are you ready, kids?

I grew up in a house that loved sports. My dad and my brother would spent countless weekend afternoons watching as many sporting events on television as they could pack into their waking hours. Baseball, basketball, hockey ( Well, not hockey for my father so much. He complained that the game moved too goddamn fast for his liking). But, come football season...! Oh my gosh! The television was unapproachable! Unless you wanted to watch a football game, the television was off-limits. From early afternoon until sometimes late Sunday evening, my father and my brother would watch and cheer and scream and over-analyze plays that transpired hours earlier. Knowing full well that I wouldn't get a chance at the TV until this nonsense was over, I voluntarily sequestered myself in my room and drew pictures. (That's called "foreshadowing.")

I watched two complete (and one partial) football games in my life. The partial was the Philadelphia Eagles' first Super Bowl appearance in 1981. They were defeated by the Oakland Raiders 27-10. I actually "Googled" that, because I have no recollection of any part of the game. I do, however, remember watching the Eagles' second Super Bowl game. This was the Eagles redemption game, one they were determined to win. I watched every single second of that game. I had absolutely no idea what was going on, but I watched. I didn't understand any of the terminology used by the television announcing crew. I couldn't follow any of the maneuvers taking place on the field. I remember an unspectacular performance from Justin Timberlake at halftime, playing it safe 14 years after the notorious "wardrobe malfunction" with Janet Jackson. I remember that back-up quarterback Nick Foles led the team to a victory, replacing the injured Carson Wentz. I couldn't tell you what he did that was special, I just know the Eagles won. 

I watched the Eagles play last year in Super Bowl LVII and lose in a heartbreaker after being ahead for nearly the entire game. Once again, I was baffled by the action on the field, but I do remember enjoying Rianna's weird halftime antics, despite not being familiar with any of her songs.

This year, I started seeing promos on television that touted a Super Bowl broadcast hosted by beloved cartoon characters SpongeBob SquarePants and his loyal pal Patrick the starfish. In the days and weeks leading up to "The Big Game," Mrs. Pincus and I made plans to see if SpongeBob could stir interest in a game in which we had no interest. The Eagles were not playing and the two teams that were... well, I couldn't name a player on either.

But, goddamn! if that little absorbent and yellow and porous guy didn't make things interesting. The broadcast opened with the typical fanfare, but the good folks at Nickelodeon used up-to-the-minute technology to overlay jellyfish and bubbles and assorted sea life on the field and in the stands. The familiar orange blimp circled the rafters of Allegiant Stadium and cameras focused on "fish-ified" celebrities like "Claumuel L. Jackson," "Doja Catfish" and "Billie Eelish," who were in attendance. Touchdowns were punctuated by end-zone cannons spewing Nickelodeon's signature "slime" in all directions.

In addition to the action on the field, a remote camera followed SpongeBob's curmudgeonly neighbor and coworker Squidward as he waited impatiently to use the men's room. Commentary was lively — and funny — if not perhaps a bit above the intellect of the target audience. I wondered who was actually watching this broadcast... besides a 60-ish husband and wife whose child aged out of the Nickelodeon demographic decades ago. I assumed that in most football-watching families, Dad controlled the TV (much like my dad did all those years ago). There is no way any typical "I-Couldn't-Be-Bothered" father was sitting though the biggest event in sports with Patrick Star complaining "I don't understand" every two seconds. Nevertheless, my wife and I watched and enjoyed the cartoon high jinx. 

Actually, I was quite appreciative of Dora the Explorer's pop-up appearances to explain the meaning of each game-stopping penalty called by officials. In plain, understandable language, Dora made sense of "holding," "clipping" and "off-sides." While it was informative, I would have much preferred Clarissa giving the explanations. After all, wasn't that her schtick anyway? (Am I dating myself?)

The time flew by. Granted, we were not glued to the game, as though we had a couple grand riding on the outcome. But, all in all, I would consider watching future Super Bowls under these circumstances. As a matter of fact, I propose that SpongeBob and Patrick host all major sporting events and even awards shows. It would certainly liven things up and make the whole thing more interesting and entertaining.

Who's with me? I can't HEAR you......!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

 

feels like the first time

I keep finding him... or maybe he keeps finding me.

Perhaps you have encountered him, too.

You are in your car, waiting to enter a parking lot for a concert or a baseball game or some other large event that draws thousands of commuters to a parking facility provided by the venue to store your vehicle for a few hours. You've done this dozens of times. You drive up, pay the attendant who tosses some sort of official voucher on your dashboard and you pull away, off to seek a suitable spot to safely leave your car while you enjoy the evening's entertainment. Your interaction with the parking lot attendant — usually a young man or woman working their way through college or responsibly earning a few bucks to get their parents off their backs — is minimal, sometimes even wordless, unless you are the friendly type who greets everyone with  a rhetorical "Hey, how you doin' today?" (Unsurprisingly, I am not one of those.) But, invariably, I usually get in the entrance line behind that guy who is experiencing the "public parking lot adventure" for the very first time. It never fails! The queue line comes to a screeching and unnecessary halt while that guy in front of me begins a long and involved dialogue with the hapless (and usually disinterested) attendant. From my car-length vantage point, I can see this guy's hands expressively gesturing through his open driver's side window, I can't see a face, just the hand. And that hand is waving around as though performing an interpretive dance. Just when you think that this conversation will end, it continues. Way too long. "What," I think to myself (sometimes out loud), "could this guy possibly be asking or saying or explaining or complaining about? Pay your overpriced parking fee, you get your little ticket and you go!" But, no! It is obviously that guy's first time at a parking lot.

I know some people use them every day (sometimes several times a day), but I have not had the need to access an ATM in some time. As a matter of fact, it is so infrequent that I use an ATM, I have to seriously think about my password on each occasion. However, every time I have had the need to have some banking transactions via the convenience of an ATM, that guy is once again in front of me in line. He was issued his card and left, by the bank, to his own devices. No explanation was offered. No instructional pamphlet to read or video to watch. To be honest, how much teaching is really needed? ATMs are pretty intuitive. There is only one slot that could accommodate your card. The numerical buttons are nice and big. Hopefully, you have selected a fairly easy-to-remember four-digit access code and hopefully you have not forgotten what it is. The entire transaction should take just a few minutes (unless the machine keeps your card, which it has been known to do). Even then, after a few open-palm "bangs" on the ATM faceplate, your real beef is with the malevolent forces within the bank itself. But, that guy is having his first rendezvous with an ATM... and it is not going well. From a comfortable and socially-acceptable, privacy-aware distance, you can see that that guy has pressed waaay too many buttons after inserting his card. He appears to have canceled his transaction, only to start again, by inserting his card and, again, pressing double the amount of buttons this time around. He looks as though he is typing a report on a typewriter as opposed to merely entering a four digit number. As your patience wanes, that guy has begun the process of accessing the ATM no less that ten times. In between the fifth and sixth attempts, he turns around and, with mournful puppy-dog eyes, silently requests your help - only to shrug and return to the procedure. It is obviously that guy's first time at an ATM and here I am.... once again.

Recently, my wife and I accompanied her young cousin to his very first Major League Baseball game. As the game made its way to the late innings, Mrs. P thought it would be a nice idea to get him one of those "My First Baseball Game" certificates that all MLB stadiums offer. It's a cool memento and it's totally free, which is very nice in these days of six-dollar hot dogs and eighteen-dollar beers. A little research on the stadium's website revealed that the certificates are readily available at the Fan Services window which is located a short walk from  our seats. We hopped up at the bottom of the seventh inning, excused ourselves and made our way through the concourse to our destination. Navigating through the wandering crowd, we spotted the "Fan Services" sign jutting out from a wall just ahead. There was a woman at the window when we arrived. She must have been that guy's spouse. Keeping a respectful distance from her, we could see that she was waving her arms and gesturing to the poor young lady on the receiving side of the window. Mrs. That Guy went on and on and on, flailing her arms, stomping her feet and tapping the window to make her point. "What," I thought to myself, "could have possibly happened to this woman to warrant such an animated display? I don't believe she was pitching for the home team when back-to-back home runs were given up. I'm sure the manager didn't bench her for not running out an an infield hit. Eventually, she concluded her rant. The young lady behind the counter made a phone call and soon handed that woman something that made everything all better. Perhaps this was her first baseball game and her expectations were not satisfactorily met. And we were there to witness it.

Everything from self check-out at the supermarket to the simple operation of an automatic door to a traffic signal turning from red to green... I have been lucky enough to get a first-hand, eyewitness view of that guy's first time for everything. We always find each other. Most of the time, though, he's first.

Interestingly, when he is not first and I manage to get a seat in front of him, say at the movies or a concert or sporting event), he lets me know he is there. 

How?

He kicks my seat through the whole event.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

swinging school

In 1965, Bobby Rydell sang about some mythical institute of higher learning where "the chicks are kicks and the cats are cool." I had this 45 and I played it often. I knew Bobby was a fellow Philadelphian, but I wasn't quite sure which school he was singing about. There certainly weren't any "kicky chicks" or "cool cats" at any school under the jurisdiction of the Philadelphia School District that I attended. School was awful, filled with bratty classmates, rigid, humorless teachers and a curriculum that never got any better or any easier as I struggled my way through twelfth grade. And "swinging?" Ugh! You gotta be kidding me!

I did what I could to get out of going to school as often as possible. I played on my mother's sympathies, milking every little sniffle into the onslaught of the bubonic plague. I suddenly became a devout student of the Talmud when I overheard some of my classmates discussing some obscure Jewish holiday that I needed to observe at home, taking precedent over a typical day at school (preferably a day when a book report was due). My mom (as I later discovered) wasn't as gullible as I had thought. She knew I was full of shit with each and every excuse I employed. But, my mom didn't press me for good marks or perfect attendance. She knew the limits of my academic abilities. She also knew that a day off here and there wasn't going to cause any permanent damage to the person I would become. She picked her battles and putting up a fuss when I wanted to stay home from school wasn't high on her list. My dad, by the way, couldn't have told you what grade I was currently enrolled in at any given time. He left that stuff to my mom. My dad did the important things. He went to work. He came home. He smoked cigarettes and he watched television. Mostly sports.

My dad — and my brother, for that matter — watched a lot of sports on television. A lot of sports. If it involved a ball, a bat, a stick, a racquet, a club, some sort of padding and a final score, my dad was watching it. I was not. I had no interest. Zero. Zilch. Nada. I didn't know a field goal from a lay-up. I couldn't tell you the difference between an inside pitch and an inside straight. But, my dad could. He watched baseball in the summer, football in the winter and basketball and hockey in the spring (although, he did complain that hockey moved "too goddamn fast," but he watched it anyway). 

When I was a kid, Philadelphia sports teams were notoriously bad. The Phillies were bad. The Eagles were bad. The 76ers were above average when they had Wilt Chamberlain in the early 70s, but stunk again until they acquired Julius "Dr. J." Erving (I looked that up). The Philadelphia Flyers, though — that hockey team that moved "too goddamn fast" for my father — were pretty good. And in 1974, the whole city — hockey fans or not — cheered them on as they became the Stanley Cup Champions that season. Of course, the city celebrated by throwing the team a victory parade. It was held on Monday, May 20, 1974 — the day after the Broad Street Bullies defeated the Boston Bruins to take Game 6 and the series.  And it was a school day.

I'm in there somewhere.

Reports on the news determined the Flyers Stanley Cup Victory Parade had a bigger celebratory turnout in Philadelphia  than the announcement of the end of World War II. An estimated two million people lined Broad Street and stood in a shower of ticker-tape as their tough-and-toothless heroes smiled and waved as they rode past the crowds on the open backs of city fire engines. A series of speeches and presentations were offered at JFK Stadium, the venerable venue in South Philadelphia (now gone, with the state-of-the-art Wells Fargo Center in its place). All were welcome and the stadium was a madhouse. I should know. I was there. Yep. On a day that should have been taken up by another installment of seventh grade, I was screaming and yelling and cheering a bunch of guys who played a sport that I didn't watch. My mom gave me permission to skip school and accompany my brother and his sports-following friends to the parade.  Miraculously, he agreed to let me in his car. From the looks of things, a lot of kids didn't go to school that day. An awful lot.

On Tuesday, I went to school.

My first class was math. I hated math. I have always hated math. I still hate math. And, to be honest, math isn't too fond of me either. My teacher was Mrs. Goetz, a nasty, cranky old martinet who looked like my paternal grandmother — a woman I could not stand. (Your grandmother? Josh! That's terrible! Oh yeah? Here's why...) When ever I mentioned this teacher's name, my mother would sing: "Whatever Missus wants.... Missus gets!" It wasn't until years later that I got this reference. As students filed into her classroom, Mrs. Goetz eyed each boy and girl with contempt, leaning forward and following with her gaze as each student took their assigned seat. She squinted and wrung her hands, like Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz trying to figure out how to get those ruby slippers off of Judy Garland's feet. Before a single integer was reversed or sine was cosined, Mrs. Goetz announced her displeasure with the amount of students who were missing from her class the previous day. She continued her tirade by insisting that everyone who was absent better have a good and valid excuse.... adding that "going to a parade for a hockey team" would not be considered a valid excuse. She spoke the phrase "going to a parade for a hockey team" as though Satan were whispering instructions in her ear. Still putting any mathematical information on hold, Mrs. Goetz ran down the class list — one by one — asking for reasons of absence. A majority of students — boys and girls — explained that they had attended a classmate's out-of-town Bar Mitzvah on Sunday and arrived home very, very late in the evening. They were much too tired and in no shape to attend school on Monday. Mrs. Goetz seemed to accept this lame-ass excuse, I suppose on the fear of repercussions from possible "religious persecution." She nodded to each student who offered the "Bar Mitzvah" reason. "I'll allow that," she muttered, as she made some marking with her pencil on the roll sheet. When she got to me, I was angry. I had already delivered the required note from my mother to my homeroom teacher. School policy didn't require that every teacher be given a separate note for each absence. This ornery old fuck was just being difficult for her own amusement. "Well," I thought to myself, "Fuck her! I'm telling her the truth!"

"Pincus!," she announced, "Why weren't you here yesterday?"

"I was at the Flyers parade." I said

Mrs. Goetz exhaled angrily. "That is no excuse! You get a 'zero' for the day!" Teachers have been using that "zero for the day" threat for years! It means nothing. Absolutely nothing. It doesn't follow you for the rest of your life. It doesn't play into job interviews or loan applications. It's just a stupid, manipulative device that teachers wield to make them appear to have some life-altering control over the course of your existence. Spoiler Alert! They don't. 

I hated math. I hated Mrs. Goetz. Mrs. Goetz taught math. (I can't believe I'm going to use this joke....) You do the math.

A few hours from now, the Philadelphia Eagles are going to play the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl LVII. There has been a lot of fervor over the Eagles for the entire season. Philadelphia is a sports town, specifically a rabid football town. Football always takes the forefront, no matter how good or bad the city's other sports teams are doing. I have heard the notorious "E-A-G-L-E-S" chant break out at a Phillies playoff game. Recently, Mrs. Pincus and I inexplicably found ourselves at a Flyers game. The Eagles were playing right next door. Midway through the Flyers game, "The Chant" erupted as word spread of another Eagles win. As the Eagles' regular season wound down, it became apparent that they had a shot at the whole ball of wax. The city was approaching a collective frenzy, as "The Birds" defeated every team they faced in the playoffs, securing themselves a spot in "The Big Game" — The Super Bowl.

There is a one-week gap between the last football playoff game and the date of The Super Bowl. In that time, several surrounding school districts have announced two-hour delays for the opening of schools on the day after The Super Bowl. Just a few days ago, the School District of Philadelphia followed suit and confirmed that its 217 schools will be opening two hours later than normal opening time on Monday, February 13. I'm pretty sure I heard all 124,111 students cheer from my home, just outside the city limits. While this decision does not affect me in the least, I am confounded by it. I cannot remember anything like this occurring in the history of the School District of Philadelphia. When I was an elementary school student, schools closed for Thanksgiving and Memorial Day. There was a ten-day break at the end of the calendar year that encompassed Christmas and New Years Day... and, if we were lucky, Chanukah fell within that time. If it didn't, well... tough. A one-week break covering Easter closed schools in the spring. Because of the unpredictability of Passover, Jewish students were on their own. A little parental convincing allowed for the first two and last two days of Passover to be taken off, while we ate peanut butter on matzoh during the days between. (If I told you that peanut butter is traditionally not eaten during Passover, you'd get that joke.) Sometimes we got Washington's Birthday (later combined with Lincoln's birthday to form the super holiday Presidents Day!) as a day off. Sometimes we got Columbus Day, too. Oh, and Veterans Day... we got Veterans Day off, prompting my father to lament: "I fought in the goddamn war and I have to go to work!"

But a football game? Really? What sort of example does this set for impressionable (and already entitled) children? I think the school boards are making a mistake with this one. Students' education has already been impacted by a worldwide pandemic. Do they really need to interrupt their school day because of a football game. Do they expect every student will be watching the game? Is it required to watch the game? If, by chance, the Eagles win (and they are the favorite), will schools be closed again for the obligatory celebration parade? Again, this decision has absolutely no bearing on me, my family or my life, but... seriously. Philadelphia has had other winning teams before. Jesus, the Eagles won the Super Bowl in 2017 and Philadelphia public schools opened at the same time they always did... providing there wasn't two inches of snow on the ground. I just think this is wrong. Very wrong.

Mrs. Goetz is probably spinning in her grave... assuming she is dead.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ice ice baby

I have been to two professional hockey games in my life. The first one was in 1975. My father, who was (at the time) a main office executive for a chain of east coast of supermarkets, was given tickets to a Sunday afternoon Flyers game. In 1975, the Philadelphia Flyers were pretty hot stuff. They were the defending Stanley Cup Champions and they were the sworn enemy of every other team in the NHL. Tagged with the notorious (though fitting) moniker "Broad Street Bullies," the Flyers were a living punchline for the popular joke "I went to a fight the other day and a hockey game broke out." Because the Flyers were so popular, I watched with feigned interest when my brother would tune the game in at home. I had a Flyers T-shirt, but everyone in Philadelphia in 1975 had a Flyers T-shirt, too. But, I was not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, so I can't imagine why my father chose to take me instead of my more sports-leaning older brother, but he did and we went. I remember it was really, really cold inside the Spectrum, the one-time state-of-the-art multi-purpose venue where the Flyers played their home games. I had been to the Spectrum a handful of times prior to the Flyers game. I saw Alice Cooper's "Welcome to my Nightmare" concert a year earlier. I saw the folky pop group America play their greatest hits there and I saw Elton John give a high-energy performance... but I don't remember it being so cold at any of those events. Granted, there wasn't 17,000 square feet of ice at any of them, so that could have played into it. Watching the game, I remember being unable to keep track of the puck as it was fired all over the ice. I also remember having absolutely no idea what exactly was going on. I was there to see a fight. Just like everyone who goes to an air show doesn't really want to see planes fly. If they did, they would just go to the airport and sit all day. You go to an air show to see a crash... and, in 1975, you went to a hockey game to see a fight. On this particular Sunday, the Flyers did not disappoint. Somewhere during the first period, Dave Schultz, the Flyers' infamous left wing (nicknamed "The Hammer" and for good reason) got into a melee with Detroit Red Wings' center Dennis Polonich. After a few minutes of a stoppage of play to allow Schultz to pummel the living shit out of Polonich, the ice was cleared, Schultz entered the penalty box (a very familiar spot for him) and maintenance crews came out to scrape an amount of Polonich's blood off the ice. I don't remember the score, but I remember that.

This past Sunday, I went to my second professional hockey game,  putting a 48-year gap between the two games I attended. A lot had changed since I witnessed my first hockey game. First of all, the venue was the Wells Fargo Center, a new state-of-the art venue that is the current home to the Philadelphia Flyers. The Spectrum was demolished in 2011. The Flyers have retired the uniform numbers of several of the former players, some of whom I saw play in '75. Despite not being a hockey fan, I knew the names of every member of the 1975 team, as well as the coaching staff. Honestly, I couldn't name a single player on the current roster. Or any roster for the past ten years. (Okay, maybe Claude Giroux, who may or may not still be playing. Don't answer, because I don't care.) Why, you may ask, would I go to a hockey game? Well, I suppose, it's because my wife is a Dead Head.

While surfing around the internet, as one does, Mrs. Pincus discovered that the Philadelphia Flyers were having "Grateful Dead Night" at their game on January 8. We had attended a Phillies game last summer when they honored an upcoming concert by Dead and Company, the current incarnation of former members of the venerable 60s jam band still hanging on to a dream. Between innings, Grateful Dead songs were played over the stadium PA system... until they weren't (somewhere around the fourth inning).  Costumed characters of the iconic "Dancing Bears" frolicked with the Phillie Phanatic as sort of an afterthought. Mrs. P thought it would be fun to see what the Flyers would do "Grateful Dead-wise," so she bought tickets. A pre-game concert by local Dead cover band Splintered Sunlight was announced, as well as special "Dead" themed T-shirts for a limited number of special ticket holders. We bought those "special tickets" and they weren't cheap! A few days before the game, we got an email explaining that due to a pre-game conflict with the Philadelphia Eagles (who play right next door at Lincoln Financial Field and are playing much better than the Flyers are), the pre-game concert with Splintered Sunlight would be rescheduled for a Sunday in March. However, because the Flyers are playing so poorly this year and having difficulty getting people to fill the 20-thousand-plus seats in the Wells Fargo Center, we would be given (read: for free!) tickets to that game in March... in addition to the tickets we already held! 

To be honest, we were just looking for an excuse to see the inside of the Wells Fargo Center. Neither my wife nor I had been inside to see an event, except for a post-season sale of sports team merchandise held on the floor of the facility. We really had no intention of staying for the entire game. We are not hockey fans and don't expect to be hockey fans in the future. Our main goal was to check out the place, get something to eat and, possibly get a glimpse of Gritty, the most reviled mascot in the NHL and the second most popular mascot in the city. I had scanned the food offerings available at the Wells Fargo Center. Most were decidedly "meat-heavy." I am a vegetarian and my wife follows a strictly Kosher diet, so we had to look very closely at what was to be had for two people with specific dietary requirements. Surprisingly, there was quite a selection. Several concessions offered Beyond Burgers, the hit trend in meatless hamburgers. One stand had falafel (although it was closed for this particular game). A stand selling tacos and such had a mushroom and kale version that looked tempting but, we settled on something called a "Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak." New this season, the Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak was touted as a vegetarian-friendly alternative to the Philadelphia staple. Instead of thin strips of steak, a mixture of cauliflower and spices was the main ingredient, complimented by caramelized onions and harissa (a peppery condiment from the Middle East) Cheez Whiz. Now, before you stick your tongue out in disgust, remember, not everyone is you. Not everyone likes what you like. I happen to love cauliflower and I have actually had a similar sandwich at a little hole-in-the-wall steak and hoagie shop in Atlantic City.

We wended our way through a knot of typical Philadelphia traffic, parked and walked excitedly towards the Wells Fargo Center. Once inside, we passed through the obligatory metal detectors (where Mrs. P found a quarter on the floor!) and started our trek around the brightly lit concourse. Our seats were on the top level of the arena, but we were in no rush to get to them. We were having a better time seeing the sights, the excited fans and taking in the whole electric atmosphere. Near a free-standing souvenir stand (where Flyers sweatshirts were selling upward of a hundred bucks, a small table was set up with an array of Flyers logo items. My wife approached and asked the young man about the items. He smiled and began explaining all about purchasing Flyers season tickets. My wife politely listened to his pitch, nodding on and off as he ran down the various options and price points. I stood by silently. "Are you interested in purchasing season tickets?," he asked. My wife convincingly replied, "Sure!" She was not interested in purchasing season tickets. She was, however, interested in obtaining some of the Flyers promotional items displayed on the tabletop. As Mrs. P filled out an electronic form on an iPad, the young man turned to me and asked where our seats were tonight. I just pointed skyward. "Top section," I said with a sheepish frown. He dug into the pocket of his sport jacket and said, "How'd you like to sit closer?" He handed me two tickets for seats just behind the goal, in, what we would soon discover, one of the coldest sections in the place. Now, upgraded, we were off to find that faux steak sandwich.

Actual.

We located First Line Steaks behind Section 110, just a section over from our new, upgraded seats. We approached the counter and ordered two Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteaks and two bottles of water. I was not convinced that the fellow behind the counter actually worked there. He stared at us expressionless as we ordered. We had to repeat our order several times before he fully grasped what we wanted, my wife confirming, "That's cauliflower, right? No meat." He did not acknowledge. He asked if we wanted onions, to which we both replied in the affirmative. He returned from the order pick-up counter with two cheesesteaks. Two of meatiest meat-filled cheesesteaks I have ever seen. It may have even still been "moo-ing." We looked suspiciously at the sandwiches. 

"These are cauliflower?," we asked in unison. 

He stared at us and said, "Cheesesteaks." 

"Yes," Mrs. P continued, "I understand. We wanted the cauliflower sandwiches."

I examined the sandwiches a bit closer and determined that they were filled with meat, with not a trace of cauliflower anywhere. "This is meat." I said, coming to an informed conclusion and pointing to the evidence.

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

"Meat!," I repeated, slightly raising my voice. Mrs. Pincus, a bit calmer, added, "We wanted the cauliflower sandwich." She pointed to the illuminated menu above our heads, but I don't believe this guy could read. He went back to the pick-up window and had a few words with the man at the preparation area. He nodded towards us and may have even given us a confident wink. He scooped a big serving of what was definitely cauliflower into a long roll. With a shiny pair of tongs, he added long strips of browned onions and topped it all off with a ladle full of orange cheese sauce from a different dispenser than the other guys were using. The fellow behind the counter took the two original meat cheesesteaks and deposited them in a nearby trash can. 

"Oh!," sighed Mrs. Pincus, "That's a shame."

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

Cauliflower.

My wife pointed in the direction of the now-discarded steak sandwiches. "What a shame you had to throw those away.," she clarified

"Oh," shrugged the fellow behind the counter. (This fellow shrugged a lot!) He pushed our two cauliflower sandwiches towards us and plopped two $5.25 bottles of water right behind them. We found our way to our seats and I passed out the fistful of napkins I grabbed, as I knew this would be a messy undertaking. I was right, but — boy! — was it good. Yes, my friends, it was actually very good. 

Soon the lights dimmed and starting players were announced. Gritty made his first appearance to a mixture of cheers and boos. The players skated around the ice. The Zambonis smoothed out the playing surface while two scantily-clad young ladies — wielding snow shovels — scooped up loose ice crystals, mostly for show. A horn blew and the game began.

And, within seconds, I lost interest. I didn't recognize a single name on either team's roster. The action moved way too fast for me to keep tack of who had control of the puck. I don't know anything about hockey, but I could tell — I just had a feeling — that the poor Flyers were definitely being out-played. Gritty came to visit our section, messing with some fans, relaxing in an empty seat (there were a lot to choose from) and posing for pictures. But, it wasn't enough to keep us there for the whole game. We left midway through the last inning..... I mean period. And not a single mention of the Grateful Dead was made by anyone in an official Flyers capacity.

We have one more game to go.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

get it right the first time

An historical event took place last Sunday, February 4, 2018. Sure, the Philadelphia Eagles — those scrappy, but determined, "underdogs" of the National Football League — defeated the mighty (and mighty arrogant) New England Patriots in a gripping Super Bowl LII, loosening the Pats' "New York Yankees"-like stronghold on football championships. It was a terrific game (I'm told) that shattered all sorts of league records (I'm told), in both regular and post-season play (I am also told).

You see, the Super Bowl is not the historical event which I referenced in the opening sentence, although it is closely related. Sunday — Super Bowl Sunday —  marked the first time I ever watched a complete football game. Ever.

The OG Pincus

I grew up in a house with two die-hard sports fans. First, there was my dad. He was the typical fair-weather fan. My dad was born in West Philadelphia (42 years before the Fresh Prince was shootin' some b-ball on the playground of Overbrook High) and loved the Phillies as a kid. As an adult, he loved to tell a tale of how he cut school to see his beloved Phils play in the days before illuminated night games. He claimed to have seen a rare no-hitter and couldn't tell anyone because he would have gotten in trouble for blowing off classes. It was a great story, but a little research revealed that my dad made the whole thing up... 'cause that's what my dad did. My dad loved watching, reading about and talking sports — baseball, football, basketball and even wrestling, if that is considered a sport. (But not hockey, because, as he often explained, "it moves too goddamn fast for me.") His attitude towards all Philadelphia teams was "Love 'em when they're winning; hate 'em when they're losing." He would often holler "You lousy bums!" at a television broadcast of an Eagles or a Phillies game, only to change his tune when the score turned in the home team's favor.

The other sports fan I shared my house with was my brother. Four years older and way more athletic than I (in fairness, there is furniture that is way more athletic than I), my brother lived and breathed sports — all sports — hockey and wrestling included. My brother was more of a student of the game. Not to say that he couldn't give his peers a run for their money in his playing prowess, but he loved stats and comparisons and probabilities and theory and speculation, in addition to savoring each moment of each game he watched. My brother analyzed and reanalyzed plays and suggested alternative moves that could have been attempted, while my dad just sucked down the nicotine of one Viceroy after another and cursed.

Needless to say, my dad and my brother butted heads and did so quite often. I overhead many of their heated game day disagreements from the safety of my upstairs bedroom, where I busied myself with drawing, consciously avoiding their confrontation and their sports. I wanted nothing to do with their arguments and I especially wanted nothing to do with their stupid sports. I didn't understand it. I didn't see the entertainment in it. I just didn't get it. Games were always on in my house. And I never watched any of them. Even when cartoons were snapped off (without asking) by my father in favor of some sporting event, I just left the room with no interest in the ensuing contest. Yeah, I went to a few baseball games with my family, but I didn't pay attention to the game. Instead, I watched the guys selling pennants and popcorn and marveled at the size of Veterans Stadium. I went to one hockey game and one basketball game when I was in high school and neither event made an impression on me (I remember the hockey game was cold.)

I did, however, number myself among the crowds at two parades honoring back-to-back Stanley Cup wins by the 1974 and 1975 Philadelphia Flyers — the infamous "Broad Street Bullies." I went to the parades, but I didn't watch a second of any game — regular season or playoffs. Five years later, I blew off a day at art school while the rest of the city was celebrating the Philadelphia Philles' 1980 World Series Championship. I had worked as a soda vendor at Phillies games in '77, but most of the time, I had no idea who they were playing. When the Phillies came up victorious at the end of the 2008 World Series, I watched from the middle of a cheering crowd, as the celebratory parade passed by my office building — then went back to work when the last parade vehicle was a dot in the distance.

This year, I was dimly aware of the buzz the current Philadelphia Eagles team was creating. I read the news. I keep abreast of current events. Living in Philadelphia, it was kind of tough to avoid. As the 2017-2018 season went on, the focus on the Eagles moved out of the "sports" portion of nightly newscasts into the "top story" slot. One Sunday evening, I was quite surprised when my wife, who I thought was just working in the third-floor office in our house, came downstairs to tell me she just watched the end of the Eagles-Vikings game and now she was looking forward to watching the Super Bowl. "What? Football? In our house?," I questioned, as I looked up from an Andy Griffith Show rerun flashing across the 43-inch television screen in our den. But, just two weeks later, there we were, with folding snack tables set up in front of the TV and big bowls of homemade chili steaming before us — I was about to watch my very first football game.

And watch it I did. Every minute. Every time-out. Every kick-off. Every pass. Every field goal (and the missed ones, too). Every tackle. Even that dreadful half-time show. I watched. Aside from the basics, like a guy carrying the ball into the area painted with a team's logo means a six-point touchdown and a kicked ball sailing through the goalposts means... um... some points, but not as many as a touchdown, I had no idea what was going on. I don't know what an "offsides" is... or are. I don't know what any of the penalties mean. I don't know where "the pocket" is. (I know it's not on any of those tight pants the players wear. Maybe it's near "the crease" in hockey.) Despite my lack of knowledge of the fundamentals of this game, almost immediately, I was able to assess that the Eagles (in green uniforms) were definitely outplaying the Patriots (not in green uniforms). And in the end, I was right. I even found myself getting a little excited and emotional towards the riveting final moments. When the game was over and elated Eagles players climbed all over each other in celebration of winning their first Super Bowl (an accomplishment made sweeter by their besting the five-time champion Patriots), I could hear firecrackers exploding right outside of my suburban window. As I write this piece, the live broadcast of the Eagles parade is on a television screen just a few feet away from me. Every so often, I glance up from my keyboard to see a sea of (an estimated two million) joyful fans flooding the streets of my hometown and to hear a beefy player (that I cannot name) screaming about bringing the Lombardi Trophy to Philly. I love this city and I am happy for the Eagles' success. Unfairly derided, these guys rose to the challenge and delivered for their fans. Looking back, I really enjoyed watching that game. It was stirring and its aftermath was even a bit inspiring.

Last Sunday — February 4, 2018 — was historical in one more respect. It also marks the day I watched my last complete football game.

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