The Silver Linings Playbook(25)
When we are stopped, waiting in line to pay the bridge toll, Dad quits his Eagles rant long enough to say, “It’s good that you are going to the games with Jake again. Your brother’s missed you a lot. You do realize that, right? You need to make time for family no matter what happens in your life, because Jake and your mother need you.”
This is a pretty ironic thing for him to say, especially since he has hardly said anything to me since I have been home and never really spends any time with me or my mother or Jake at all, but I am glad my father is finally talking to me. All the time I have ever spent with Jake or him has always revolved around sports—mostly Eagles—and I know this is all he can really afford emotionally, so I take it, and say, “I wish you were going to the game, Dad.”
“Me too,” he says, and then hands the toll collector a five.
After taking the first off-ramp, he deposits me about ten blocks away from the new stadium so he can turn around and avoid traffic. “You’re on your own coming home,” he says as I get out. “I’m not driving back into this zoo.”
I thank him for the ride, and just before I shut the door, he raises his hands in the car and yells “Ahhhhhhhhh!” so I raise my hands and yell “Ahhhhhhhh!” A group of men drinking beers out of a nearby car trunk hear us, so they raise their hands and yell “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Men united by a team, we all do the Eagles chant together. My chest feels so warm, and I remember how much fun it is to be in South Philly on game day.
As I walk toward the west Lincoln Financial Field parking lot—following the directions my brother gave me on the phone the night before—so many people are wearing Eagles jerseys. Everywhere green. People are grilling, drinking beer from plastic cups, throwing footballs, listening to the WIP 610 pregame show on AM radio, and as I walk past, they all high-five me, throw me footballs, and yell, “Go Birds!” just because I am wearing an Eagles jersey. I see young boys with their fathers. Old guys with their grown sons. Men yelling and singing and smiling as if they were boys again. And I realize I have missed this a lot.
Even though I do not want to, I look for the Vet and only find a parking lot. There’s a new Phillies ballpark too, called Citizens Bank Park. By the entrance ripples a huge banner of some new player named Ryan Howard. All of this seems to suggest that Jake and Dad weren’t lying when they said the Vet was demolished. I try not to think about the dates they mentioned, and I focus on enjoying the game and spending time with my brother.
I find the right parking lot and begin to look for the green tent with the black Eagles flag flying from the top. The parking lot is full—tents and grills and parties everywhere—but after ten minutes or so, I spot my brother.
Jake’s in his number 99 Jerome Brown memorial jersey. (Jerome Brown was the two-time Pro Bowler defensive tackle who was killed in a car crash back in 1992.) My brother is drinking beer from a green cup, standing next to our friend Scott, who is manning the grill. Jake looks happy, and for a second I simply enjoy watching him smile as he throws an arm around Scott, whom I haven’t seen since the last time I was in South Philly. Jake’s face is red, and he looks a little drunk already, but he has always been a happy drunk, so I do not worry. Like my father, nothing makes Jake happier than Eagles game day.
When Jake sees me, he yells, “Hank Baskett’s tailgating with us!” and then runs over to give me a high five and a chest bump.
“What’s up, dude?” Scott says to me as we too exchange high fives. The big smile on his face suggests that he is happy to see me. “Man, you really are huge. What have you been lifting—cars?” I smile proudly as he punches my arm, like guys do when they are buddies. “It’s been years—I mean, um—how many months has it been?” He and my brother exchange a glance that I do not miss, but before I can say anything, Scott yells, “Hey, all you fat-asses in the tent! I wanna introduce you to my boy—Jake’s brother, Pat.”
The tent is the size of a small house. I walk through the slit on one side, and a huge flat-screen television is set up on milk crates stacked two by four. Five really fat guys are seated in folding chairs, watching the pregame show—all of them in Eagles jerseys. Scott rattles off the names. After he says mine, the men nod and wave and then go back to watching the pregame show. All of them have handheld personal organizers, and their eyes are rapidly moving back and forth between the small screens in their hands and the large screen at the far side of the tent. Almost all have earpieces in, which I guess are connected to cellular phones.
As we exit the tent, Scott says, “Don’t mind them. They’re all trying to get last-minute info. They’ll be a little more friendly after they’ve placed their bets.”
“Who are they?” I ask.
“Guys from my work. I’m a computer tech now for Digital Cross Health. We do websites for family doctors.”
“How are they watching television out here in the parking lot?” I ask.
My brother waves me around to the back of the tent, points to a small engine in a square of metal, and says, “Gas-powered generator.” He points to the top of the tent, where a small gray plate is perched, and says, “Satellite dish.”
“What do they do with all this gear when they go into the game?” I ask.
“Oh,” Scott says with a laugh. “They don’t have tickets.”