The realest thing in America is in Green Bay, Wisconsin.
Now, before all you Bears fans infarct, please relax. I’m not talking about Lambeau Field or the Packers or anything. You can’t even see Lambeau from the place I’m talking about. But if you’ve ever been there, the minute I tell you what it is, you’ll agree with me.
The realest thing in America is Bay Beach Amusement Park.
Bay Beach looks like it hasn’t changed a lick since the 1940s, largely because it hasn’t for the most part. It is not a theme park. There isn’t a licensed character anywhere. When you wait in line, you wait in line. You are not immersed into a ride experience.
The rides are, for the most part, standard carnival/county fair stuff: a Scrambler, a Tilt-A-Whirl, bumper cars, little airplanes that you can make go up or down while they go around in a circle. There’s a roller coaster. Just one, the Zippin' Pippin. It doesn’t go underground or upside down or anything like that. It’s just a roller coaster. It’s an exact replica of Elvis Presley’s favorite roller coaster, but that’s all it is.
You can get most of the usual amusement park/county fair treats at the snack bar and concession stands, but don’t go looking for anything exotic. Burgers, dogs, chicken strips, ice cream, cotton candy, that’s about it.
Parking is free, unless you want to be right by the front gate. That will cost you $7. Admission is also free, but the rides aren’t. You have to buy tickets for those. Some rides are one ticket, some are two, some are four, and the Zippin' Pippin is six. Worth it? You tell me. The tickets are twenty-five cents each.
How do they make money? They're not really trying to. Bay Beach is owned by the city of Green Bay, which works as hard as it can to keep the prices down so that families have something reasonably priced to enjoy on a nice summer day. So it’s heavy on the “park” side of “amusement park.” You walk through cookouts and asadas on your way in, and if you get tired of mechanical rides, your kids can just go play on a swingset or walk down right by the waters of Green Bay.
When our girls were little we used to take them to Bay Beach every summer, usually around the Fourth of July. I don’t know that we ever bought more than $20 worth of tickets, and we all did everything we wanted to do, more than once.
All our girls are in their twenties now, but those memories of Bay Beach still carry on, for them and for us. Bay Beach proves that everything doesn’t have to be An Experience. You can have a good time doing perfectly mundane stuff, like sliding down a giant, steep slide while you’re sitting on a burlap potato bag. (That’s a one-ticket ride.) And the memories you make at a bland-sounding amusement park will stick with you as long or longer than the memories you made at a theme park where you had to plan everything you wanted to do weeks, maybe months in advance because that’s what everyone else was doing and if you didn’t join them you wouldn’t get to do any of the fun stuff. You wouldn’t get An Experience, you would get leftovers. Hope you like the Carousel of Progess.
But at Bay Beach, if we didn’t know what else to do, we could always ride the train (again, one ticket) one more time and just enjoy the view. I can honestly say I had more fun spending one day at Bay Beach than I had spending five days at Disney World. Why? Disney is dreams. Disney is engineering memories for your kids and making sure you have enough physical anchors that they can recall them all the time, on into adulthood. Bay Beach is real. You don’t go there to remember the things you did. You go there to have fun and then remember the fun you had.
Why bring this up now, when summer is nearly over and college football has already started?
Because I want just one real thing this season.
I’m not here to grumble about the money in the sport or who gets it. You and I can do Sweet Fanny Adams about that anyway. It’s expensive to go to games. It’s expensive just to watch them. I don’t know how many different streaming services I’ll have to sign up for to watch all the Iowa games because I’m not going to sign up for any of them. I will not spend any of the thirteen Saturdays of the regular season watching football from 11 am until midnight. I’ll probably max out at one game per Saturday.
Nobody ever decides that this team rather than that one will be their team because Ball Park Franks are the official team hot dog. They pick teams because of personal connections, tradition, or because something just touches them about a certain team, a certain coach, stadium, tailgate party, whatever. My Hawkeye fandom comes from my mother (Dad wasn’t a sports person) but it’s tied in with the sounds of Jim Zabel on an AM radio in our car while I’m in the back seat fighting off sleep on our way back from someplace. It’s tied in with our traditional Saturday lunch of chili dogs. It’s tied in with the sound of leaves crunching under my feet, the first morning that you can feel the cold air going into your lungs when you step outside, the dazzling fact that somehow HyVee makes a better cherry Coke than Coca-Cola does. In short, it’s just part of who I am and the things that I hold dear.
I don’t care what team you root for. Some kid, somewhere, is going to have a great ol’ time watching games with the family, either in person or on TV this fall, and all the sponsorships and t-shirt cannons in the world will add exactly nothing to the experience. There is something good, something pure about fandom that simply cannot be monetized, something that lives in a place where no brand can reach.
Sooner or later the thing you love most about your team is not that it’s the best or that it always wins … it’s that it’s yours. Your fandom is one of the most real things in your life.
And the space you leave around that fandom will always be more important than the space you fill with it.







