Porcelain Bowl Riding – Philly Super Bowl

It’s been said that bad beer beats no beer, as long as it doesn’t have fish peppers* in it. PBR does not have fish peppers in it, I have to admit.  But sometime around 5 a.m., as I was throwing up massive amounts of the cheap stuff, the lack of peppers didn’t seem to make me feel a lot better.  But I felt great anyway.

*Inside joke – Read Blech Lager.

The Eagles were world freaking champions! And the world had not ended.  Nick Foles had outdueled Tom Brady, as I knew he could, on the grand stage of the Super given Sunday in Minnesota.  The day would be ugly for me, alternating between illness and hangover interchangeably, but all around, people were happy in what is normally an unhappy town, still clad in green, like a second day of Saint Patty’s in Philly.

There were some windows covered in plywood outside the Macys down the street. We had watched law enforcement breaking out the remaining pieces of these same windows late last night.  Large shards of broken glass still clung to their frame at an art supply store, too unimpressed by looters to give up.  Utility line trucks worked to restore some service on a nearby pole; perhaps this one was scaled by a slick partier undeterred by the mechanic’s grease used to lube it up ahead of the revelry.

The downtown Modell’s had been open since five a.m., after only closing some three hours earlier because of security concerns. Inside the long building, the line stretched from the front of the store to the very back, before turning left and left again and running back more than halfway to the front again with people waiting to purchase their official memorabilia.  Despite their efficiency with every register open, the mass of proud fans meant an hour wait to pick up that new SB LII Champion sweatshirt, or hat, or tee, or license plate frame, or commemorative coin, or football, or…, or some combination of everything.  No one complained, because we were all still high on life after the first Eagles victory in the Roman Numeral era.

How did this happen?

The game itself was a bit of a blur. The fanfare of the packed house at the Punch Line Comedy Club was frenetic, going nuts for every Eagles first down and every failed Pats pass.  We jumped to our feet at the slightest provocation, and jumped up and down at every Eagles touch down.  High fives and hugs were shared with strangers and friends alike.  We shared the chorus to the Eagles fight song, with Blake bouncing on my shoulder like the lightweight bundle of energy he is, or else I’d be even more sore the day after.  There was no listening to the color commentary of the game (sorry Collinsworth), and no time for paying attention to the mega-commercials during the breaks, because the sound system would be turned down between plays for the local emcee to interject his own energy into the place.  Millennials and other youths danced to dance songs unknown to me during commercial breaks.  We followed the signs of the refs (hands up – go nuts), supported by the group mania reacting with us.  The final whistle was felt, not heard, as everyone instantaneously realized that it had really happened!  The magical feeling of something special was not a fantasy, and our hopes for victory were not to be dashed by Brady or Belichick.  We poured out of the place and into the streets, where groups coalesced into larger groups, getting larger and larger as they neared City Hall, right next to where we were staying.  When did Elliott kick that last field goal?  Everything after the strip-sack was lost on me.

Six hours earlier, we were just happy to get in. Waiting outside in the rain alternating between the two security-checkpoint canopies, someone came to inform us that the child in our group could not come in.  Even though the website said all ages; the tickets said all ages; half of our group had called to confirm it was all ages (the venue never returned the calls); this guy said that the event sponsorship was based on an over-21 crowd.  Blake just missed the cut by 12.7 years.  Dave (who purchased the tickets) sported some admirable Eagles color as he turned green and angry, and Leslie was not far behind.  For once, I played the part of the calm one (when Sai is not around to yell at me, I can sometimes be civil).  I asked to speak to his boss.  He said that it would not matter (Dave burst another blood vessel), and I asked again to speak to someone in charge.  He said he’d see what he could do, and scurried off before our green monster could smash him.  Ten minutes later, he returned, telling us it was cool, Blake could come in, and life was good again.  We assured him that we had no intention of letting the kid drink; he was our designated driver.

The Punch Line is a 300 seat comedy club venue that offered guaranteed seating, a buffet of bad food, and a place to be with 295 other local fans for the big game. Their website noted a selection of local craft beers, the aforementioned all-ages aspect of this particular event, and a price tag that was much more reasonable than many other places outside of my couch or Dave’s basement.  When I went to the bar for my first sample of “local craft beer”, I learned another punch line – what’s a shitty, non-local, craftless, tasteless light beer that we can force you to drink instead?  Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Why would they only have three taps headed, all with the same Patriotic colors?  Yards was right down the street.  I’ve never been to a Philly bar that did not serve Yuengling.  Surely they would at least offer bottles of better beer… No.  When the bartender told me that PBR was the event sponsor (you know, the same douchebags that tried to keep Blake out?), and that it was the only beer available, angry-Dave was outhulked by super-angry, sober Ben.  “But PBR is shit!!” I shouted at the guy, who only shook his head and said “oh well.”  I stormed off.  At my seat, I debated options.  We could go back to the Fillmore (we pregamed a couple of non-PBR beers there before entering Punch Line next door).  We could drink nothing but hard alcohol.  Or we could burn the motherfucker to the ground!  No one joined me on this last suggestion.

You know what they say – when in Rome, drink Peroni. When in sports bar hell, drink PBR.  And that’s what we did.  Though I refused to give any of my hardly earned money directly to the bartenders, I did filter the cash through Dave, and helped carry three plastic cups at a time back to the table (they also only had a handful of pitchers, which were all given out before we started drinking).  And after enough rounds, softened by the pleasing sight of the Eagles moving the ball well against the Pats defense, my anger dissipated, my displeasure waned, and the beer was just a background intoxicant to the flavor of the game, the spirit of the party.  And we got drunk!