hat when he realized that these girls were not just creatures of the night, and shoot ... they liked to talk. "The blinding light! Cut the light!" he screamed, and disappeared into a shady crowd. Last seen: screening his cell phone calls for relationship definers, and hurdling picket fences away from them.
At 5:30 p.m. after a last minute mingle, the gang catches a ride with the final three conspirators - the 3 Wall Standers whostand against the car and just hang out the whole day. These three hold tightly onto rope, so as to not lose each other in the masses.
Foxfield's Eleven speeds away after a great day at the races, because there are debts to settle with a sketchy man known as Little John.
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