Editor's Note: Yeah, this is the same thing I posted a few weeks ago. Sue me.
If you're an Eagles fan like me, who exactly are you rooting for? Your NFC East arch-rival? Or the team that cheated the Eagles out of a Super Bowl ring?
As far as I'm concerned, I'm treating this game as the NFL version of the Iran-Iraq war. In the end, it really doesn't matter who wins, just as long as there's heavy casualties on both sides. (Although it would be pretty sweet if New England wins tonight, then loses to Jacksonville in the Playoffs.)
Oh Great, We have 17 more Sunday Nights of this Nitwit to put up with.
The Infamous, Deplorable, Keith Olbermann™ is a South Park episode waiting to happen. Here he is defending the equally Infamous, Deplorable, Michael Vick during halftime of last night's Eagles-Steelers pre-season game.
Apparently, NBC turned the pre-game show over to Olby for a "Special Edition" of Meltdown Countdown. Fortunately for those of us in Eagle-land, NBC10 had the good sense to preempt Bathtub Boy to present something that looked like a football pre-game show. (Although I don't see what Vai Sikahema and Kevin Curtis going to church has to do with football.)
In all of my years as a Philadelphia sports fan, I have seen many great things.
Back in '87 (when the NHL was still relevant) I witnessed Ron Hextall becoming the first goalie to actually score a goal.
I was there when Ronde Barber intercepted that pass and ran it back 95-yards.
(Yeah, fuck you too Gruden!)
I was there the following year when Brian Dawkins turned Algee Crumpler's neck into an accordion, and Donovan and Fat Andy (finally!) got to hold the NFC Championship trophy.
Greatest day of my life, by the way.
And yes, I was there in Jacksonville, high in the end zone at the Gator Bowl, when Donovan ran out of gas, and the Birds lost the Super Bowl by a field goal. (That's why I had to settle for a state school, rather than the Ivy League by the way.)
Last night should have been one of those nights. But alas, with the Phillies coming into the game with 9,999 all time losses, they sacked-up and beat the shit out of St. Louis.
I came out of the Pattison Avenue subway stop at around 4:30 and then spent the next hour finding the designated tailgating spot. This was the first time I'd met up with my now-former colleagues since I was fired over the phone, so it was good to see them again.
The next hour-and-a-half was spent drinking Miller Lites, and playing a ghettoized version of horseshoes called "washers."
At around 6:30 I announce to the group that I'm entering the ballpark. I am accompiend by no one. When I buy a ticket to a ballgame, I actually like to, you know, go to the game.
It was a "not-your-typical-atmosphere" at "not-your-typical-ballpark." For a celebration was about to commence. An accumulation of Philly Phutility. One sign that hung from the right-center field facade said it all:
But it was not to be. On this most historic of evenings, leave it to that asshole Tony LaRussa to start a pitcher with a 3-11 record and an ERA of 6.00. By the time I get to my seat, the Phightin's were up 5-0. For what it's worth, Paul -- one of the member's of our crew -- didn't show up until the fifth inning, and the rest of the gang straggled in at around the seventh. For these guys, there are more important things to do than be witnesses to history. Namely, getting drunk on Miller Lite and throwing large metal objects into a paint can. Oh what fun!
Sometime around the eighth inning, with the Phillies up by 10 runs, a Phils fan in the section to our left starts jabber-jawing with a couple of guys in Cardinal shirts. So naturally, Bob and Yock -- yes, the same Yock from my New Year's Day satellite misadventure -- just had to get involved.
I like Bob. But there's a reason why he takes four Xanaxes a day. He's the kind of guy (and we all know someone like this) who's ready to throw-down at the drop of a hat, especially with a little too much of the ol' liquid courage. For instance, we went to an Eagles game together last season, and at halftime we went for a walk on the concourse. All of a sudden, an cup fell from the top of the grandstand and landed on top of my head. It was empty, and it probably blew off the top row. No harm, no foul, right? Nope. Not with Bob around. He immediately wanted to go up and fight whoever it was who dared throw a cup onto the head of his friend. It never even occurred to him that it might have been an accident. And he was ready to go. But, with a little but of reason and a lot of common sense, I talked him out of it. Don't get me wrong, if I'm ever in a back-alley, I'd want Bob covering my back. But sometimes, he can be his own worst enemy.
Anyway, asshole Phillie fan was getting into it with asshole Cardinal fan, and Bob just had to put his two cents in. And again, I -- well, we -- had to step in to save him from himself, again.
"BOB, SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!"
Afterwards, the rent-a-cops escorted the pinhead Cardinal supporters from the area, and all was calm.
By the end of the eighth inning, and with chance of witnessing history reduced to nil, I decided to split. Loss number 10,000 will have to wait for another day.
