The year was 1996 and I was biding my time before graduate school by working two jobs: one as a pallet-stacker at a Sears warehouse and another as a yellow-jacketed “security” guard at Veterans Stadium. The powers-that-be preferred that only men work the 700 level, so each week I would shuffle up to the top war zone – er, level -- to monitor the misbehavior of the soused-up Eagles crowd.
I believe Chuck D. was referring to the 700 level when he said, “welcome to the terrordome,” except that the Vet had no roof and the S1Ws were a hell of a lot more intimidating than a pasty Irish kid hoping not to get hit by a projectile tire iron before embarking on a quest to become a “master of professional writing.” (I’ll leave it up to you to decide if I have reached such lofty heights). Back in the halcyon Ray Rhodes era, season tickets in the 700 level could still be had for $35 a game, so the full package wasn’t out of the reach of an angry 350-lb. Port Richmond pipefitter fighting the good fight to keep collecting a disability check for the bad knees he incurred due to the backbreaking work of devouring calzones whole (yes, I actually knew that guy). 
To be fair, there were a lot of friendly people that I got to know who dutifully came to the Vet every week whose only violent crime was screaming things about Ricky Watters illegitimate children, whether they exist or not. However, there were also enough drunken yahoos to deal with that the job always gave me pangs of anxiety and sleepless Saturday nights. To give you a taste of what of the $5.00-an-hour “security” guard job entails, we were instructed before a Monday-nighter against the Dallas Cowboys that: “whenever a fight breaks out, run to the altercation to make your presence felt. Don’t attempt to break up the fight, just wave your arms and wait for the police.”
I soaked up the stern instructions, but the second the guy shot off the flare gun, I went and took a leak…in the sink, in true Vet tradition.
There is one Sunday experience I want to share, to sum up what it can be like for visiting fans that wade into Philadelphia. I haven’t seen quite the same level of ugliness at the Linc, but upper-deck tickets are up to $65 and one of my visits included a seat in a luxury box (of course, the kids in the sweet seats got into a shouting match with the fans below).
Anyhow, three loud, amply-sized, African-Americans (two men, one woman) came to the 700 level in Redskins attire. Let’s just say it wasn’t an afternoon that epitomized Martin Luther King’s dreams. It was an important November contest because the Eagles were headed to the postseason, but as one of those wildcard teams that satisfies but doesn’t excite. On that day, the Eagles were sluggish, but hung around as Watters ran for two touchdowns and Ty “not neckbeard” Detmer threw a 13-yard strike to Chris T. Jones. The Redskins, however, prevailed 26-21 and it never felt like the Iggles were going to win. The Skins hit a late field goal that locked it up.
As the game went on, the Redskins fans got rowdier and the Vet loonies got angrier. The centerpiece of their collective ire was the woman, who had the bulk of Dexter Manley and the tact of John Riggins. You can guess how it went.
After the field goal, the three Skins fans got up to leave as boos, bottles and bigotry rained down like a Buddy Ryan spit shower. As I prayed that a race riot wouldn’t break out (although it should be noted, the black Eagles fans weren’t exactly welcoming), the woman stopped at the railing and flipped off the crowd.
This of course led to, “get the fuck out of here, you fat ni**er bitch.”
I stifled my urge to weep, and actually moved over to the Skins fans to try and help escort them out of the Vet before it turned into Newark, 1967. (And yes, I waved my arms waiting for the cavalry…who were all apparently on a hoagie break). While moving in, the woman took it upon herself to:
PULL DOWN HER HARD-WORKING MAROON STRETCHPANTS TO SHAKE HER BULBOUS CANNED HAMS AT THE VET CROWD.
It was stunning. There was a good five seconds of mouth-gaping dead air, reducing the Vet vitriol to silence. Eyes were shielded as she wiggled back and forth. Oddly enough, the crowd loved it. Of course, they quickly found their wind and unleashed a barrage of Budweisers like the Birds had just won the Super Bowl. (For the record, those plastic yellow coats do a good job of thwarting stale beer).The woman pulled up her drawers, high-fived her companions and headed off into the tunnel.
And I heard her exclaim as she waddled out of sight,“You got to love Philadelphia!”
I do declare the 2007 Eagles playoff mantra: "You got to love Philadelphia!"
Happy holidays. Go Birds.
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