When we arrive at Broad and Pattison, we exit the subway car and climb back up into the afternoon. I follow my brother through the thin crowds of diehards who—like us—have begun tailgating seven hours before kickoff, on a Monday no less. We walk past the Wachovia Center, and when the fat men’s green tent comes into view, I can’t believe what I see.
The fat men are outside of the tent with Scott, and they are yelling at someone hidden by their collective girth. A huge school bus painted green—it’s running, and the driver is inching toward our tent. On the hood of the bus is a portrait of Brian Dawkins’s bust, and the likeness is incredible. (Dawkins is a regular Pro Bowler who plays free safety for the Birds.) As we get closer, I make out the words the asian invasion along the side of the bus, which is full of brown-faced men. This early in the afternoon, parking spaces are plentiful, so I wonder what the argument is about.
Soon I recognize the voice, which argues, “The Asian Invasion has been parked in this very spot for every home game since the Linc was opened. It’s good luck for the Eagles. We are Eagles fans, just like you. Superstition or not, our parking the Asian Invasion bus in this very spot is crucial if you want the Birds to win tonight.”
“We’re not moving our tent,” Scott says. “No fucking way. You should have gotten here earlier.” The fat men reiterate Scott’s sentiment, and things are getting heated.
I see Cliff before he sees me. “Move the tent,” I say to our friends.
Scott and the fat men turn to face me; they look surprised by my command, almost bewildered, as if I have betrayed them.
My brother and Scott exchange a glance, and then Scott asks, “Hank Baskett—destroyer of Giants fans—says, ‘Move the tent’?”
“Hank Baskett says, ‘Move the tent,’” I say.
Scott turns and faces Cliff, who is shocked to see me. Scott says, “Hank Baskett says, ‘Move the tent.’ So we move the tent.”
The fat guys groan, but they begin to break down our tailgate party, and soon it is moved three parking spaces over, along with Scott’s van, at which time the Asian Invasion bus pulls forward and parks. Fifty or so Indian men exit—each one of them wearing a green number 20 Dawkins jersey. They are like a small army, and soon, several barbecues are going and the smell of curry is all around us.
Cliff played it cool and did not say hello to me, which I realize was his way of saying, “It’s your call, Pat.” He simply faded away into the other Dawkins jerseys, so I would not have to explain our relationship, which was kind of him.
When we have our tent resituated, when the fat men are inside watching television, Scott says, “Hey, Baskett. Why did you let the dot heads have our parking spot?”
“None of them have a dot on their head,” I say.
“Did you know that little guy?” Jake asks me.
“Which little guy, me?”
We turn around, and Cliff is standing there with a sizzling platter of vegetables and meat cubes skewered on sticks of wood.
“Indian kabobs. Quite delicious. For allowing us to park the Asian Invasion bus in its usual spot.”
When Cliff lifts the platter up, we each grab an Indian kabob, and the meat is spicy, but delicious, as are the vegetables.
“And the men in the tent—would they also like one?”
“Hey, fat-asses,” Scott yells. “Food.”
The fat men come out and partake. Soon everyone is nodding and complimenting Cliff on his delicious food.
“Sorry for the trouble,” Cliff says so nicely.
He’s been so kind—even after hearing Scott call him a dot head—that I can’t help claiming Cliff as a friend, so I say, “Cliff, this is my brother, Jake, my friend Scott, and …” I forget the fat men’s names, so I just say, “Friends of Scott.”
“Shit,” Scott says. “You should have just told us you were friends with Baskett here and we wouldn’t have given you any trouble. You want a beer?”
“Sure,” Cliff says, putting the empty tray down on the concrete.
Scott hands everyone a green plastic cup, we all pour bottles of Yuengling Lager, and then I am drinking beers with my therapist. I am afraid Cliff will yell at me for drinking when I am on medications, but he doesn’t.
“How do you guys know each other?” one of the fat guys says, and then I realize that by “you guys,” he means Cliff and me.
I am so happy to be drinking beers with Cliff that I say, “He’s my therapist,” before I can remind myself to lie.
“And we are friends too,” Cliff quickly adds, which surprises me but makes me feel pretty good, especially since no one says anything about my needing a therapist.
“What are your boys doing?” Jake asks Cliff.
I turn around and see ten or so men rolling out huge sheets of Astroturf.
“They are rolling out the Kubb fields.”
“What?” everyone says.
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
And this is how we came to play what Cliff calls the Swedish Viking game while tailgating before Monday Night Football.
“Why do a bunch of Indians play a Swedish Viking game?” one of the fat men asks.