Gus, Babe and I attend Super Bowls. So it was pretty much a gimmee
to go this year since our hometown team was playing in the game.
The three of us grew up in an industrial, blue-collar neighborhood
in North Philadelphia. From Pop Warner Football, through the rites
of passage, the service, marriages, kids, divorce, fortunes made
and fortunes lost, throughout it all, the three of us have remained
solid. We’re not much on happy birthdays and stuff like that,
but when football season and the super bowl come around, we gear-up.
During past bowls we’d rev ourselves up for the game in the
host cities; pranced around New Orleans’ Bourbon Street; checked
out the “like wow” chicks on Miami’s South Beach;
and us Three Amigos staggered over the border from San Diego to
raise hell in Tijuana. But this past trip to the Super Bowl turned
out much different…
“There’s no space in Jacksonville,” Babe barked
over the phone a week earlier. “We’re staying in Orlando,
it’s about 140 miles south. It’s you, Gus and I, plus
I’m bringing my daughter, my sister Chrissie and her daughter
Jennifer. We’re staying at the Polynesian in Disney World.
See ya Thursday.”
The night before my flight had been my birthday, a celebration that
was a whoopty-doo and I left San Miguel around 4 am, “en vivo”,
as they say. When I arrived in Orlando it was cold and I had a killer
headache. Possibly a side-effect of the ten tequilas and no sleep
the night before. I thought about the situation—staying at
Disney, bringing the family—while on the airport’s shuttle
bus. Taking the shuttle was the thriftier $17 option over the $50,
twenty-minute direct cab ride to Disney World. Yet the shuttle made
multiple pick-ups at all the terminals, taking almost an hour. Worse,
the Polynesian was at the end of the line. I was damned to the shuttle
bus from hell, surrounded by snot nosed, noisy tots and their parents.
“Where’s Mickey! Where’s Mickey?” the little
monsters shouted for two and a half friggin’ hours on the
shuttle ride that would never end.
 I
figured the kids were probably revved up themselves, having just
flown in from somewhere and being in Disney World and all. Finally,
“The Polynesian.” Something about all that running water
in fake water falls and the whole Pacific scene just seemed a little
off when the temperature was in the low 40s. Right off the bat the
hotel didn’t seem like my type of place. Top that off with
an aggressive team of hotel greeters, all with Steppford wives smiles,
saying, “Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!” over and over, so syrupy
it could make a guy want to puke. I lived for sixteen years in Hawaii
and I for one know that in actuality, “Aloha,” means,
“Fuck You,” in Hawaiian. I tried to get my bearings
in the hotel lobby and turned down several opportunities to have
tawdry paper lei draped over my shoulders. I needed to find the
gang who had checked in the night before.
I found Babe’s daughter and his sister in our suites. Gus
and Babe were at the airport to pick up their game tickets from
some guy flying in from New England. Seems Babe’s niece had
paid for four tickets up front to the tune of 9K. Seems it was turning
into an E-Bay scam. Seems my buddy was onto the guy beforehand and
found he was going to be in Orlando and he wanted to catch up with
him incase there was any funny stuff. Seems things got funny. It
was of no consequence to me but I hated to see Babe’s niece
getting ripped, she’s a nice girl, a devoted Eagle fan and
had saved her money for such a trip.
I was beat, still had a headache and this wasn’t such an auspicious
start. I needed a smoke. I had to leave the no-smoking suite to
walk off in the cold like some common criminal having a butt on
Disney property, which is about umpteen something square miles as
far as the eye can see. I had my smoke under a tree, near a man-made
Disney lake that ferried park goers across its cold waters to the
Magic Kingdom in the distance. I watched bundled up Disney goers
board the ferry. I could hear the loud speakers giving instructions
to those boarding the ferry, a ferry without a pilot which had me
thinking further, how everything ran either on automatic or by robotic
acting drones that had been conditioned so. Hitler would have been
pleased.
Gus and Babe showed up back at the suite. We did the hugs and lied
about how good the other looked. The bad ticket guy was in jail.
Still, there was no refund or tickets. All except Gus had to get
new tickets. Gus has had a standing ticket for every Super Bowl
since its inception. In the past we had paid between $1200 and $1500
for decent seats. Face value of every Super Bowl ticket from front
row to the nosebleed sections is one price. Up to this year that
was $400. This year it was bumped up to $600. The disturbing news
was that the few available tickets were being scalped for 3 to 4
grand. These were two big East Coast metropolitan areas that had
their teams in the Super Bowl, playing on the East Coast. It was
a supply and demand sorta thing and it looked as if every Philly
working class hero was going to make it to North Florida “nomadderwhat!”
The situation had me counting my money. I needed sleep but more
so I needed stiff tequila. I had a few belts from the bottle of
Tradicional I brought in from Mexico. The gang wanted to eat. Rather
than sampling the mouth watering local faire that we were accustomed
to be being served in the fabulous cities where the bowls usually
took place, our options were reduced to only two institutional joints
at the Polynesian. No taco carts in Disney, brah.
They had the buffet for $25 or the buffet for the $25. Oh, it was
another sickening round of “alohas” from every passing
of the shit eatin’ grinning staff. I did wolf down a lot of
pork and poi and pineapple. I kept away from beans so as not to
have Hawaiian music later in the close confines of our dual suite,
in respect of my buddies and all. But I did pack it in. I think
I had a few more tequilas back in the room. By then I’d been
up a day and a half, two days, who knows?
The rumbling occurred around 3 a.m. I must have caught a chill.
But there was a further rumbling coming from below, in me innards.
And as I scooted to the bathroom in a not so a flattering moment,
with fever and chills, the thought came back to me, like on the
bus, like a bad feeling, about those kids saying over and over,
“Where’s Mickey?”
I’ll tell you where Mickey was. While unmentionables were
pouring out of me in a most disgusting manner, too many images of
Mickey facials to mention were staring at me while I was in agony,
with that smart-ass Mickey smirk on his punk-ass face. His image
was on the water glasses, soap dish, soap, shampoo, towels, wallpaper,
everywhere, with no escape other than closing my eyes and his image
even began to show up in the confines of my mind—it was almost
enough to drive a guy insane. Had I caught his punk ass the next
day, I would have given Mickey such a vicious, awful, non-forgiving,
ass-kicking all over the grounds of the Magic Kingdom that I would
have probably gotten off on a temporary insanity plea. I just know
I would have gotten off.
I figured this bowl would be different when my buddy mentioned bringing
family. Well you know us guys are getting up in age, and Gus quit
drinking because being a bookie has a way of giving the poor guy
ulcers. And Babe, who’s in construction, does have a great
relationship with his daughter and she is a big Eagle fan cause
Babe made her one, and these days I have a girlfriend. So I guess
our yearly jaunt didn’t have to be a four-day orgy of opulence
and over indulgence. The interest in the game itself was peaked
by the Eagles being in it. There’s a lot more to a Super Bowl
than just attending the game. There’s a feeling of the big-time.
The next day I stayed in bed knocked down by whatever I picked up.
The gang went and did the Magic Kingdom routine. It was just as
well I didn’t go, in case I ran into Mickey.
As a matter of fact, all day Friday and all day Saturday, your man
in the field did not leave the room, other than trying not to be
a total party pooper as I attended a group dinner at none other
than Mickey’s Café. It was still cold. We took the
monorail, all automated with recorded voices saying the same monotone
messages over and over before each monotone stop. The monorail was
packed with strollers and kids. The kids were still braying for
Mickey. I never want to see another pacifier in my life. At the
restaurant I just ordered a coffee but quickly had to excuse myself
because there was no escape. Everywhere I looked, there he was:
on the menu, table cloth, etched into the architecture of the building,
decals pasted to cash registers, everywhere was Mickey. Hiding my
eyes as not to get dizzy, I escaped back to my room. The only solace
was that early in the morning we would be escaping creepy Disney
World and all of its trappings and going off to the game.
It was going to take two-and-half to three-hours in the Buick rental
to get up to Jacksonville. Babe had been on the phone with trusty
scalpers of the past and paid through the nose for four tickets
to the tune of 3K a piece. I was still ticketless. I had some anxiety
since our sources were saying that loose tickets barely existed.
Heading north began to become somewhat exhilarating. Fifty miles
south of Jacksonville one could have sensed they were involved in
charge and invasion of Iraq during Desert Storm. Seemed every other
car storming towards (cont. next page) (Superbowl cont.) Jacksonville
had Philadelphia Eagle flags blowing in the wind. Occupants of cars,
vans and buses were uniformed in green football jerseys with names
embossed on their backs, names like McNabb, Westbrook and Owens,
all Eagle stars.
Even down in Orlando we heard that Philadelphia fans were making
a strong showing. The Eagles had only made one other appearance
in The Bowl, when they were whooped and embarrassed by the Oakland
Raiders 24 years ago. You got to know that Philadelphia is a football
town.
By the time we got to Jacksonville it was still a full six hours
before kick off. I would have to wait until the last minute if I
were to be able to catch a scalper doing a liquidation sale and
then I would have to have my skills sharp to Christian the sucker
down. Yet everybody wanted a ticket. The streets were strewn with
Eagles fans with signs reading, “I need a ticket!”
We opted to go to the NFL Experience for $15. This was sort of an
NFL exhibit with memorabilia, films, gear, and football related
games for kids—basically a corporate gangbang. It wasn’t
as if there weren’t any Patriot fans, but they seemed fewer
and far between—and the Eagle fans were boisterous.
The time was nearing and we had to make our way to the stadium.
There were shuttle buses; this time not packed with snot noses,
but with rough and tumble NFL football fans. The city of Jacksonville
kept regular traffic off all roads heading to the stadium. There
were special shuttle buses and another type of monorail. After getting
off the bus we merged into a green stream heading towards the game.
Just before the security checkpoint, where you have to show your
ticket and become searched and humiliated just like at airports,
I had to leave my gang and begin my pursuit for a ticket.
In past Super Bowls, by this time, there would be lots of scalpers
roaming within the crowd asking, “Who needs tickets?”
It wasn’t happening. There were hordes of people with little
signs or big signs asking for tickets and many more roaming outside
the security zone. I was getting edgy and had yet to hold up my
hand like others looking to get in. I decided to make some allies.
I told the people with signs if they ran across anyone with more
than one ticket or if they weren’t willing to pay what someone
might be asking, to turn them over to me. And that’s how it
went down until about fifteen minutes before kickoff, missing the
Alicia Keys entertainment beforehand. But I don’t go to Bowls
to see no Alicia Keys.
Just so happened one kid couldn’t afford the ticket and the
seller was holding out for his buddy to make it up from Daytona
Beach. He asked $1200, I held out a G-note and we made the deal.
So I sat in the best seats I have ever had for the bowl, Eagles
side, 45-yard-line, row N. It’s all history now, the Eagles
lost. To tell you the truth I can hardly remember halftime and Paul
McCarthy. I didn’t go to see Paul McCarthy either. I was focused
on football and my emotions oscillated from sure fire jubilance,
when the Eagles went ahead or tied, to coming to grips with defeat
as time began to run out with the sinking feeling they were going
to lose the game. Tell you the truth; most memory of the game is
just a blur now.
From the get go I never hit a comfort zone, with the shuttle buses,
Disney crap, the ticket fiascos, the illness, not really staying
in the host city and that punk Mickey. Plus I had to constantly
watch my fucking language. Talk about not having any fun.
After another agonizing loss (what else is new?) I bolted out of
the stadium on that cold, dark, sad Sunday night. Mi Amigos got
waylaid on a bus that got lost and didn’t make it back to
the car until about 1:30 a.m. as I waited and shivered in a spooky
empty parking lot. Making it back to Orlando we hit a terrible traffic
jam of fans heading south that had us bumper to bumper for fifty
miles. I had the worst headache in the world, my team lost and all
I wanted to do was get the hell out of icebox Florida, get to the
airport and get home.
Considering all the time, effort, money and anxiety spent—for
the first time ever at a Super Bowl, I had a shitty time.
Yet if the Eagles make it to the Super bowl next year, I’ll
do it all over again in a heartbeat. In Detroit of all places. Yet
when you’re a die-hard Eagle fan that is your sentence. Go
Eagles in 2005.
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