1:17 p.m. Thirteen minutes until the doors open, and ticket taker Rebekah Raley, a junior nutrition major, has
taken her post on one side of the elevator. Students must swipe their ID'S and have corresponding tickets. Outside
the doors, a crowd has formed.
1:20 p.m. On the other side of the elevator, ticket taker Marilyn Sessions takes her position.
"I think we're just going to be swamped the whole time," she says. "You can just feel the excitement build. This is
like the adult version of a rock concert."
1:30 p.m. The doors are officially opened. The first mass of people begins to rush through the adult line, with
cheeks reddened from the cold but with smiles on their faces. Three people frantically rip the tickets as fast as they
can. The women's softball players begin yelling, "50-50 tickets." The M.A.C.C. is beginning to fill with life.
1:32 p.m. Two Union soldiers from the Civil War have worked their way through the student line. Mark
Hovencamp, a Kent State grad, and his brother Matt, a sophomore technology major, are donning blue and gold face
paint along with their soldier attire.
"It's Kent-Akron," Mark says. "This is civil war."
1:39 p.m. Lines are starting to form at the concession stands as people continue to trickle in. What was almost
silent an hour ago is now bustling with activity.
1:46 p.m. She sits at the same site where five hours earlier Long had watched a semi back its way down a narrow
road. The lone sentry, also known as freshman photo journalism major Ashley Trainer, is seemingly oblivious to the
rush of people flowing past her as she sits quietly reading her book and keeps an eye on the doorway in front of her.
Her job, as well as the three other door-watchers located at other exits in the gym, is simple: Keep people from
entering the M.A.C.C. through the side entrances.
"It's nice," Trainer says about her job. "I work until halftime, and then I go to the game. It's the perfect job — I do
my homework and get to meet people."
1:50 p.m. Kent State basketball guard Trevor Huffman jumps over the blue railing and makes his way down the
bleachers, where a handful of people are scattered. In uniform, he joins his teammates on the court.
1:55 p.m. At half court, he sits uniformed in his black-and-white-striped shirt as he enters the line-ups into the
official book. John Moran, the official scorekeeper, has been doinforhis tor 26 years.
"Pressure games like this keep you more on your toes," he says. "This is definitely not going to be a boring game."
Moran looks up as Huffman dribbles two balls over to the rack.
"Hi, Trevor," he says. "You're looking good today."
He looks back down at his work. "I've seen a lot of good kids come through here."
2 p.m. Six psychedelic clown wigs sprout from the heads in the student section. A student dressed as a superhero
models the Kent State flag he wears as a cape, his red face mask and his ill-fitting fuzzy yellow gloves.
"I feel like a superhero," he says. "I feel like I could do a lot of damage."
"Hey man, these two seats are saved, just so you know," somebody tells the superhero.
The superhero looks offended. "Eight thousand people here, and they're saving seats," he scoffs.
The superhero laughs at such paltry mortal threats.
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