Post by $heriff Tom on Jan 15, 2007 20:52:27 GMT -5
ON THE ROAD TO PHILLY WITH 41
Sunday, July 15th, 2001
Being that my N train was running that morning as effectively as
that shark mauled boy would through the Baltimore Raven defense, I started
to wonder if this trip to Philadelphia last Sunday was a good idea. I had
to head out from LIC to meet that derelict 41 near his Jersey coven by
8AM, and with no beer sales before noon was shamed into buying a
grapefruit juice at the local bodega (Bodega -(noun) - cover for a drug
establishment) instead. The clerk actually laughed at me. "Mixing
with vodka, so early in the morning?" he chuckled, asking seriously if I
needed a cup and straw with it, and a bag to hide the "drink." "Even
drunks have breakfast, you know!" I stammered, heading out between some
oldsters playing a morning round of Dominos.
After the interminable Ice Age of Amtrack rides, I arrived at our
convergence point in Rahway, floored by the knowledge that this was my
first time heading into Jersey for a reason other than to get laid in over
5 years. I met up with 41, hearing the 80's metal coming from blocks
away, and we earmarked McDonalds as our first stop on our jolly
excursion. It was there that we somehow ended up spending well over $10
for a Big Breakfast, Hotcakes and Sausage, an Egg McMuffin, and 2 milks
due to the wonders of the mentally ill grabbing all the good cashier jobs
these days.
The ride there in 41's truck was as goofy as to be expected. 41 had
lovingly prepared the soundtrack for the ride, everything from Ace Frehley
to Slash's Snakepit, a bit of old Anthrax to classic KISS. We were even
subjected to a dose of irony, as Judas Priest's "Heading Out To The
Highway" chimed in just as we were PULLING OFF the highway.
I watched in awe as we passed a farm. Then a vegetable stand.
Meanwhile, buses of alcoholics rumbled by, on their way to the Vet, fans
with Munson jerseys and open beers, cheering us through the window and
shooting moons. Thanks to 41's stupid and outdated "no beer in the car,
not even for the passengers" rule, I could only wave my lowfat milk and
look longingly at the frolic on the bus. "I want to pass out on there!"
I whined, as 41 sang along to "Cold Gin" from KISS Alive.
I knew we were no longer in New York environs anymore simply by the
stupid signs we passed along the road. One such sign said "DRIVE
FRIENDLY" - and featured 2 smiling cars seemingly driving side by side,
shaking hands. Another sign had a guy pictured picking up garbage on the
side of a road. Just to keep him busy I flung my now empty milk carton
out the window.
Because of some mysterious traffic that seemingly was only due to
people slowing down by an underpass to read a sign that said "normal
traffic conditions ahead" we did not arrive by the Stadium until 30
minutes before gametime. We scrambled out of 41's truck like a pit crew,
running to the side door, opening it in tandem, and began pulling out
beers in robotic fashion. First one was downed in less than 5 minutes,
and after 12 minutes of drinking we had each downed 3. Phillie fans waved
amiably as they walked by, generally hand in hand, no doubt impressed by
our feats of power drinking. Nearby an attendant stood in cadence,
nodding appraisingly as we blitzed through the cooler without offering him
any.
We ended up scoring 2 $8 tickets for $20 total from some fat guy who
was actually sweating spaghetti sauce, plus a $2 tip 41 decided to throw
in, wrongfully mistaking the tarmac of the Vet for the Moulin Rouge Cafe
or something. Before this he had a nasty exchange with another scalper
who looked like a black Gene Hackman, who went off and told 41 he was
going to "shank him" and "kill his mother" or some such thing. "KISS
rules!" 41 hollered back with a wave as we forged ahead.
I remarked to 41 how, although I had skirted the immediate area, I
had not been to Philly before outside of ECW wrestling shows and a
subsequent trip to the hospital. "I drove up here to get my copy of
"Private Parts" autographed by Howard Stern!" he trumpeted, as people
walking aside us surreptitiously moved off to the side.
Once inside, no sooner had I sat in my seat and tried to find a
surreptitious spot to put my beer so I would not kick it over than I heard
the sounds wafting from the PA of Sesame Street's own Ernie, singing
"Rubber Ducky." Now, I like that song as much as the next guy (so much
so that I once used that soundtrack as sex background music) - but not
during a ballgame when I am trying to get my drink on. What is worse is
that it was not the original classic version (you know, the one that goes,
"Rubber Ducky, you're the one...") but instead it was a stepped up reggae
model which actually had families hopping up to dance in the aisles.
"What the HELL is going on here?" I asked, as a Phillie shill popped up
on the scoreboard in a Hawaiin shirt, no less, proclaiming today as RUBBER
DUCKY DAY! Then I noticed what the kids were holding in thier fists, at
first I had mistaken them for guns, this being Philadelpia and all. It
was a giveaway rubber ducky, with the face of the Philly Phanatic! Just
when I thought things could get no worse, these Kool Aid coerced minions
were coaxed by the jackass on the scorboard to "squeak away" - and the
ensuing cacaphony was the worst thing mine ears had heard since 2
beautiful bleacher vixens said an emphatic, dual "no" to my generous
offer of a threesome.
All of this was just the sideshow to what was set up as the main
feature of Rubber Ducky Day, the Phillie Phanatic jumping up on the dugout
between innings to dance to Disco Duck. It almost makes one forget there
is a BASEBALL GAME GOING ON! As I frantically tipped my empty bottle
for one more needed drop of beer, thinking it could get no worse, it did.
A guy dressed like a duck hopped up on the dugout, too, and engaged the
Phanatic in a waltz. And the fans CHEERED. Are these the fans we have
to worry about? These ruffian Phillie fans? People were telling me when
I headed up there in my Yankee gear I was going to get my ass kicked. By
this point, I was instead expecting the jolly Phillie fans to offer me tea
and an invite to a poetry slam.
Around this point a guy in a Red Sox jersey ambled up, prompting 41
to clamber out of his seat and howl, "Boston sucks! What are you doing at
this game!!! This game does not concern you!!!" Laughing, I turned to
the left and - walla! A guy in a Braves jersey. I tapped 41 and
pointed, and he repeated his refrain. This went on all day. We even saw
a Brewer cap. What was this, the Island of Misfit Baseball Fans? About
the only people not sporting thier colors were Phillie fans, who cheered
politely like they were watching Vijay Singh line up at the tee while
Jimmy Rollins was racing across the plate. I was very unimpressed by
these fans, and their bad 1950's version of a movie spaceship, Vets
Stadium, which 41 referred to with disdain as a "Concrete Donut."
Between innings, to avoid seeing the shill on the screen giving away
passes to a pizza party to some "lucky" fan in Section 478, Row 11, seat
2 or first baseman Travis Lee continuing to earn his $10 million amateur
signing bonus by giving a speech on how "smokers will be ejected" - I
fiddled with my scorecard, drawing stick figures running from other stick
figures brandishing axes, and breasts. Big, succulent ones. An
oldtimer behind me, eating cotton candy and therefore keeping with the
surreal nature of the day, leaned forward and asked if I keep track of
FOULS HIT INTO THE STANDS. I thought he was kidding, and laughed, and
only realized he wasn't when he seemed hurt at my guffaws. I later heard
him tell his cryptkeeper of a wife that "those New Yorkers sure can be
rude."
Another inning passed, and therefore yet another hokey showing on
the board. This time they put up a graphic reading "Kiss Cam" along with
a pan of the crowd, showing various couples, waiting for that special
kiss. Of course, no one kissed during the kiss-cam, which was the saving
grace of the thing. 41, missing the point of the thing, upon seeing the
words Kiss Cam, started sticking out his tongue in Gene Simmons fashion.
As for the lunacy of the scoreboard, I could only wonder what stupidity
would they put on thier next, some idiot acting out scenes from Rocky?
Oh, wait, that's my gig...
"Way to crack the liberty bell!!" 41 bellowed out of nowhere, then
catching one of the seemingly few sporting Phillie Red, "Phillies suck!"
"Have another beer, you fat fuck!" the guy retorted, and 41 hit
him with a thumbs up and said "you got that right!!"
41 plodded downstairs to get more beer, leaving the crowd with a
"Nice turf ya got there!!" bellow, as an Asian family slid in beside me
no less than 4 innings late, featuring a Chinese dad wearing flip-top
glasses. I was beginning to wonder if this was all a Candid Camera bit.
One of his daughters promptly began playing hand held Donkey Kong. I was
impressed, though, when Phillie Pat Burrell came out to the swinging
sonnets of Ozzy's "Mr. Crowley" - but my impressiveness was dashed when
pitcher Robert Person strode up to bat later in the inning to what sounded
conspicously like Prince. "Way to get hogtied!" I yelled, to blank
stares, showing Philly fans care little enough about their team to not
know during the offseason Person got hopped up in a club, scuffled with
the authorities, and upon being dumped in the back of a cruiser in cuffs
began kicking at the windows. They ended up having to drag him out of the
car and hogtie him in Condit to Levy fashion. No truth to the rumor one
of the cops was quoted as saying, "this is for the 6.34 ERA!"
Time clicked away, and no sign of 41 with the precious beers. There
was a really annoying group of frat-type Phillie fans behind me and to the
left, and one of them took this time to say loudly how "Mussina stinks"
and he was glad the Phillies did not go after him and give up on the likes
of Randy Wolf, a man with an ERA that looks like an AM radio frequency.
In the course of the ensuing argument with a Yankee fan who was waving
beers in both hands and sported a tattoo of an elephant for some reason,
he also spouted out that Mariano Rivera was a "bum." As this was going
on, Paul O'neill drove one deep into right, but it nestled into the glove
of Bobby Abreau, who had last been spotted in a calmer moment on the
scoreboard cam between innings, imploring fans that "obscene language
would not be tolerated." Showing these Phillie fans know at least some
of thier stuff, they all yelled "throw your helmet!" in unison at the
rabid right fielder, and sure enough Paulie obliged, and the fans popped
with glee as if a magician pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
It was then that I saw a worse sight than that of 41 coming up the
stairs towards me....it was 41 coming up the stairs towards me with NO
BEER! After like 20 minutes. Turns out he decided to spend his time in
line trying to cut further ahead, and when called out on it by a vendor
with nothing better to do than abuse those with an intertwined NY on thier
chest, decided to yap back "don't give me a hard time cause you have to
work on Sunday afternoon while I drink beer and have a good time!"
Well, that was the end of the "drinking beer" part of 41's "good
time" Sunday afternoon, at least from this loser of a vendor and the ones
in earshot he told not to serve our friend 41. So he came back up sans
beer, and I had to make the jaunt. I was quite grumpy at that, cause
while I will dish the cash, I HATE lines and would send a guy in a
wheelchair to pick up the round before I will do it. Turns out I met a
bunch of Yankee Stadium denizens down there, though, and even ended up
signing a couple of ticket stubs (I am sure Mom is proud) - so it was
worth it. I also saw a cool mountain of empty cardboard boxes off to the
side, which I was able to scout out for a swan dive into later.
So I finally get these beers and head back up, getting more "how ya
doin's" and "nice first half for you guys" than "Yankees suck" and "way
to be fat and ugly" 's from the amiable Phillie fans I passed. I mean,
Jesus Christ, we had a friendly vendor outside trade us TWO pretzels for
ONE bottle of Coors Light. I was beginning to think this was going to
turn into a Yankee-Phillie fan orgy before it was over.
Soon enough, though, as the Phillies smacked around Mark Wohlers to
the point I was wishing he was once again tossing pitches back to the
screen, the Phillie fans turned on us like a man who after 20 years of
marraige finally realized he had an ugly wife. We heard all kinds of
basically good-natured barbs, most of which were directed to 41, as I was
not yet drunk enough to make a spectacle of myself and had accidentially
left inciteful accoutrements like my badge and Foul Mouthed Puppet at
home.
This happened to be the game Posada was throwing the ball around
like it was a slab of ice, and letting it roll by him like it was the
wind. Due to this both teams were making constant pilgramages to the
mound. As that hothead Larry Bowa strolled out to the mound for the
umpteenth time to chat with that criminal Person, 41 spouted, "what's he
going to tell him?? Don't walk anyone else? It's a bad idea?"
Of course we end up losing the game to the sounds of derisive
laughter, and a soundtrack over the PA that I SWEAR featured kazoos. "Is
that a kazoo?" I asked 41, but he was too busy trying to invite Phillie
fans to come out and visit us back in the confines of Section 39,
obviously a trick to have them jumped by the likes of Swingin' Phil and
paid back for all the fat drunk jokes he had to endure there in the city
of Gay Brotherly Love. Then again, we made some friends, and let them
know if they go out to Shea to see the Phils slay the Mutts, we will go
out and sit with them, combining forces for one night only, an unholy
alliance.
On the way out I made for the mound of boxes, fully intending to
Louganis into them. Actually, considering diver Louganis' sexual
preference, I should not use his name as any kind of reference. Anyway,
for the entertainment of 41, Justin and Laura (who we met up with on the
travail out) and a bunch of at first amused and at second "scared for
their lives" families, I did a perfect dive into this pile of boxes. I
had honed this skill after moving into the city area a decade ago, and
stopped cause too many times I ended up diving into a pile of boxes only
to find a homeless man or a guy getting oral from a club tramp staring up
at me. I also became quite acquainted with the old broken bottle, as
well. But this was Philly, and I had not gotten in any trouble yet, and
was trying like Hell.
As we strolled down and I tried to get my cell phone working again
since the dive, 41 yet again engaged in banter with some Philly fans
clustered in a group for safety and support. I swear I thought they were
roasting marshmallows. This exchange culminated in his kicking over a
garbage can, met with a huge chorus of booes. And at that moment, I felt
a sense of almost fatherly pride for jolly old 41, seeing him booed
lustily, so much so it made me jealous. I needed to be booed to, and
after a series of crotch chops, I was. I actually had something thrown at
me.
And it was then, after some minor consideration given to driving out
to the Rocky statue for me to run up and down the steps, we headed back to
New York, stopping at Boston Market just so we could holler Boston Sucks
at the obviously mentally ill people working the cash registers.
Sure, this trip was no Carnal Carnival like Miami, or not even as
raucous as the always expected tumolt of Toronto. For one thing, no one
hit me, and there aren't any new women "no longer talking to me" from my
escapades on this trip. So this one ends up as low key as a trip to the
bathroom to pee. But the summer is young. Stay around for what
promises to be a summer to remember, even if I won't remember it without
the wonders of video, or stories passed from person to person.
Also, watch the updates and the site for another Sheriff Tom column
this week featuring Yankee related chicancery and tomfoolery closer to
home, with a supporting cast of your favorite bleacher characters.
Business is about to pick up.
Sheriff Tom
Code Name: Bad Body Brown
R.I.P. "Fabulous Freebird" Terry Gordy (1950-2001)
Badstreet USA
"The Further Down The Block You Went, The Badder It Got"
Sunday, July 15th, 2001
Being that my N train was running that morning as effectively as
that shark mauled boy would through the Baltimore Raven defense, I started
to wonder if this trip to Philadelphia last Sunday was a good idea. I had
to head out from LIC to meet that derelict 41 near his Jersey coven by
8AM, and with no beer sales before noon was shamed into buying a
grapefruit juice at the local bodega (Bodega -(noun) - cover for a drug
establishment) instead. The clerk actually laughed at me. "Mixing
with vodka, so early in the morning?" he chuckled, asking seriously if I
needed a cup and straw with it, and a bag to hide the "drink." "Even
drunks have breakfast, you know!" I stammered, heading out between some
oldsters playing a morning round of Dominos.
After the interminable Ice Age of Amtrack rides, I arrived at our
convergence point in Rahway, floored by the knowledge that this was my
first time heading into Jersey for a reason other than to get laid in over
5 years. I met up with 41, hearing the 80's metal coming from blocks
away, and we earmarked McDonalds as our first stop on our jolly
excursion. It was there that we somehow ended up spending well over $10
for a Big Breakfast, Hotcakes and Sausage, an Egg McMuffin, and 2 milks
due to the wonders of the mentally ill grabbing all the good cashier jobs
these days.
The ride there in 41's truck was as goofy as to be expected. 41 had
lovingly prepared the soundtrack for the ride, everything from Ace Frehley
to Slash's Snakepit, a bit of old Anthrax to classic KISS. We were even
subjected to a dose of irony, as Judas Priest's "Heading Out To The
Highway" chimed in just as we were PULLING OFF the highway.
I watched in awe as we passed a farm. Then a vegetable stand.
Meanwhile, buses of alcoholics rumbled by, on their way to the Vet, fans
with Munson jerseys and open beers, cheering us through the window and
shooting moons. Thanks to 41's stupid and outdated "no beer in the car,
not even for the passengers" rule, I could only wave my lowfat milk and
look longingly at the frolic on the bus. "I want to pass out on there!"
I whined, as 41 sang along to "Cold Gin" from KISS Alive.
I knew we were no longer in New York environs anymore simply by the
stupid signs we passed along the road. One such sign said "DRIVE
FRIENDLY" - and featured 2 smiling cars seemingly driving side by side,
shaking hands. Another sign had a guy pictured picking up garbage on the
side of a road. Just to keep him busy I flung my now empty milk carton
out the window.
Because of some mysterious traffic that seemingly was only due to
people slowing down by an underpass to read a sign that said "normal
traffic conditions ahead" we did not arrive by the Stadium until 30
minutes before gametime. We scrambled out of 41's truck like a pit crew,
running to the side door, opening it in tandem, and began pulling out
beers in robotic fashion. First one was downed in less than 5 minutes,
and after 12 minutes of drinking we had each downed 3. Phillie fans waved
amiably as they walked by, generally hand in hand, no doubt impressed by
our feats of power drinking. Nearby an attendant stood in cadence,
nodding appraisingly as we blitzed through the cooler without offering him
any.
We ended up scoring 2 $8 tickets for $20 total from some fat guy who
was actually sweating spaghetti sauce, plus a $2 tip 41 decided to throw
in, wrongfully mistaking the tarmac of the Vet for the Moulin Rouge Cafe
or something. Before this he had a nasty exchange with another scalper
who looked like a black Gene Hackman, who went off and told 41 he was
going to "shank him" and "kill his mother" or some such thing. "KISS
rules!" 41 hollered back with a wave as we forged ahead.
I remarked to 41 how, although I had skirted the immediate area, I
had not been to Philly before outside of ECW wrestling shows and a
subsequent trip to the hospital. "I drove up here to get my copy of
"Private Parts" autographed by Howard Stern!" he trumpeted, as people
walking aside us surreptitiously moved off to the side.
Once inside, no sooner had I sat in my seat and tried to find a
surreptitious spot to put my beer so I would not kick it over than I heard
the sounds wafting from the PA of Sesame Street's own Ernie, singing
"Rubber Ducky." Now, I like that song as much as the next guy (so much
so that I once used that soundtrack as sex background music) - but not
during a ballgame when I am trying to get my drink on. What is worse is
that it was not the original classic version (you know, the one that goes,
"Rubber Ducky, you're the one...") but instead it was a stepped up reggae
model which actually had families hopping up to dance in the aisles.
"What the HELL is going on here?" I asked, as a Phillie shill popped up
on the scoreboard in a Hawaiin shirt, no less, proclaiming today as RUBBER
DUCKY DAY! Then I noticed what the kids were holding in thier fists, at
first I had mistaken them for guns, this being Philadelpia and all. It
was a giveaway rubber ducky, with the face of the Philly Phanatic! Just
when I thought things could get no worse, these Kool Aid coerced minions
were coaxed by the jackass on the scorboard to "squeak away" - and the
ensuing cacaphony was the worst thing mine ears had heard since 2
beautiful bleacher vixens said an emphatic, dual "no" to my generous
offer of a threesome.
All of this was just the sideshow to what was set up as the main
feature of Rubber Ducky Day, the Phillie Phanatic jumping up on the dugout
between innings to dance to Disco Duck. It almost makes one forget there
is a BASEBALL GAME GOING ON! As I frantically tipped my empty bottle
for one more needed drop of beer, thinking it could get no worse, it did.
A guy dressed like a duck hopped up on the dugout, too, and engaged the
Phanatic in a waltz. And the fans CHEERED. Are these the fans we have
to worry about? These ruffian Phillie fans? People were telling me when
I headed up there in my Yankee gear I was going to get my ass kicked. By
this point, I was instead expecting the jolly Phillie fans to offer me tea
and an invite to a poetry slam.
Around this point a guy in a Red Sox jersey ambled up, prompting 41
to clamber out of his seat and howl, "Boston sucks! What are you doing at
this game!!! This game does not concern you!!!" Laughing, I turned to
the left and - walla! A guy in a Braves jersey. I tapped 41 and
pointed, and he repeated his refrain. This went on all day. We even saw
a Brewer cap. What was this, the Island of Misfit Baseball Fans? About
the only people not sporting thier colors were Phillie fans, who cheered
politely like they were watching Vijay Singh line up at the tee while
Jimmy Rollins was racing across the plate. I was very unimpressed by
these fans, and their bad 1950's version of a movie spaceship, Vets
Stadium, which 41 referred to with disdain as a "Concrete Donut."
Between innings, to avoid seeing the shill on the screen giving away
passes to a pizza party to some "lucky" fan in Section 478, Row 11, seat
2 or first baseman Travis Lee continuing to earn his $10 million amateur
signing bonus by giving a speech on how "smokers will be ejected" - I
fiddled with my scorecard, drawing stick figures running from other stick
figures brandishing axes, and breasts. Big, succulent ones. An
oldtimer behind me, eating cotton candy and therefore keeping with the
surreal nature of the day, leaned forward and asked if I keep track of
FOULS HIT INTO THE STANDS. I thought he was kidding, and laughed, and
only realized he wasn't when he seemed hurt at my guffaws. I later heard
him tell his cryptkeeper of a wife that "those New Yorkers sure can be
rude."
Another inning passed, and therefore yet another hokey showing on
the board. This time they put up a graphic reading "Kiss Cam" along with
a pan of the crowd, showing various couples, waiting for that special
kiss. Of course, no one kissed during the kiss-cam, which was the saving
grace of the thing. 41, missing the point of the thing, upon seeing the
words Kiss Cam, started sticking out his tongue in Gene Simmons fashion.
As for the lunacy of the scoreboard, I could only wonder what stupidity
would they put on thier next, some idiot acting out scenes from Rocky?
Oh, wait, that's my gig...
"Way to crack the liberty bell!!" 41 bellowed out of nowhere, then
catching one of the seemingly few sporting Phillie Red, "Phillies suck!"
"Have another beer, you fat fuck!" the guy retorted, and 41 hit
him with a thumbs up and said "you got that right!!"
41 plodded downstairs to get more beer, leaving the crowd with a
"Nice turf ya got there!!" bellow, as an Asian family slid in beside me
no less than 4 innings late, featuring a Chinese dad wearing flip-top
glasses. I was beginning to wonder if this was all a Candid Camera bit.
One of his daughters promptly began playing hand held Donkey Kong. I was
impressed, though, when Phillie Pat Burrell came out to the swinging
sonnets of Ozzy's "Mr. Crowley" - but my impressiveness was dashed when
pitcher Robert Person strode up to bat later in the inning to what sounded
conspicously like Prince. "Way to get hogtied!" I yelled, to blank
stares, showing Philly fans care little enough about their team to not
know during the offseason Person got hopped up in a club, scuffled with
the authorities, and upon being dumped in the back of a cruiser in cuffs
began kicking at the windows. They ended up having to drag him out of the
car and hogtie him in Condit to Levy fashion. No truth to the rumor one
of the cops was quoted as saying, "this is for the 6.34 ERA!"
Time clicked away, and no sign of 41 with the precious beers. There
was a really annoying group of frat-type Phillie fans behind me and to the
left, and one of them took this time to say loudly how "Mussina stinks"
and he was glad the Phillies did not go after him and give up on the likes
of Randy Wolf, a man with an ERA that looks like an AM radio frequency.
In the course of the ensuing argument with a Yankee fan who was waving
beers in both hands and sported a tattoo of an elephant for some reason,
he also spouted out that Mariano Rivera was a "bum." As this was going
on, Paul O'neill drove one deep into right, but it nestled into the glove
of Bobby Abreau, who had last been spotted in a calmer moment on the
scoreboard cam between innings, imploring fans that "obscene language
would not be tolerated." Showing these Phillie fans know at least some
of thier stuff, they all yelled "throw your helmet!" in unison at the
rabid right fielder, and sure enough Paulie obliged, and the fans popped
with glee as if a magician pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
It was then that I saw a worse sight than that of 41 coming up the
stairs towards me....it was 41 coming up the stairs towards me with NO
BEER! After like 20 minutes. Turns out he decided to spend his time in
line trying to cut further ahead, and when called out on it by a vendor
with nothing better to do than abuse those with an intertwined NY on thier
chest, decided to yap back "don't give me a hard time cause you have to
work on Sunday afternoon while I drink beer and have a good time!"
Well, that was the end of the "drinking beer" part of 41's "good
time" Sunday afternoon, at least from this loser of a vendor and the ones
in earshot he told not to serve our friend 41. So he came back up sans
beer, and I had to make the jaunt. I was quite grumpy at that, cause
while I will dish the cash, I HATE lines and would send a guy in a
wheelchair to pick up the round before I will do it. Turns out I met a
bunch of Yankee Stadium denizens down there, though, and even ended up
signing a couple of ticket stubs (I am sure Mom is proud) - so it was
worth it. I also saw a cool mountain of empty cardboard boxes off to the
side, which I was able to scout out for a swan dive into later.
So I finally get these beers and head back up, getting more "how ya
doin's" and "nice first half for you guys" than "Yankees suck" and "way
to be fat and ugly" 's from the amiable Phillie fans I passed. I mean,
Jesus Christ, we had a friendly vendor outside trade us TWO pretzels for
ONE bottle of Coors Light. I was beginning to think this was going to
turn into a Yankee-Phillie fan orgy before it was over.
Soon enough, though, as the Phillies smacked around Mark Wohlers to
the point I was wishing he was once again tossing pitches back to the
screen, the Phillie fans turned on us like a man who after 20 years of
marraige finally realized he had an ugly wife. We heard all kinds of
basically good-natured barbs, most of which were directed to 41, as I was
not yet drunk enough to make a spectacle of myself and had accidentially
left inciteful accoutrements like my badge and Foul Mouthed Puppet at
home.
This happened to be the game Posada was throwing the ball around
like it was a slab of ice, and letting it roll by him like it was the
wind. Due to this both teams were making constant pilgramages to the
mound. As that hothead Larry Bowa strolled out to the mound for the
umpteenth time to chat with that criminal Person, 41 spouted, "what's he
going to tell him?? Don't walk anyone else? It's a bad idea?"
Of course we end up losing the game to the sounds of derisive
laughter, and a soundtrack over the PA that I SWEAR featured kazoos. "Is
that a kazoo?" I asked 41, but he was too busy trying to invite Phillie
fans to come out and visit us back in the confines of Section 39,
obviously a trick to have them jumped by the likes of Swingin' Phil and
paid back for all the fat drunk jokes he had to endure there in the city
of Gay Brotherly Love. Then again, we made some friends, and let them
know if they go out to Shea to see the Phils slay the Mutts, we will go
out and sit with them, combining forces for one night only, an unholy
alliance.
On the way out I made for the mound of boxes, fully intending to
Louganis into them. Actually, considering diver Louganis' sexual
preference, I should not use his name as any kind of reference. Anyway,
for the entertainment of 41, Justin and Laura (who we met up with on the
travail out) and a bunch of at first amused and at second "scared for
their lives" families, I did a perfect dive into this pile of boxes. I
had honed this skill after moving into the city area a decade ago, and
stopped cause too many times I ended up diving into a pile of boxes only
to find a homeless man or a guy getting oral from a club tramp staring up
at me. I also became quite acquainted with the old broken bottle, as
well. But this was Philly, and I had not gotten in any trouble yet, and
was trying like Hell.
As we strolled down and I tried to get my cell phone working again
since the dive, 41 yet again engaged in banter with some Philly fans
clustered in a group for safety and support. I swear I thought they were
roasting marshmallows. This exchange culminated in his kicking over a
garbage can, met with a huge chorus of booes. And at that moment, I felt
a sense of almost fatherly pride for jolly old 41, seeing him booed
lustily, so much so it made me jealous. I needed to be booed to, and
after a series of crotch chops, I was. I actually had something thrown at
me.
And it was then, after some minor consideration given to driving out
to the Rocky statue for me to run up and down the steps, we headed back to
New York, stopping at Boston Market just so we could holler Boston Sucks
at the obviously mentally ill people working the cash registers.
Sure, this trip was no Carnal Carnival like Miami, or not even as
raucous as the always expected tumolt of Toronto. For one thing, no one
hit me, and there aren't any new women "no longer talking to me" from my
escapades on this trip. So this one ends up as low key as a trip to the
bathroom to pee. But the summer is young. Stay around for what
promises to be a summer to remember, even if I won't remember it without
the wonders of video, or stories passed from person to person.
Also, watch the updates and the site for another Sheriff Tom column
this week featuring Yankee related chicancery and tomfoolery closer to
home, with a supporting cast of your favorite bleacher characters.
Business is about to pick up.
Sheriff Tom
Code Name: Bad Body Brown
R.I.P. "Fabulous Freebird" Terry Gordy (1950-2001)
Badstreet USA
"The Further Down The Block You Went, The Badder It Got"
