In the shadow of the imposing columns that embody the spirit of the University of Missouri, lies the site of every Mizzou Football fan’s greatest ecstasy as well as their most dire misery, Memorial Stadium. This hallowed ground is where dreams are made, broken, and made again—where generations of Tiger fans have cheered, wept, and exulted as one. Yet, in the relentless march of modernity, there looms a threat not to the stadium’s scoreboard, turf, or concession stands, but to something far more elemental: the venerable trough-style urinals encircling Faurot Field.

I speak not of granite obelisks or ivy-covered walls, but of those humble yet gleaming porcelain troughs, those stoic sentinels of necessity and community. They are now imperiled by the cold hand of progress, quieted away in favor of the luxurious sterility of individual stalls and private partitions, as part of a sweeping quarter-billion-dollar stadium renovation. It is a travesty.

To those unfamiliar with this sacred institution, allow me to enlighten. The trough urinal is not merely a utilitarian fixture; it is an icon, a rite of passage, and an unflinching equalizer. When you enter those echoey concrete sanctuaries during halftime, there are no distinctions of wealth, class, or standing. There are no CEOs or janitors, no hedge fund managers or bartenders. There are only Tigers, standing shoulder to shoulder, united in relief and camaraderie, holding onto hope and their manhood.

Picture it: the shared urgency as the band strikes up and you’ve got precisely three minutes to achieve what needs achieving before the second-half kickoff. The shuffle forward in the line, the nod of acknowledgment to the man beside you, the brief, unspoken solidarity as you face that glistening trough together. It’s not just plumbing; it’s humanity distilled into its most basic and unvarnished form.

While some find the process uncomfortable, the unspoken shared silence, the forcefully straightforward stare, it’s all part of an unwritten code of conduct that focuses the mind and exemplifies cooperation through individualism. The occasional awkward chuckle at the absurdity of it all—a hundred men, strangers, shoulder to shoulder, engaging in what can only be described as a synchronized waltz of vulnerability. What other fixtures of modernity afford such profound intimacy among strangers, such moments of distraction amid the grand stakes of gridiron glory?

Some may scoff. "Outdated," they will say. "Uncomfortable, unhygienic, backward." But such criticisms miss the point entirely. The trough urinals are not there to be elegant; they are there to serve a higher purpose—to remind us, in a world ever more fractured and isolated, that we are in this together.

Indeed, is there not a poetic symmetry between the communal nature of the trough and the communal experience of the game itself? Just as we stand shoulder to shoulder in the bleachers, cheering or groaning in unison, so too do we stand shoulder to shoulder in the restrooms, fulfilling a need as old as time. There is no room for pretense, no hiding from the reality of the moment. We win together, we lose together, and by God, we urinate together.

To tear out these bastions of shared experience is to sever yet another thread of the fabric that binds us. It is to replace the rugged, unpolished joy of authenticity with the soulless sheen of modern convenience. The troughs are not just a relic of the past; they are a reminder of what it means to belong—to be part of something greater than oneself. In an era where solitude reigns supreme and the communal fades ever further into the rearview mirror, these fixtures stand as defiant monuments to togetherness.

So I implore the powers that be: let not the troughs of Memorial Stadium fall victim to the wrecking ball of progress. Let us preserve this peculiar but cherished tradition, this odd but glorious testament to shared humanity. Do not give in to the siren song of modernity, for in doing so, you rob future generations of an experience that is as integral to Mizzou football as the Rock M or Truman the Tiger himself.

Save the troughs. Save the laughter, the awkwardness, the stories, and the camaraderie. Save this tradition that has been passed down, quite literally, in streams, from one generation of Tiger fans to the next. Let the troughs endure, as enduring as the Tiger spirit itself.