Pretty wild morning. It all started with the idea to camp out for Eagles playoff tickets. I wasn’t going to go, but then after The Bachelor ended last night, I was so fired up that I had decided I could make it through the night. There’s no finer two hours of television than the premiere of The Bachelor. It is an agonizing symphony of awkwardness that makes you believe in reverse evolution. There was a chick on the show last night that had vampire fangs, and the weirdo kept her around for the 2nd episode. I love it when the girls cry after getting booted after knowing the guy for 20 minutes. I guess it is pretty sad when you realize you just blew your shot to be on Dancing with the Stars. But, enough about the Bachelor….
So, I head down to the Sports Complex last night expecting to see tens of thousands of die-hard Eagles fans lined up, but just as I am deciding which sneaky back route I want to take to the stadium, I hear on the radio that tickets are available online! They sell tickets online? Wild. This changes my plans drastically. Since I don’t have to worry about the lines, I decide to pilot my vehicle to the Turf Club instead. It got pretty weird inside. I plowed through an ocean of Budweiser, and hit a couple of quick trifectas live from Australia, but that’s a story for another day. Come closing time, I just stumbled across the street to the Holiday Inn, where I requested and was given the Rich Kotite suite.
I woke up with a massive left eye headache. I fumble around and snatch the vintage digital clock off the nightstand. I hold it close to my working eye ball so I can see the time. It reads 8:53 am. This means I have 67 minutes before I have to beat the avalanche of scalpers and ticket brokers that will overrun Ticketmaster’s phone lines and website. My game plan is to wander downstairs, nose around the continental breakfast, and then come back up to the room round ’bout 9:57. At that point I’ll fire up the old Guy Pad and buy away. Where is my gosh dang iPad?
It isn’t in my immediate field of vision, so I rally out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Found my iPad! It’s sitting in a pool of water in my ice bucket. Come on! I pick it up and as it drips in my feet I notice the screen is frozen. Apparently when I got in last night I was doing YouTube searches for “hilarious kittens.” Those are some pretty funny videos, but the bad news was I had no ticket access. Goodbye continental breakfast. I leave the broken Pad in the nightstand with the bible, gather up the mini shampoo bottles and get the hell out of there.
I’m still not really paying attention when I turn onto Pattison, but out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of an old guy sitting on the sidewalk in a lawn chair. He’s wearing a coach’s headset and screaming at…well, I had no idea what he was screaming at. He had an old school thermos next to him, one of the ones that has the lid/cup combo, and he’s just sitting there outside the locked up entrance to Lincoln Financial. I realize he must be waiting for tickets. This old timer is dumber than I am. I decide it’s my duty as a fellow fan to tell this guy he has approximately 53 minutes to get to an internet machine.
I screech to a halt, jump out of the car, and hustle over. When I’m about five steps away, I realize the guy is wearing a NY Giants jacket. It’s frickin’ Tom Coughlin. You’ve got to be kidding me. Before I can spit out some type of witty greeting, he cuts me off,
Coughlin: You’re Late.
Me: Late for what?
Coughlin: The tickets. I’ve been here all night.
Me: They’re selling them online.
Coughlin: I am in line, damnit!
Me: No, ON LINE.
Coughlin: I don’t believe you. (He takes a red bean bag out of his jacket, and hits me in the chest with it.)
Me: Well you can believe whatever you want, Eli’s a decent QB, your Super Bowl win wasn’t a miracle, your players don’t hate you, that doesn’t mean it’s true.
Coughlin: If this isn’t the line, then what the hell are you doing here?
Me: What the hell are you doing here?
Coughlin: I haven’t seen a playoff game in years, gotta stay in the loop, I’m working on a contract extension.
Me: They’re giving you another contract?
Coughlin: You’re god damn right they are! I coached the Jags! When they were good!
Me: The Jags were never good.
Coughlin: The hell we weren’t. Consider yourself fined.
Me: I’m surprised you aren’t still sitting in your special room with the lights off. The boys really turned into a bunch of bitches down the stretch.
Coughlin: I’ve only coached one bitch in my entire career.
Coughlin: Yep, Tiki.
(We both chuckle).
Me: So, what’s the deal with the head set? You know you aren’t talking to anyone, right?
Coughlin: Of course, I know. It’s fun to wear, damnit. You want to try it?
Coughlin: Come on you baby, put the damn thing on. Give someone hell!
(I shrug and take the headset. I take an Egg McMuffin wrapper from a nearby trashcan and wipe it down before putting it on. It does feel pretty good. I take a half-step out into traffic and get the attention of a passing driver.)
Me (yelling): Watch where you going you bleedin’ donker jockey!
(Coughlin cracks up, and I do too. I take the headset off.)
Me: Ok, I’ll give it to you, that was pretty amazing.
Coughlin (snatching the head set back from me): Told you.
(Super uncomfortable pause)
Coughlin: So, you’re telling me if I sit here all day, I’m not going to get tickets?
(I shake my head)
(He hits me with another bean bag).