Mr. IWS
10-21-2008, 02:20 PM
Philadelphians have been dealing with the Santa stigma for years. Glen Macnow and Anthony Gargano (a dear friend, I'm obliged to add), authors of The Great Philadelphia Fan Book argue that "no event has been used to tar-and-feather Philadelphia fans as much."
It was December 15, 1968. The Eagles, on their way to a 2-12 season, were playing the Vikings. The halftime show, advertised as a Christmas pageant, was scrapped due to inclement weather. Instead, fans got a hastily conscripted Santa. Their reaction, the authors argue, owed not to Philadelphians' odium of St. Nick, but to their frustration with Eagles management.
This argument does not constitute a denial. Fact: Santa was booed and pelted. Actually, Gargano once went so far as to tell me (scream at me, really) that "that was a raggedy Santa."
As if raggedy-ness were justification to abuse a 19-year-old kid in a red, velvet fat suit.
But that's Philly. It's not like the other cities. Philadelphians don't have a chip on their collective shoulder. It's more like a case of Schmidt's. That may not be an entirely bad thing; pelters and booers might actually provide a counterbalance in the era of luxury boxes.
But to pretend that the fans are, well, normal, is folly. It doesn't help that a city with four major sports hasn't won a championship in a quarter of a century. The Phillies aren't likely to buck the trend, either.
The fans' belligerence is documented across generations. In 1983, they set upon Chief Zee, the Washington Redskins unofficial mascot, sending him to the hospital with a broken leg. In 1997, a municipal court judge had to be assigned to Veterans Stadium for football Sundays.
I had read about this malignant phylum — the indigenous strain of Crazy White Guy — in the work of Pete Dexter, who himself was almost killed by a bat and crowbar-wielding mob in the aptly-named neighborhood of Devil's Pocket. The reader is well-advised to procure Dexter's novels of course (especially Brotherly Love), but also his collection of columns, Paper Trails. On page 56 of the hardcover you will find his famous account of Mummers Day and its aftermath. It begins with a chorus of young girls examining the fallen body of a man in a pink dress pulled up around his neck. Before losing consciousness, he had painted himself green.
"That's Mark's brother," one of the girls says nonchalantly. "I think he's dead."
I recall a comparable moment — the worst thing I've ever seen at a ballgame — right after Game 3 of the 2001 NBA Finals. I had just begun a column about the Lakers' beat-down of Allen Iverson when authentic violence broke out a few feet from the press section. It was a horrific, old-school stomping, just several rows off the floor. This poor guy kept getting kicked in the head. You didn't see this kind of carnage in the money seats at high-end events in other cities.
He fell, as I recall, near retractable aluminum steps. An actual pool of blood formed an uneven circumference around his head. He just lay there, motionless. I remember calling for a cop. And I remember the cop couldn't do anything.
I was sure the guy was dead.
Eventually, though, he got up. Under his own power, I might add. His face was a ghastly crimson mask. But he brushed himself off, and went on his way.
If I didn't see it myself, I'd sooner believe in Santa Claus.
It was December 15, 1968. The Eagles, on their way to a 2-12 season, were playing the Vikings. The halftime show, advertised as a Christmas pageant, was scrapped due to inclement weather. Instead, fans got a hastily conscripted Santa. Their reaction, the authors argue, owed not to Philadelphians' odium of St. Nick, but to their frustration with Eagles management.
This argument does not constitute a denial. Fact: Santa was booed and pelted. Actually, Gargano once went so far as to tell me (scream at me, really) that "that was a raggedy Santa."
As if raggedy-ness were justification to abuse a 19-year-old kid in a red, velvet fat suit.
But that's Philly. It's not like the other cities. Philadelphians don't have a chip on their collective shoulder. It's more like a case of Schmidt's. That may not be an entirely bad thing; pelters and booers might actually provide a counterbalance in the era of luxury boxes.
But to pretend that the fans are, well, normal, is folly. It doesn't help that a city with four major sports hasn't won a championship in a quarter of a century. The Phillies aren't likely to buck the trend, either.
The fans' belligerence is documented across generations. In 1983, they set upon Chief Zee, the Washington Redskins unofficial mascot, sending him to the hospital with a broken leg. In 1997, a municipal court judge had to be assigned to Veterans Stadium for football Sundays.
I had read about this malignant phylum — the indigenous strain of Crazy White Guy — in the work of Pete Dexter, who himself was almost killed by a bat and crowbar-wielding mob in the aptly-named neighborhood of Devil's Pocket. The reader is well-advised to procure Dexter's novels of course (especially Brotherly Love), but also his collection of columns, Paper Trails. On page 56 of the hardcover you will find his famous account of Mummers Day and its aftermath. It begins with a chorus of young girls examining the fallen body of a man in a pink dress pulled up around his neck. Before losing consciousness, he had painted himself green.
"That's Mark's brother," one of the girls says nonchalantly. "I think he's dead."
I recall a comparable moment — the worst thing I've ever seen at a ballgame — right after Game 3 of the 2001 NBA Finals. I had just begun a column about the Lakers' beat-down of Allen Iverson when authentic violence broke out a few feet from the press section. It was a horrific, old-school stomping, just several rows off the floor. This poor guy kept getting kicked in the head. You didn't see this kind of carnage in the money seats at high-end events in other cities.
He fell, as I recall, near retractable aluminum steps. An actual pool of blood formed an uneven circumference around his head. He just lay there, motionless. I remember calling for a cop. And I remember the cop couldn't do anything.
I was sure the guy was dead.
Eventually, though, he got up. Under his own power, I might add. His face was a ghastly crimson mask. But he brushed himself off, and went on his way.
If I didn't see it myself, I'd sooner believe in Santa Claus.