Lineman

"The Taliban would have thrived in these Jersey conditions."

There was this memory that came to me the other night. It was the time my father and I attended our first NFL game. My parents had just arrived in the States, so I went over to meet them and we spend the week in NYC together. In fact, this was the first time any of us had been to the big apple.

Here we are post-game waiting in an excruciatingly long line on a stifling hot summers evening outside Met Stadium in Jersey. There were these guys selling bottled water and pretzels out of a grocery trolley. I soon discovered them to be true street grocers.  The Lower-Lowest class street hustler version of a city-sanctioned, class Z food truck.

My father and I had just been to watch the New York Jets play the Miami Dolphin in a bottom of the table arm wrestle.  At this time the East Coast was in a heat wave. This only fuelled the crowd. The beers flowed, the crowd booed and cheered. I loved every minute. By the end of the game, the Jets had their first win.

And did I mention it was about 97 degrees out?

After the game, we slugged our way to the end of the parking lot where our bus line awaited us. It was one of those queues that grew with every step and continued relentlessly around the corner. Here we are, waiting in this massive line and it is scorching hot. Buses seem no existent. The women, children and elderly are dropping like flies. I suspect some were crying wolf but who am I to judge. As we stand in this mile-long queue, watching thousands of melting individuals, drenched in sweet move agonisingly slow along the asphalt, Our anti-heroes from the beginning make their return.

Truth be told I was strikingly parched at this stage, and although they had cold water, (I say cold loosely), the sweaty fat black guy and the short white stocky dude with the ponytail sidecut didn’t really scream business.

They got to the end of the line and turned around to sell water to the dudes behind us. We were pretty close to the end of the line. Now by this time I specifically remember that we could see the stadium staff helping a young woman who had fainted. It was desert storm out here. You know the sort of heat where a thin shimmering line of “Fuck me that looks hot” appears on the horizon and even the sand people don’t come out of their holes, that’s what we were experiencing. I really believe a camel could have trotted past and taken a drink from the back of a 4x4 Ford T-Rex that some grease balls had converted into a paddling pool. Don’t even get me started on the irony of that image.

I think we’ve safely established that the Taliban would have thrived in these Jersey conditions. Let’s go back to our hardworking salesmen. The spitting image of James Franco in Spring Breakers, busily explaining to our ‘block’ that his girlfriend has just had a baby… A wee baby girl, bless her. He makes the sale. Two water bottles. You can tell it means a lot. I wish I could say that at the conclusion of the said sale, our protagonists ride valiantly into the hazy distance victorious. I wish I could. Instead, as a show of gratitude to his local supporters, Jared Leto fans his magnificent ponytail that usually drags below his neck, gallantly into the air. The circumstance and symmetry were breathtaking. He had practised this a million time I'm sure.

Unbeknownst to Ragnar, his noble act had just sent a propelled line of salty sweat splashing down to the already quite overly garnished pretzels below. Drenching the football delicacy to a state of overtly moist potency.

Immediately, and in a state of agitated panic, the quite obviously gay German couple who were standing in front of us turn towards my father and I, as if to say; “Penalty Ref?”. My reply to their wide-eyed question was not a flag, however, but what-ever yellow mucus was sitting at the bottom of my stomach. Beer and dear I say it; Pretzels. Being a Kiwi from Southland, I was unfazed and found the whole thing absurdly hilarious.

But there was one thing I will never forget. From my side, out of nowhere my old man sums up a nation, in a single sentence, from a single act, in one short subjectively statistical statement.  

“You know what I’ve decided; 95% of them are fine, but the last 5% are fuuuckin simple".  

Friday Night Football... Who knows what'll happen.