Oxford hosted the nation’s quietest sellout, a kind of library with goal posts where the shushing is done by the wind. The team is top five, the crowd is top five in stealth. Somewhere a ticket scanner beeped and the echo applied for grad school.

The Rebels emerged to an ovation so gentle it registered as weather. A tumbleweed led the first cheer, then filed for student government. Even the foam finger looked introspective, which is hard for foam.

Attendance was announced as a number divisible by hope. Capacity remained theoretical, like extra credit or tackling form in a Disney movie. The median decibel was whisper, the mode was shoes squeaking, and the outliers were one kid with a bell and a mosquito with a grudge.

Players praised the focus, saying it felt like an intramural between two libraries at war over a stapler. The kicker reported hearing his thoughts leave a voicemail. A linebacker called an audible to silence, which agreed to defer.

In response, the athletic department tested a new initiative: if the fans won’t fill the seats, air will. A pilot program offered the first 5,000 entrants a complimentary inflatable stadium crowd kit. By halftime, the student section looked like a birthday party for a lonely blimp.

The TV crew adapted with the ancient art of Tight Camera Framing. They introduced the same three guys as the student section, alumni, and band, then cut to a wide shot of two pigeons considering season tickets. One director yelled, give me noise, and the microphones captured a distant casserole cooling.

Economics did the tackling. Dynamic pricing got so dynamic it backflipped into an empty row. Why pay to watch in 3D when your couch offers 4K, snacks, and a bathroom that doesn’t require a 20-minute two-minute drill?

Meanwhile, The Grove conducted hostile negotiations with kickoff. Tailgaters argued they were supporting the team by refusing to abandon pimento cheese at midfield. Someone whispered, we should buy a Bluetooth clap synchronizer, and suddenly the applause was on time but still out of town.

On the field, Ole Miss performed like a metronome strapped to a cheetah. The offense carved up zones with the precision of a surgeon who also critiques fonts. Time of possession won, time of attendance pleaded the Fifth.

The PA asked for a wave; three people obliged and it looked like a screensaver that lost custody. The mascot tried a call-and-response, got response-and-response from crickets, then submitted a transfer portal request to the petting zoo.

History loomed large; memory counted small. The box score bragged, the bleachers shrugged, and my spreadsheet asked if correlation is causation when the cause is apathy and the effect is acoustics. I brought narrative and numbers, and the numbers whispered, buddy, it’s drafty in here.

Administrators promised improvements: shade, shuttles, and more shade delivered by drone. Next week is Bring Your Imaginary Friend Night, and early models predict a sellout in theory, in practice, and in spirit; finally, a crowd big enough to drown out a whispering scoreboard that keeps repeating, next time, bring friends.