Tightwad Hill was mobbed and I had a disturbing case of xenophobia. I’ve been waiting a decade to write about what happens up there from my unique perspective of being an absolutely bottom ranking nobody.
It’ll come. It’ll come. It’ll come.
MZ says this happened after I left:
- the people that took my spot eventually joined a Gang of Fifty at the bottom of the hill. The gang would crash the gate tsunami-style, not so much to see the game, but to be in a good position to be one of the many many
- people running onto the field, naturally. This is the part I’ve never done. Nothing that has ever happened on a field has ever made me want to run onto it right afterward. Touchdowns. DJs. Burning Men. Easter eggs. Ice storms.
- Goalposts were torn down and marched about the place in such a haphazard fashion that it was obvious no one had really thought through the whole project, or assumed a leadership role. What does one do with a big giant goalpost? It was shown on Bancroft later that night on televised news.
- Mob ruled. Everytime MZ mentions mob rule, I wonder what he means or if it invokes his desire for it or his horror or if it means every other mob is implicit, nascent in the one he’s describing. In groups I galvanize instead of magnetize. Even if mob was ruling I’d be esconced in another perception of it in which I was completely other.This is a metaphor and I’m unwilling to deal with it.
Add to my misery the desire to stand on football terraces during matches and not have my identity detected. It’s part of a package tour of the world as a man, driving mars bars from canterbury to jerusalem, showing unexpected kindness to my own kind, and ending up, well, dead from the gross misunderstanding this type of trickery tends to engender.
There you have it.