South Dakota State Football Bag Policy

So, you’re sprinting late to Dana J. Dykhouse Stadium, your pockets bulging with keys, a half-eaten hot dog, and a mystery charger. You’ve got your lucky Jackrabbits hat, but wait—what’s that bag over your shoulder? Friend, you are about to enter the most scrutinized real estate in Brookings. South Dakota State University has a bag policy, and it’s more specific than your grandma’s pie recipe.

The Purge of the Purse

First, let’s get one thing straight: that cute leather hobo bag you love? It’s not getting past the gate. The rule is brutally simple—anything larger than a standard hand (4.5” x 6.5”) is banished back to your car, where it will sit alone, plotting its revenge. I once saw a woman try to sneak in a tote bag that contained a small dog, a turkey sandwich, and a flag. The security guard just shook his head.

You are allowed a clear plastic bag, no bigger than 12” x 6” x 12”. Think of it as a transparent prison for your wallet, phone, and lip balm. Pro tip: If you bring a bag that’s too dark, the stadium lights will reflect off your shame like a disco ball at a funeral. It’s not a good look.

The Diaper Bag Loophole (And Other Surprises)

Here’s the kicker: medical and diaper bags are welcome, but only after you submit to an “inspection.” This means a volunteer named Gary will peer into the diaper bag like he’s looking for alien artifacts. True story—a dad once brought in a bag of baby wipes, and Gary found a hidden bag of jalapeño chips. The chips were confiscated. The baby cried. The Jackrabbits won anyway.

Also, you can bring a small clutch—the kind you’d use for a fancy dinner where nobody talks about football. But let’s be honest, you’re not at a fancy dinner. You’re eating a bratwurst the size of your forearm. That clutch will get greasy. It’s a bold, foolish choice.

The Unwritten Rules of Paranoia

You know what’s funny? The policy bans “non-approved” bags entirely, but the definition of “non-approved” is basically “anything you love.” Fanny packs? Only if they’re clear and you’re a 1970s tourist. Backpacks? Absolutely not—unless you’re a ninja carrying a clear plastic backpack, which raises more questions than answers. I saw a man wearing cargo shorts with 14 pockets get turned away. The guard said, “That’s not a bag, but it’s suspicious.” He had to empty his pockets into a clear bag. It was humiliating.

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And here’s the wildest part: the policy is enforced like a law of physics. You cannot argue. You cannot cry. I saw a woman try to bribe a guard with a bag of peanuts, and the guard didn’t even flinch. She was escorted to the “Bag Amnesty” bin, which is really just a sad cardboard box at the entrance. Your beautiful purse will never see you again.

The Upside? You’re Free

But here’s the shocking truth: once you accept the policy, stadium life is better. No one is wresting a duffel bag over your head during the fourth quarter touchdown. Lines move faster. You feel like a minimalist monk who also loves beer and cowbells. You can high-five strangers without fear of hitting their backpack zipper. It’s a beautiful, bagless utopia.

So, next game day, leave the leather behind. Grab your clear Brady Bunch lunchbox, stuff in your phone, and walk in like you own the place. Just don’t bring peanuts. The guards are watching. Go Jacks.