When I was a kid I worked in an accounting office on Main St in Flushing Queens. My first boss was a big Jet's fan. Which means he couldn't get Giant tickets. So what he used to do was whenever it snowed or the weather sucked or the Jets were Ten games out of the playoffs he would give me tickets. Now this was in the early seventies and the Jets had won the Super Bowl in the 1969/1970 year so they weren't that far away from a good team.
Now Namath was the quarterback and he was always getting hurt. His knees where shot and he spent most of the time on the sidelines. The seats where in what used to be the outfield part of Shea Stadium in portable seats behind the goal line. They would put up this cheezy net when they did field goals and extra points to stop the balls from going in the stands but half the times it didn't work and the ball would go in the stands. The fan who got it would fight with the security guards who would try to get it back and everyone would join in for a free for all. The drinking and the cursing and the racial invective was quite something to see.
You see that was old New York, Fun City. Lindsey was mayor and we had riots and stuff. The World War Two guys were still around and they didn't take any shit from anybody even though they were in their late fifties and early sixties. They thought they were the same guys who stormed ashore at Iwo Jima and they would duke it out at the drop of a hat.
Anyway my mom would always give me these great sandwiches to take to the game and my boss loved them. He was a reform Jew so he didn't give a shit that it was pork sausage with peppers and onions or a huge meatball hero smothered in mozzarella. He loved my mom's cooking and I think that was another reason I got a lot of tickets.
The Jets had a really talented receiver named Richard Caster but the only problem was he had the worst case of dropises I ever saw. He was always dropping passes that hit him right in the hands. Now there was this rich real estate dude who had a seat about ten rows in front of us who really hated Rich Caster. Man he would be on his ass from the first play of the game. He would be cursing out Caster while the Jets were on defense! Anyway Bob Davis was starting because Namath was hurt again but he was off the disabled list and the fans wanted Joe Willie in the game. Davis gets smacked and is out of the game and there is a tremendous cheer! Joe Willie is coming in the game! Holy Cow!
About the third play of the drive Rich Caster runs a post pattern down the middle of the field and Joe puts it right in his hands. And of course he drops it. Well the real estate dude stands on his chair waving a fifth of whiskey and lets loose the foulest string of curses and racial taunts that I think I have ever heard. Which at the time was only good for a laugh. But then he takes the bottle by the top and tries to throw it on the field at Caster. And it only goes about ten rows before it hits some lady in the head. A giant fight breaks out. The cops had to come and break it up. I think they wanted to call the National Guard.
It was very exciting for a thirteen year old kid.
That's where I learned one important fact. Stay away from Jet fans.
Words to live by.
9 comments:
Wow. I would look awesome in that coat. Kind of girly looking for Namath isn't it? But...perfect for me with a pair of dark leather gloves and some high heeled boots.
Didn't Namath wear panty hose? I'm concerned.
It just goes to show you. The Jets belong in San Fransico.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
When they used to bat around that blow up doll in the stands.
Overcompensation.
Tits york.
I want bouncing tits. Can you figure out how to make a pair of tits in this joint, if not I am out of here.
I want them hard, with big nipples and patriotic and republican too if that is too hard for you.
Now give me some hard bouncing republican tits with erect nipples now, bitch.
Broadway Joe could get away with wearing a woman's garment and still be loved by longshoremen. In a platonic way of course. He was just a very lovable guy.
Troop keeps getting younger and younger... 13 in the early '70s? That'd put your birth year in '58 or '59 at the latest?
It's plausible that Troop's still a youngster given his headstart in life. Word has it he was bellying up to the bar at age 6 to let off steam after kindergarten let out.
Someone is pretending to be Titus. The real Titus is far classier and much funnier as well.
She's messing with ya, Trooper.
The real Titus. Accept no substitutes.
I don't remember how old I was or what year that was to tell you the truth. I forget what year it was. Those days all run together now.
I guess that is proof that I am old.
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