When the Dallas Cowboys come to Philadelphia, the fat men’s tent and the Asian Invasion bus are combined to create a super party that again features a Kubb tournament on Astroturf, satellite television, Indian kabobs, and much beer. But I cannot concentrate on the fun, because all around me is hatred.
The first things I notice are the homemade T-shirts other tailgaters are buying and selling and wearing. So many different slogans and images. One has a cartoon of a small boy urinating on the Dallas star, and the caption reads dallas sucks. t.o. swallows … pills. Another shirt has a large prescription bottle with the universal skull-and-crossbones poison symbol on the label and terrell owens written underneath. Yet another version features the pill bottle on the front and a gun on the back, under which the caption reads T.O., if at first you don’t succeed, buy a gun. A nearby tailgater has nailed T.O.’s old Eagles jersey to a ten-foot cross, which is also covered with orange prescription bottles that look exactly like mine. People are burning their old T.O. jerseys in the parking lot; human-size dolls in T.O. jerseys are strung up so people can hit them with bats. And even though I do not like any Dallas Cowboy, I feel sort of bad for Terrell Owens because maybe he really is a sad guy who is having trouble with his mind. Who knows, maybe he really did try to kill himself? And yet everyone mocks him, as if his mental health is a joke—or maybe they want to push him over the edge and would like nothing more than to see T.O. dead.
Because of my poor throws, Cliff and I get knocked out of the Kubb tournament early, losing the five bucks my brother fronted me, and this is when Cliff asks me to help him move some India Pale Ale out of the Asian Invasion bus. When we are inside of the bus, he closes the door and says, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“You weren’t even looking to see where your batons landed, you were so distracted during the Kubb games.”
I say nothing.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re not in your leather seat.”
Cliff sits down, pats the bus seat, and says, “Pleather will have to do today.”
I sit down in the seat across from Cliff and say, “I just feel bad for T.O. That’s all.”
“He’s getting millions of dollars to endure this type of criticism. And he thrives on it. He brings it on himself with those touchdown dances and the hoopla. And these people don’t really want T.O. to die; they just don’t want him to perform well today. It’s all in good fun.”
Now, I know what Cliff means, but it doesn’t seem like good fun to me. And regardless of whether T.O. is a millionaire or not, I’m not sure T-shirts encouraging anyone to shoot himself in the head should be condoned by my therapist. But I don’t say anything.
Back outside the bus I see that Jake and Ashwini are in the final game of the Kubb tournament, so I try to cheer for them and block out the hatred that surrounds me.
Inside the Linc, all throughout the first half, the crowd sings, “O.D.—O.D., O.D., O.D.—O.D.—O.D.” Jake explains that the crowd used to sing, “T.O.—T.O., T.O., T.O.—T.O.—T.O.” back when Owens was an Eagle. I watch Owens on the sideline, and even though he doesn’t have many catches yet, he seems to be dancing to the rhythm of the crowd’s O.D. song, and I wonder if he is really so immune to seventy thousand people mocking his near overdose or if he really feels differently inside. Again I can’t help feeling bad for the guy. I wonder what I would do if seventy thousand people mocked my forgetting the last few years of my life.
By halftime Hank Baskett has two catches for twenty-five yards, but the Eagles are losing 21–17.
All throughout the second half, Lincoln Financial Field is alive; we Eagles fans know that first place in the NFC East is at stake.
With just under eight minutes to go in the third, everything changes.
McNabb throws a long one down the left side of the field. Everyone in my section stands to see what will happen. Number 84 catches the ball in Dallas territory, puts a move on the defender, takes off for the end zone, and then I am in the air. Under me are Scott and Jake. I’m riding high on their shoulders. Everyone in our section is high-fiving me because Hank Baskett has finally scored his first NFL touchdown—an eighty-seven-yarder—and of course I am wearing my Baskett jersey. The Eagles are winning, and I am so happy that I forget all about T.O. and start to think about my dad watching at home on his huge television, and I wonder if maybe the TV cameras caught me when I was riding high on Jake’s and Scott’s shoulders. Maybe Dad saw a life-size me celebrating on his flat screen, and maybe he is even proud.
A series of tense moments get our hearts beating at the end of the fourth quarter, when Dallas is driving, down 31–24. A score will send the game into OT. But Lito Sheppard intercepts Bledsoe and returns the pick for a TD, and the whole stadium sings the Eagles fight song and chants the letters, and the day is ours.