Wasif's World

The Saints just won the Super Bowl. And not to be redundant to this little bit of rhetoric, but they truly deserved it. I’ve always been a big believer in awarding any game to the team that either a) scores more points than the other team or b) prevents the other team from scoring as many points as they do. They deserve it!

As I was in New Orleans at the time, getting “crunk” (or attempting to get my “crunk on” or “lubricating my crunk to prevent chafing,” whatever), I opted to geaux down to Bourbon Street to check out the scene.

When I got there, I was shocked at what I did see – nothing. That is to say, there was no rioting, no burning, no throwing, no climbing, no breaking, and, quite frankly, not a whole lot of crunking going on. I saw plenty of revelers singing, dancing, chanting, hugging, kissing, drinking, stumbling and reveling. It was, in essence, a good, clean party.

Ha, rookies. Who Dat Nation, haven’t you seen how it’s done before? In all your time as perpetual bridesmaids, didn’t you once tune in to see another town’s parades? Detroit? Los Angeles? Or how about during the late 90s when the Yankees won and several sexual assault arrests were made? You need a little lesson in the fine art of the sports celebration.

One thing I don’t understand -- outside of how fabric softener works -- is the sports celebration. It’s baffling. How can people mistake the whims of a fanatical sports mob for the old Viking practice of pillaging a town? Your team wins and you head to the streets to flip cars. You’d think the championship trophy was hidden under a General Motors vehicle.

(I did get to hold the Super Bowl trophy, by the way, which was cool. I was surprised to find it made of tin foil. Hard to believe that’s what everyone is fighting for.)

I was in Boston when the Patriots won their first championship, and people were climbing lampposts, smashing glass on the ground and lighting fires. Where does the fire come from? Are two roommates sitting at home with nothing to do when one asks the other:

“Hey, Mack, wanna come down to Coolidge Corner with me tonight?”

“Nah, I think I’m gonna just stay here.”

“But the Patriots could win the championship.”

“Really? I’ll go get my torch.”

I never thought one would need a torch to attend a post-game celebration. Not unless it’s held in a dark cave filled with snakes and maybe some mummies. But I learned in a hurry and had to fashion my own with a broomstick and some old rags dipped in kerosene.

Anyone who owns a store in a city fortunate enough to win a championship should immediately consider moving to one of those less fortunate places where perhaps the only prize they earn is first place in a national yodeling contest (though I’m not sure how destructive yodeling fans can be).

Oh, I saw some questionable moments in Nola, like the guy who tried to climb onto a parked segway that was leaning up against the wall. He didn’t understand the physics behind the vehicle. It runs by magnetism; that is, when it’s on. When it’s off, it moves by gravity, and only in one direction – down. So he smashed right onto his face, stood up, and with his arm covered in blood, stumbled on his way to celebrate, more than likely in the soon-to-be christened Drew Brees Wing of the County hospital.

Anything else that might have raised eyebrows was typical for Mardi Gras, so you can’t chalk that up to a championship celebration. (On a side note, I’m told I gave up my beads too easily. I needed to get something in return. Next time, I’ll bring a stern negotiator with me.)

But in your typical post-victory celebration, for some reason, the euphoric emotion mixes into a potion of violence creating mayhem. I don’t know where this happens, but I do believe it’s near the intersection of Civility Lane and Anarchy Way, where the thrill of victory meets the shrill of police sirens. That’s why property value on those streets is so low.

There’s no other aspect of life where we would see this kind of violent happiness. On your son’s graduation day, arguably the happiest day of his young life, you don’t put your arm around him and say, “Son, your mother and I are so darn proud of you that we bought you a car” ... then lead him to the window to view a top-of-the-line S.U.V. in the driveway engulfed in flames. “—that we set on fire,” as they continue to beam from ear to ear. “We wish you the best in grad school.”

I contend that the initiation of this custom may lie firmly with the players. Have you ever noticed how they celebrate? A player scores a touchdown and his teammates attack him, first knocking him down, then piling on top of him. It’s brutal! If the player had a wallet, I’m sure they’d take it from him.

It’s a unique way of rewarding such a play of grace and athleticism ... by trying to cripple him so that he may never do it again. And he’s on their side! Imagine what they’d do to him if he wasn’t a beloved teammate.

Cut to the locker room a few minutes later and they’re spraying champagne into each other’s eyes. Gatorade over the coach’s head in subzero January temperatures isn’t enough, they need something with bubbles that will sting.

At that point, an announcer comes up to the visually-impaired player and asks him, “How do you feel right now?” The answer I always expect to hear is, “I’d feel a lot better if I could see again,” but they always say they feel great, no doubt because the pounding they took caused them brain damage.

Well, New Orleans, for the city that parties more than any other city, after waiting 43 years for this, I would’ve expected something more shocking from you like slicing the French Quarter into eighths or voiding the Louisiana Purchase. Alas, it was just your typical Mardi Gras meets Saints-winning-the-Super-Bowl party. Maybe you’ll learn for next season.

Congratulations to Who Dat Nation! (Oh, and could someone tell me how to get this fleur-de-lis tattoo on my face removed? I’ve got a wedding to attend next weekend.)

I had the chance to visit Yankee Stadium last Wednesday. For years I heard this place was a rundown smelly dump, but it looked pretty bright and shiny to me. Not sure what the fuss was about, though. It seemed to have very few memories in it.

They are adept at taking your money, I must say. I was told to bring my checkbook. (Though I found it curious that a ballpark would take checks and just brought cash.) I wanted to try the cheesesteak, but my loan application was rejected. Beer was relatively inexpensive, on the other hand. Unfortunately, cup prices were through the roof.

I bought my $30 bleacher seats which, all things considered, seemed to be fairly reasonable, that is until you calculate the cost per minute. It was the shortest American League game, I think, I’ve ever been to -- only 2 hours and 20 minutes long. And it was only a show of their greatest hits: Pettitte starts, Rivera closes, Pettitte picks a runner off, Damon and A-Rod homer. None of the new stuff ... like a Seattle win. Griffey did homer, though.

I guess seeing history was something – it was the first time since Mays and Aaron homered in the same game back in the 70’s that two hitters with over 500 career homers hit ones in the same game – but no one realized this at the time.

The main detriment to my experience, was their “security” policy, which caused me to miss the first inning.

You walk up to the first barrier which has work relea --er -- trained security personnel checking your possessions. My friend had a shoulder bag (okay, man purse) which was virtually empty. Inside was an iPod shuffle and his cell phone, which he put in his pocket. And he held the bag open for them to see.

“Sir, you can’t bring that bag in here.”

“But it’s empty,” he replied and held it open so they could yell inside and hear the echo.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s stadium policy.”

I was asked to show underneath my hat. I guess that makes sense, because if I were to possess a sharp object like a knife, I would keep the blade pressed against my skull.

But the matter at hand was my friend’s disbelief that he couldn’t bring an empty bag into the stadium. As he argued, we looked at the lines beside us and at the women who were waved through carrying bags big enough for my friend to have hopped into. (“Are you smuggling a man into the game, Miss?” “Yes, I am.” “Fine, go right ahead.”) And standing around getting negged was my friend and several other men with their arms out to their sides in a pleading manner and their mouths agape.

So we figured out, if you ever go to Yankee Stadium, find a lady (not one of those Jersey girls with the moustache) to bring your bag into the stadium for you. Evidently, stadium policy is “guys no, women you betcha.”

We were directed to the money burning -- er -- bag check station, which was back across the street. We crossed illegally in front of cops and some lady with a megaphone instructing, “Do not cross against traffic. Wait till you have the light.” (I’m sorry, what is this “light” you speak of?).

The sign at Stan’s bar said, “Stan the Man! Bag Check $7.” Seven dollars! AND there was a TIP JAR on the counter (just to piss you off even more).

And two doors down, a bowling alley had no line and only a $5 bag check. (I wondered how much of a share they gave to Stan for making it seem they were a reasonable option. And I wondered how much both places shared with the stadium.

Anyway, we made it inside the park for the second inning. (By this time, I had picked up a Setaline torch and hid it under my hat.) I heard that I had to see “Monument Park” and I followed the signs, but couldn’t find it. So I located one of those people with the “How May I help you” paddles. They’re easy to find because they were beating anyone with a Seattle hat or jersey over the head with it. “It’s right down there,” the guy said, pointing behind center field, “but it’s closed.” Fitting.

And I was upset that I didn’t get a chance to visit the “Big Papi Excavated Shirt Exhibit” at the park. But this is not to imply that being at the park was not without its advantages. I still enjoyed myself, surprisingly, among Yankees fans. Plus, I didn’t have to listen to John Sterling yell “An A-bomb from A-Rod.”

As you can see by the picture, rumors of their dominance have been greatly exaggerated:



Incidentally, I also went to Philadelphia’s Citizen Bank Ballpark after a Phillies sweep of the Mets and had the pleasure to return to the parking lot with a friend of mine who’s a Philly fan that walked up to the Mets players waiting by the player’s parking lot and said to them, “The losers get have to wait a long time, don’t they?”

He then proceeded to board a Mets fan bus and announce to the passengers, “Hey, guys, just wanted to wish you all a nice trip.”

It was brazen fan taunting at its most hilarious. (I suppose it was funnier to me than had it been a Yankees fan saying it to me pre-2004.) Of course, that was the last I saw of my friend as the bus doors closed and it took off.