Jerry Richardson Stadium Bag Policy

So you’ve scored tickets to a game at Jerry Richardson Stadium. Congratulations! You’re about to experience 60,000 people screaming over a pigskin while you try to balance a hot dog on your knee. But first, you must face the gatekeeper: the stadium’s bag policy.

Let’s be honest, reading a stadium bag policy is about as fun as eating a sad, cold pretzel. But ignore it, and you’ll be that person—the one frantically shoving their backpack into a trash can while a security guard sighs. I’m here to save you from that humiliation, and I’ll do it with jokes.

The Golden Rule: Tiny Bags Only

The stadium allows only clear plastic, vinyl, or PVC bags that are no bigger than 12” x 6” x 12”. Basically, you can bring a bag that looks like a Ziploc for a very small, rectangular toddler. You can also bring a small clutch, roughly the size of your hand, but it must be no larger than 4.5” x 6.5”.

Think of it this way: if your bag can’t hold a six-pack of soda and a raccoon, you’re probably fine. If it can hold a laptop, a lunch, and a change of clothes, you’re basically bringing luggage. Leave it in the car unless you want to donate it to the stadium’s growing pile of confiscated totes.

The "Forbidden Fruit" List

Here’s a surprising fact: you cannot bring a normal backpack, even if it’s empty. Jerry Richardson Stadium doesn’t care about your emotional support hydration pack. Also banned: briefcases, camera bags, diaper bags (yes, really—they suggest a clear bag for baby supplies), and fanny packs that are too big.

Wait, did I say diaper bags? That’s right. The policy is so strict that infants are essentially told, “Sorry, kid, your wipes need to be in a transparent pouch.” If you’re a parent, you’ll need to decant your baby’s entire life into a clear plastic prison. It’s like airport security, but with more nacho cheese and crying.

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The Secret Weapon: Wear a Jacket

The best loophole is pockets. The policy says you can bring items in your jacket or cargo pants pockets. So, channel your inner raccoon and stuff your phone, keys, a small blanket, and maybe a smuggled granola bar into your pockets. You’ll look like you’re smuggling a small armadillo, but you’ll beat the system.

One more shocking fact: the policy is enforced by metal detectors and bag checkers. They will not make exceptions for your “vintage” purse that your grandma gave you. If you cry about it, they will simply offer you a plastic rental bin that screams “I forgot the rules.”

What You Can Actually Bring

You are allowed a clear bag (as mentioned), a small clutch, and a sealed bottle of water—but only one, and it must be plastic, no bigger than 20 ounces. You can also bring a seat cushion (no arms or pockets) because decades of sitting on hard plastic has apparently built character.

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Do not try to bring a selfie stick. That’s not a bag item, but trust me, it’s banned. The security team will confiscate it and probably use it to point and laugh at you. Also forbidden: umbrellas, signs on poles, and laser pointers. If you bring any of these, you are officially that person.

The Final Pep Talk

So, the moral of the story? Plan ahead, leave your giant purse at home, and embrace the clear-plastic-tote lifestyle. You’ll look a bit like a 1990s bank teller, but you’ll waltz through security in 30 seconds while everyone else is weeping over their stuffed backpacks.

Now go enjoy the game, cheer loud, and remember: your bag is clear, your pockets are full, and your dignity is intact. Unless you brought a diaper bag for a puppy. If you did that, please email me—I have questions.