Archive for category Karaoke Craig

If there is one criticism I have of this esteemed blog — other than that if I want to read anything by its third-best writer, I have to actually write — it’s that the Boston-centrism is omnipresent. This is my fault; I represent the outsider’s perspective by virtue of never having lived in or near Boston, and as the Philadelphia correspondent, I feel like the previous weekend more than deserves a postmortem.

In Philadelphia, Steve Carlton and Mike Schmidt play the roles of Carl Yastrzemski and Jim Rice. Ryan Howard is God, Chase Utley is Jesus and Harry Kalas was Moses. The Phillie Phanatic (skip to the :50 mark) is one of the few mascots in existence that even grownups adore. McNabb is Drew Bledsoe. They’re still waiting on their Tom Brady. The Spectrum is their Garden, just part of the reason last weekend was as big a weekend as the Philadelphia sports scene has ever witnessed.

The weekend’s salad courses involved the Sixers hosting a game on Friday (99-86 win over the Bucks) followed by a trip to New York for an overtime win over the Knicks on Saturday.

Saturday also brought a Flyers’ home game (6-1 win over my Hurricanes … ow) which I would have certainly attended had I not been working in Delaware to fund my SportsFanParadise career. Forty bucks well un-spent, in retrospect.

At night on Saturday, shit got real. The Yanks and Phillies hung out and watched it rain for a while, then started playing just as everyone was forgetting about the game and sinking their teeth into the beer pong at their Halloween party of choice.

The World Series game was kind of a buzz-kill in Philly, naturally, but at least people got to have the surreal experience of dressing up in costume for a World Series game while double (or triple) fisting $8 beers.

Meanwhile, lost in the shuffle of the World Series and an unseasonably warm Halloween was the eulogy for the most revered sporting arena in Philly history, delivered by Pearl Jam at the Spectrum.

“I don’t want to say goodbye to this place,” Eddie Vedder apparently said during the Saturday night show, the last event to ever be held at the Spectrum. “I don’t even want to think about it yet. I just want to keep . . . rocking.” (RTTNews)

Since I was busy either working or pounding Bud Heavies while dressed up as Joe Dirt, I didn’t participate in the weekend until Sunday, which was when the Karaoke Girlfriend and I were invited by some of her friends to tailgate for the Eagles game. I made the executive decision that after the football games, we would emerge from the bars and start tailgating for the World Series all over again.

(Disclaimer: though I participated in the hoopla Sunday, I remain neutral locally and loyal to all my Southern sports affiliations. I am, after all, SFP’s Mouth of the South. But since the Phils were playing the f*ckin’ Yankees, I somewhat rooted for them.)

The extra hour of sleep thanks to the time change was never more clutch than it was Sunday morning. We were charged $30 (Thirty!) to park in the Holiday Inn lot a few blocks from the stadium. That seemed outrageous and made me remind myself for the 150^th time that I should quit liking sports and just be rich instead. But we filled up on flank steak, hot wings, pork loin and leftover Budweisers. The KGF even had herself a mimosa in a solo cup. These tailgaters were pros.

At around 12:15 the other tailgaters packed up and headed into the stadium, so we made our way into Benny the Bum’s Sports Bar at the Holiday Inn. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but even though there were a half-dozen or so games on at 1, every one of the 20-odd TVs was tuned to the Eagles game.  I tried to do some fact finding at Benny the Bum’s, but Willie, the bathroom attendant, had only worked there since Wednesday and could neither confirm nor deny the existence of an underground tunnel going from the hotel to the baseball stadium. His cologne of choice, however, was Versace.

Benny the Bum’s was beyond dead, so we headed for Chickie’s and Pete’s, the sports bar of Philly sports bars. The KGF happens to be a sorority sister of a waitress there, so we skipped the 45-minute wait and snagged a table in her section. She kept us in free beers all afternoon while we munched on crab fries (fries dusted in Old Bay served with some kind of magical cheese dip) and lobster tail pizza. Out of the 50 or so TVs in Chickie’s and Pete’s, which is a massive establishment, at least 48 were on the Eagles game. We heard “FLYYYYY, EAGLES FLY, ON THE ROOOOOAD TO VICTORYYYYY” after every touchdown, of which there were many. It wasn’t so much a sports bar as it was an Eagles party. Out where I live, in Manayunk, the bars show a variety of games to attract more customers. Here, three blocks from the stadium, there’s no need to cater to out-of-towners.

The line for C and P’s was out the door all the way until dinnertime, but we had a clutch spot right near a TV showing the Panthers and Cardinals after the Eagles finished up. It was honestly the best time I’ve ever had watching the NFL at a bar. The crowd was huge and, given the Eagles’ win, in a friendly mood. People were curious about my vintage Chris Weinke jersey, and hi-fived me when the Panthers scored. There were so many TVs, no one complained about which games were on and where. The service was good and lobster tail pizza is on my short list for Death Row meal ideas, should it ever come up.

We headed down to the ballpark for the Phillies game, still lugging half a case of Bud cans and bundled for the cold. Major League Baseball had set up a sort of fan fest outside Citizens Bank Park, featuring a cover band, a giant TV screen showing pre-game, speed pitch and batting cages, and various venders. We stood with a few hundred other people as the fans filed into the home plate entrance, drinking beer and listening to chants of Asshole! Asshole! at every Yankees fan who passed. It was a really good time, and just warm enough that we could have stood outside and watched the whole game. To our dismay, the event’s organizers decided to shut everything down right at game time, including the TV screen. Got a ticket? Great. If not, party’s over.

There was a $30 charge to get into the bar at the stadium, McFadden’s, and you could only get a table at Chickie’s and Pete’s by buying a $75 per person all-you-can-eat-and-drink package. Again, I debate the financial merits of sports fandom. We ended up across the street from C and P’s at a sleepy little South Philly tavern called the Philadium. I ordered a Yuengling just so we could sit down, but didn’t touch it. Too exhausted and too far to drive. We headed home around the sixth inning to watch the last couple innings in bed, but the Phillies tied it up in the 8^th. Luckily, though, Brad Lidge came in the game, and we fell asleep confident in the eventual result.

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It’s September 26th. The leaves are getting ripe, I took the A/C unit out of my window the other day, and somehow hockey is already starting. We should know some shit about the NFL by now. Len Pasquarelli has already decided that, among others, the Titans, Dolphins, Panthers and Jaguars are not making the playoffs this year. The 49ers are undefeated, the Pats have given up more points than they’ve scored, and my fantasy football team (The PeppersInSomeFun) is once again the class of its league.

(Quick aside: a co-worker mentioned to me the other day that his college buddy once registered an intramural basketball team under the name “Bye” and earned three easy wins by forfeit in the team’s first three games. The PISFers are going to try that in their league the first week they go up against someone whose No. 1 pick has a bye week, and see if they don’t bother correcting the lineup. After all, there’s $500 on the line).

Anyway, with all we know, picking a game or two against the spread shouldn’t be that tough, right? Let’s see who we’ve got kicking off at 1:30. CBS has the doubleheader locally, while Fox is going to show only a 4:05 game. That means at 1 p.m. we’ll have the Eagles hosting Kansas City. I’ll be sitting in my backyard drinking Lionshead Light and trying to stay interested by keeping an eye out for A. Michael Vick appearances, B. a Kansas City upset bid or C. a rejuvenation attempt by Larry Johnson, a fifth-round reach by the otherwise shrewd PISFers. I think Matt Cassel and the shady KC O-line get their shit handed to them by the Eagles’ D, and don’t come within 9 of Philly. My Bills-fan-turned-Eagles-

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Kansas City over Oakland
Two surprisingly frisky teams in week one, and I think KC is definitely the stronger of the two. Give em three points for home field advantage, and take em over the Raiders.

Tennessee over Houston
The Titans looked better than they were supposed to against Pittsburgh, on defense anyway. Houston looked worse against the Jets than I expected. Six and a half was a good spread before Week 1. Now, I don’t think it’s big enough.

New England over Jets
Rex Ryan and Kerry Rhodes are doing their best to talk people into the Jets, but the worst thing that could happen to New York was the Pats stumbling through Week 1. It happened, the Pats survived, and now they’re done fuckin around.

Cincinnati over Green Bay
I think Cincy may be a team this year that plays to the level of its opponent, for better and for worse. Between having upgraded talent in a lot of areas and not really knowing how to close out a game, the Bengals might go 7-9 without getting blown out more than once or twice. I don’t think this game will be a blow out.

Detroit over Minnesota
Maybe Adrian Peterson is tired this week.

New Orleans over Philadelphia
I don’t think Philly can win a shootout against Brees without McNabb, and I doubt he plays a full game if at all.

Atlanta over Carolina
I hate making this pick, but Carolina’s biggest weakness (inside run defense) wasn’t even exposed in Week 1.

Washington over St. Louis
Only because the ‘Skins are at home.

Jacksonville over Arizona
I think everyone is starting to figure Arizona out.

Seattle over San Francisco
Everybody calm down about San Francisco for a little while longer. Seattle is still the class of this division.

Buffalo over Tampa Bay
This isnt a Bucs team good enough to prevent Buffalo’s frustrations from being taken out on them.

Denver over Cleveland
The Broncos are a mystery to me this year, but as of press time, the Browns are still the Browns.

Baltimore over San Diego
I’m on the Ravens bandwagon this year. Finally competent at the QB spot, and until further notice that defense is still scary.

Pittsburgh over Chicago
These teams aren’t that far apart in talent, especially with both missing their best defenders. But Pittsburgh has had a lot of time to figure out how to use its talent, while Chicago’s still working on it. It’ll come for the Bears, just not this weekend.

NY Giants over Dallas
I think after the first 15 minutes everyone on the field stops giving a shit about the new stadium. The Giants are better.

Indianapolis over Miami
There’s a decent chance Miami goes back to sucking this year. Even if they don’t, they’re not going to stay close to the Colts.

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Author’s Note: This account is wholly and unequivocally dedicated to the cause of Benjamin Landri and his semi-pro football team, the New Jersey Broncos, who pledge to donate not less than $20 (but perhaps as much as $50) per touchdown this upcoming season to a charity of the greatest esteem. Which charity, specifically, is undecided as of press time, but it almost certainly will have to do with A.) kids or B.) cancer, according to Benjamin. My money’s on kids with cancer, when all is said and done.

It’s midnight, and I’ve just returned from a four-hour round trip to Dover, Del., where I covered a high school basketball game that ended at 9:30. I get in bed, expecting to awake at 4 a.m. and start pre-gaming for Wing Bowl 17. Instead, at 3:58 a.m., I reach over to preemptively silence my alarm clock, having not slept a wink. I shrug my shoulders, get up and go pluck a Natty Light out of the fridge. Roommate Rick heads for the shower and I head for Wawa, setting the half-drank Natty on the porch.

4:17 - Wawa: I buy a bottle of 5-hour energy (as of this writing, holding up well through hour 9), a coffee and a roast beef melt on ciabatta. My body is as confused as the time I took up fasting as a hobby (massive failure, fyi).

4:30 - Pounding Natty Lights in the living room. Roommates Rick and Phil are drinking high-octane, deeply alcoholic beer geek beer, so I’m trying to go 2-for-1 with them. One of their buddies, Steve, comes and picks us up, and drives us to the Wachovia Center.

5:30 - We arrive at the Wachovia Center, home to the Philadelphia Flyers and 76ers. The darkness tricks my mind into thinking we’re arriving for a 7:30 p.m. hockey game. We find a couple of guys who’d tracked us down on Craigslist to buy our extra tickets. Turns out they and Rick share mutual friends from the bartending scene.

6:30 - We’re standing outside the Wach (no one calls it that) pounding Sam Adams and Natty Lights. Anticipation of Wing Bowl 17 is peaking as highlights of Wing Bowl 16 play on flat-screens inside the arena bar adjacent to our sidewalk. For the uninitiated: the Wing Bowl is a competition created by a radio station I never cared to learn and hosted by a pair of DJs I wouldn’t ever recognize (though I’m sure these details are made abundantly made clear on the commemorative hand towel I received upon entry) to anoint the most prolific amateur wing eater in the nation. Contestants perform an eating “challenge” on the radio show to gain entry, or otherwise earn their berth in a satellite wing-eating tournament. The appeal for spectators, besides the unquantifiable excitement of watching vomit happen while being present for a live radio broadcast, is that all females in attendance are expected to show their tits when discovered by the Jumbotron, or when the crowd hurls beads at them. Additionally, the event is attended by hordes of strippers, who try to attract men to their clubs by wearing lingerie under their trademarked club paraphernalia. Not surprisingly to me, precious few females attended Wing Bowl 17.

The scene inside the Wach: seats are filled well into the upper deck, exceedingly with dudes. Seriously, if this isn’t the world’s biggest sausage convention I’ll turn in my journalism badge right now. The arena floor is set up for hockey, but with rubber mats on the ground instead of ice. Inside the boards, a partition runs parallel to create a penned-in space where entourages, strippers, VIPs and a cover band wait. On the far side of the floor, along where the goal line would be, sit two raised platforms which will display the contest. In the meantime, contestants file in one-by-one, with their entourages usually performing a sort of sketch to usher the team in.

7:00 - I’m nice and socially lubricated by this point (it’s 7 a.m. and the sun just recently came up. I keep reminding myself how awesome I find this) so I’ll be relying on text messages I sent myself throughout the day to paint the rest of this picture.

7:23 - Contestant Arson Arnie makes his entrance. Members of his entourage wheel out a coffin, and light smoke bombs under the carriage. The coffin rises on hydraulics amid the smoke, and after much ado (including the Undertaker’s theme song), Arnie appears. Eyes water and throats burn throughout the stands from the smoke (major SOGB). Meanwhile, Al Morganti (one of the radio hosts) is yammering unintelligibly on the loudspeakers while the Jumbotron zooms in on young women in the crowd. “Show your tits!” chants are invariably followed either by the granting of the request (to enormous fanfare) or “Asshole!” chants upon denial. The Jumbotron director acts as if he’s trying his best to prevent public obscenity from taking place by cutting away a split-second after each set of breasts is revealed, but obviously it’s standard protocol for him to find us as many boobs as possible. Even though I could download pictures of professional-grade tits on my cellphone in a matter of seconds, I find his quick cut-aways infuriating.

7:40 - I text myself, “Why no girls here? Oh right.”

7:43 - A 500-plus pound guy named “Damaging Doug” enters. His eating challenge is listed on the Jumbotron as “5 sliders in 5 minutes.” Who needs more than five minutes to eat five sliders? I’ve seen old women at Chili’s destroy an order in three. Damaging Doug is favored to win at 2-1 odds.

An older guy operating under the alias ‘Tollman Joe’ is wheeled out on a gurney, apparently unconscious. Things look grim for the Tollman until his scrubs-clad entourage injects wing sauce into his arm, and he is revived in time to compete, to great applause. I make a $5 bet with Tommy, a camo jacket-wearing guy behind me. I’ve got Arson Arnie’s total up against Tollman Joe’s.
(The running checklist: Beer? Wings? Strippers? Gambling? We’re good all around.)

I note that when shown on the Jumbotron, the strippers are far less likely to show their tits than are the average female fans. It occurs to me that, while strippers are accustomed to showing their tits, they’re very uninterested in doing it for free.

The World Series trophy makes an appearance in the parade of contestants. Effin Phillies. The Wach goes nuts.

7:55 - An absolutely electric National Anthem by a Philly cop. This event has a Game 7 feel to it.

8:00 - The Jumbotron takes a break from broadcasting flashing girls and elaborate entrance skits to show the start of the actual wing-eating contest. I head to the bathroom.

8:10 - Caught up in the moment, a guy sitting behind me to my left tries to chug his entire beer, but it goes down the wrong pipe and ends up spewed past me, onto my jacket and into the beer in my left hand. I ponder this development, then choose to act like it didn’t happen. These beers cost $7.50 apiece.

8:17 - A girl sitting down by the glass shows her tits to the Jumbotron, then several more times to the rowdies clamoring around her. She’s having way too much fun, so security comes down and escorts her up the stairs to keep up the appearance that they’re opposed to public nudity. This prompts me to put my Robin Hood pants on, so I hustle down the stairs and set a pick on the security guy, who’s walking up the stairs on the other side of the rail from the girl.

Security guy: Get the fuck out of the way.

Me: (Something about him asking more nicely).

SG: I said get The Fuck out of the way!

Me: Yes sir.

SG gets her to the top of the section and out into the concourse. I turn to see what’s going on at the exact same time as the guy next to me hollers at SG, Why don’t you come back here and suck my dick! SG turns to see who said it, and our eyes meet. He thinks it’s me. He flies down the stairs at me, and I think, Uh Oh, show’s over, but he stops short of me and tells me to find my seat. Well then…no problemo.

Meanwhile, tit-showing-enthusiast girl (left) is back — again, security is only going through the motions today. Putting on my journalism pants, I ask for her name and a picture on behalf of Sportsfanparadise dot com. Her suspicious but not terribly overprotective boyfriend (on left) gives his blessing. Her name is Nikki or Heather or something that would fit a girl who shows her tits a lot.

I head back up the stairs and introduce myself to Tom (formerly known as Security Guy) as Craig from Sportsfanparadise dot com. He doesn’t seem to remember me from our minor brouhaha 45 seconds ago and is delighted at our acquaintance. I ask him a few questions about his gig here at Wing Bowl, but he laughs and insists I refer all questions to the security HQ located at section 116.

Around 8:40 is when I decide that I’m keeping my journalism pants on full-time and seeing where Sportsfanparadise’s illustrious reputation can take me. Having already interviewed one of the few girls in attendance and a security employee, I seem to have exhausted all the access at my disposal. Hmm. I briefly interview Alicia, who’s selling beers on the concourse. She says she’s sold around 180 beers since 6 a.m., which is low for this event. Must be the economy. (nota bene: 180 x $7.50 = $1,350 for one tiny booth). Sales will stop in 20 minutes, at 9 oclock.

I approach another security staffer and ask who I would contact about speaking with one of the contestants (several have been eliminated by this point, or maybe the whole contest is over by now. I have no drunken clue). I’m directed to the security HQ at section 116.

9ish - I make my way into security HQ. A half-dozen cops are standing around watching contestants vomit on closed-circuit TV in a small, lobbyish room featuring a partitioned-off reception area and, in the back, drunk tanks to which I am emphatically denied access. I’m wearing shiny green beads from the Skoal booth, a WVU baseball cap, and carrying a half-full blue solo cup of Sierra Nevada. I preface my introduction with, “I know I don’t look like a journalist, but…” and make a request for an audience with one of the competitors (”Just five minutes, I swear”) despite my lack of credentials or any semblance of legitimacy.

Phone calls and walkie-talkie chirps are made on my behalf. Eventually some staffers wearing burgundy windbreakers appear, from downstairs I’m told, and genuinely apologize but no, they can’t let me in to talk to anyone. Credential requests had to be made days ago.

I’m bummed but not deterred. I wander the concourse seeking anyone with a pass dangling from their necks. A couple of bribe offers later, no dice. I meet four guys wearing bowling league-style shirts that identify them as “Wingette Inspectors.” This means they are in charge of judging the scantily clad young ladies who assist the contestants.

“Best-looking Wingette gets a Harley,” one says.

“Or whichever one will go home with you later on,” another adds.

“The less classy, the better,” says a third.

These guys, three of whom were named Mark, spent the day down on the floor, but they can’t help me get back in. I tell them to check sportsfanparadise dot com later on.

I make one last-ditch effort to get downstairs. I see three young guys standing together on the concourse, wearing passes on lanyards. I introduce myself, ask if they’re legitimately credentialed to get downstairs, and whether they can help get me access to a contestant.

“You want to talk to Tollman Joe? I’m his son,” one says.

Hell fucking yes I want to talk to Tollman Joe. His son’s name is Greg, and one of the guys with him is a stocky fellow named Benjamin, who’s introduced by Greg as a future contestant himself. They hand me a ticket and we head up to the luxury suites, where the Tollman’s party has been moved since the end of the contest.

I’m in a luxury box at the Wach, being introduced to the more important members of Tollman Joe’s entourage. Finally, the Tollman is briefed on my mission, and I am invited to crouch next to the outside box seat where he’s recuperating and speak with him. I learn that the Tollman, who’s listed at 6-3, 372 but is not nearly that big, is a returning champion. He won Wing Bowl 8 in 2000 by eating 90 wings, and is a four-time competitor. His entry was guaranteed by virtue of his past title, since this year only amateurs are allowed and he is an amateur. His original food challenge, however, was to consume a dozen doughnuts and a quart of chocolate milk in five minutes. Dude can eat. He got his nickname by working as a toll operator on the Jersey Turnpike.

Joe explains to me his entry skit: he had a stroke four years ago, and had recently been working with a personal trainer to get back into good health.

“I got a reprieve this week to come here,” he says.

So he went with the medical emergency theme, and came off the gurney only when treated with pure wing sauce. It’s at this point I remember I had a wager against Tollman Joe. He takes the news graciously. I ask him if he out-ate my man Arson Arnie. He says he did.

“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride,” he says of Arnie.

The contest was won, by the way, by a 23-year-old under the name of Super Squibb, who ate 203 wings.

Joe’s quest to keep his health means he’s officially retiring from Wing Bowl after this year. I don’t see word of this announcement anywhere else on the internet, so consider this breaking news (although a friend in Joe’s entourage strongly suggests this claim might be Favrian at best). Joe’s got 103 people in his entourage, and they’re all heading by chartered bus back to Schellie’s (not sure of the spelling) Bar in South Jersey for the after party. I thank him for his time and go to speak to Benjamin Landri, the protege. I agree to plug his semi-pro football team’s charity drive for being such a good sport. He says he doesn’t know what charity exactly will be the beneficiary, but probably, “Children’s research, or something. Nothing stupid, or nothing like that.”

I ask Landri what his challenge will be to get into the competition. He doesn’t know yet, but claims he can drink a beer in under two seconds. I offer to race him, and we head to the bar, but serving has long since stopped. I thank the members of Tollman’s party for their hospitality and their many offers to join them for the after-party in South Jersey, and the after-after-party at Delilah’s Gentleman’s Club in Philly. I race out to the parking lot to meet up with my roommates. It’s bright — really bright. Sleep deprivation and inebriation are working together to take years off my life. We pile in the car and head to the brewery roommate Rick works at, so he can embarrass his drunken self in front of his boss and get us free beers. Then it’s to the Penn’s Port strip club for another after-party. Finally, at 1 p.m., we roll back to the neighborhood and go to sleep while everyone else in the city digs in for the last four hours of work before the weekend.

I fall into the most necessary sleep ever despite the searing mid-afternoon light pouring into my room, but not before a few seconds of speculating about what my eating challenge is going to be in 2010, or how I’ll have my entourage enter the arena.

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We sent Karaoke Craig down to Pimlico to experience The Preakness and report back, and experience he did. The following is an excerpt from his reflection of the madness. The entire story can be found here.
We found a spot no larger than our collective shadows, and dropped Coolersaurus on the muddy turf. The spot was clearly an important thoroughfare in the network of human migration between the badlands of inner-infield and the port-o-potties/betting windows, but we found that our occupation of it merely caused some travelers to seek alternate routes. Others, of course, continued to walk right through our game of washers without regard for organized competition.
Still, we had stopped moving for the first time in five hours, and were happily shotgunning beers and chucking metal washers at opposite wooden boxes as we tried to catch our BAC’s up to those of our neighbors.

The sun was shining, beer was flowing, horses were running (somewhere). It was perfect. Then, someone lobbed a beer.

Reports vary, but according to an account on the internet it began with some cretin standing on top of a port-o-potty who decided he’d hurl his aluminum Natty Lite menacingly into some bystanders. One of these people, apparently unaware of the genesis of the projectile, did what any red-blooded American would do in the circumstances: he wantonly hurled a beer can of his own in no particular direction.

Within seconds, beer cans were flying left and right, at times appearing in the sky with barely enough warning to duck or brace for impact. A sort of no-man’s-land formed between our side and the people closer to the port-o-pottys, and beer cans flew back-and-forth. But some of the people hurling beer cans from the back were not strong-armed enough to reach enemy lines, and friendly fire casualties mounted.

Bear in mind that these were not empties; people (generally young, male McCain supporters) were pulling fresh beers out of their coolers, popping the top as if it were a grenade’s pin, and heaving them into clusters of people.

The race fans in attendance had varying reactions to the beer-battle. Ajay doubled over in laughter as people nearby took direct hits, then deftly plucked a Styrofoam cooler lid from the ground and swung it above his head just in time to send the contents of a zooming lagered missile spraying harmlessly over its targets. Steve, ever resourceful, snatched up any unopened beers that landed near us and shoved them into Coolersaurus. Karl merely rolled his eyes, perhaps wishing he was at home playing video games.

The dominant reaction, however, was to start punching the stranger most convenient to one’s proximity. Fistfights broke out with dizzying frequency.

Later, after the fights calmed down, the TV screen suspended above the far rim of the track indicated the 11th race had ended and the man attraction was due to begin in less than an hour. My friends and I departed our station (from which my washer box game was immediately stolen) and headed to the fence near the middle of the track, on the opposite side of the grandstand. I climbed the chain link fence and rested my arms on the top rail, with perhaps the best vantage point I’ve had for any sporting event in which I wasn’t participating. The only thing separating me from the ghost of Barbaro, at that point, was the width of the grass track on which the undercard races are run and a few authority figures from various branches of law enforcement.

(A few seconds later, I was much closer to the track; the fence I had climbed was actually a gate, which some of the Event Staffers swung open to allow some sort of golf cart/ambulance to pass through. I could have leapt from the chain links and scurried onto the track if I had been so inclined, but I’m pretty sure I would have been tackled and Eight Belles-ified right where I fell.)

Anyway, one of the Event Staffers told me to climb down a few minutes before the race, and then a State Trooper told me to get down when I jumped back up again as the race started. But I still had a terrific view through the chain links of the field when it actually came storming by. Big Brown was in third at that point, and just making his move. All the people who had been punching each other in the face and hurling beers at each other all afternoon cheered and clapped in unison as they saw (on the TV) Big Brown make his way into first and easily prolong everyone’s hopes of witnessing a Triple Crown winner. Giant Moons, the horse Ajay and I had bet on (to show) because his named sounded humorous, finished eighth — I stuck the ticket in my mouth, chewed it up and spit it out. But we didn’t care – we’d just seen, for five seconds, a horse who by all accounts is one of the most special thoroughbreds of all time after spending five hours pre-gaming for just that moment.

Despite the headache of traveling into Baltimore, paying an arm and a leg for the festivities, and trying to survive the beer wars, the payoff was more than worth it. So what if we only got to watch five seconds of racing? They turned out to be just the right five seconds to watch.

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