|Joined: ||Sun Sep 4th, 2011|
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I went to an Eagles game with an older cousin of mine. I was 11. I think he was 25. This was back in the dark days when the Eagles had been awful for a long time. I know Vermeil was the coach but they still hadn't turned it around.
My cousin drives down and picks me up. He is one of my Carbon County relatives so his judgment isn't overly spectacular. Not sure how we wound up going together. It was obvious he was drunk already. He proved that by drinking out of a bottle with a bag around it on the way to the game.
By the 2nd Q he was blitzed. We had decent tickets since the games were rarely sold out back then. The band for the halftime was located directly in the next section. My moron cousin manages to get into some type of argument. Then he jumps into the band and starts to physically fight them. It is funny now looking back to recall a guy with a trumpet hitting him over the head with the instrument.
Security comes and takes my cousin away. I just sit there and watch the rest of the game. I think I bought a soda at one point because I had a little money on me. I leave the stadium, in South Philadelphia alone. I look for a pay phone by the stadium but cannot find one. I should have gone up to a cop but didn't think of it. So, I walk into the closest neighborhood. I still remember it. Juniper Street. I approach a woman, probably 30's or 40's, who is on her steps and ask if I can use her phone. I explain what happened and she just shakes her head. No one answers the phone.
Her husband pulls out a map to figure out where I live (only 25 minutes away but back then people from S Philly never traveled to the burbs). The guy drives me home. I never hear anything more about it. Ever.
"Well, maybe I like the nightlife just a little bit more than I like the damn gym, jack! And when you're makin' $500,000 a year, there ain't no reason to change what you're doing." - Dusty Rhodes, 1/4/1986