If Utah/BYU is the Holy War, Arizona State/BYU should be deemed the Morality War.

An Arizona State alum myself off work for the night, I was one of the maroon-and-gold-clad foreigners who descended into Provo and began to question all they had come to know. There was a Top-25 matchup that kicked off at 8:15, but there was another matchup that began long before: ASU fans vs. Provo’s rules. It was as if aliens had landed on Earth. Nothing made sense.

The week leading up to the game, I scoured message boards and asked everyone I met about the BYU tailgate scene. The prevailing answer: It doesn't exist. There aren’t people with campers and pop-up tents filling parking lots (at least that I saw). There are not people dragging coolers. And there is no alcohol, which is like telling ASU fans there is no air.

So, those who didn’t want to pay $50 for the official alumni tailgate, ended up at ABG’s Libation Emporium, one of the few bars in Provo. I was not alive in the 1920s, but I imagine this is what it was like to stroll into a speakeasy. Never since I turned 21 has drinking felt like a secretive operation.

The place is narrow and dark. There are two pool tables, a few TVs and a long bar that surprisingly featured a diverse beer selection. When my two buddies and I rolled up to the wooden countertop, I asked if they wanted to get a quick drink then head closer to the stadium.

An ASU fan at the bar didn’t let them answer. There was almost horror in his reply. “If you guys want to drink, you better stay here.”

“Before we came here, we circled the stadium and there was nothing. I mean nothing,” he added, sounding like a soldier who just came off the battlefield. “They had like a Baskin-Robbins. That was it. It was crazy.”

This guy made the BYU campus out to be a desert wasteland. It’s not, but ASU fans are not accustomed to this sort of pregame ritual. They are used to big groups and an even bigger coolers – which sometimes makes the tailgate more enjoyable than the game.

When the Sun Devils announced a few years people couldn’t leave at halftime of games and come back – time many fans would use to go to their cars and drink a couple beers – it was as if the school said everyone must watch the game naked. People threatened to revoke their season tickets.

So, you can imagine, it was odd for them to arrive in a college town unable to crack a couple beers in the parking lot. Even odder were the BYU fans in ABG's double-fisting steins.

Near the back of the bar were a pair of Cougars’ fans sitting on bar stools watching a game of pool. Out of nowhere, an Arizona State fan probably holding his umpteenth beverage started yelling across the dark room.

“You can’t be drinking that,” he hollered, walking closer. “You can’t have that.”

Everyone in the bar stared at this guy, trying to figure out if he was joking or not.

“I never said I was Mormon,” the BYU fan responded.

“But you were at some point?” 

“Well, yeah.”

They both giggled and the Sun Devil fan leaned forward for a cringy hug. Everyone went back to their conversations.

When we parked in a lot across from Canes, we pulled out some chips and salsa, played music and tossed a Frisbee. BYU fans glared at us like we were deranged – and we probably looked that way. It was clear this was not a place for a party. This was a parking lot and we were the only three bozos who didn’t get the message.

At one point, a little kid got out of his car and pulled out a football. I called for him to toss it over. He threw his small BYU pigskin and I hurled it back. It didn’t quite turn into a game of catch, though. His dad told him to put it away and they then began the 10-minute walk to the stadium.

It was odd. So is being buzzed when you know everyone around you isn’t – and probably has never been.

Drinking before BYU games puts you in this weird wink-wink club. The people consuming alcohol tow this line of being subtle and brazen – clever enough to not draw suspicion but bold enough for others who also indulge to notice.

Just outside LaVell Edwards, some guy just strolled up to me. He looked to be alone, a bald middle-aged man who probably listens to grunge music.

He nudged me and pointed to my half-empty Powerade bottle.

“Is that only Powerade?” He asked with a grin.

“Yeah,” I replied.

He held up his plastic blue cup and let out a grin. “Well this is only beer.”

“OK,” I relented, “There’s a few shots of vodka in here.”

We both laughed and he gave me a fist bump. For good or bad, we were part of the club.

Jordan Kaye is the sports editor at the Idaho State Journal.