In the early Eighties I had the good fortune to have a friend whose brother had season tickets to the Philadelphia Flyers. These seats were on the blue line, two rows off the ice. One Sunday I and a lady friend ventured down to Philadelphia for a game.
First dining at the Rusty Scupper, at that time a regular stop when attending a game at the Spectrum. Located in Head House Square, right off of South Street, (“where all the hippest meet“, so said the Orlons). In the late 1600’s, this area was the southernmost part of Philadelphia, hence, South Street. In 1745 a market was formed, named New Market to distinguish it from the existing town market. In 1805 the first “headhouse” was built. Headhouse was where fire fighting equipment was stored, this is the oldest fire station in the United States.
In the early 1980’s there were many restaurants in the area, Downey’s Irish Pub, South Street Grille, later Bridget Foy’s, A Japanese steakhouse and others. The Rusty Scupper was on a third floor, with the east side all windows, facing the Delaware. As escpected by it’s name, it was a seafood forward restaurant.
Arriving at The Spectrum in time for the pregame skate around. The evening’s opponent was the New York Rangers. Playing for the Rangers was Ron Dugay, noted for his flowing long hair in the pre-helmet NHL. Ron’s good looks and his penchant for dating fashion models made him a media sensation. Eventually he would marry supermodel Kim Alexis.
During the skate around, a typical Philly fan was standing in our aisle, right up against the glass. Every time Dugay would skate past, he would yell, “Get a haircut you faggot”, or some other such derogatory remark. A smiling Dugay, blasted a puck into the glass, causing the fan to jump back. Skating right up to him, he looks him directly in the eye and says, “Yah whatever asshole, but you would give your right nut to have my lifestyle.” Stunned the fan was struck dumb, slowly shaking his head, he headed back to his seat.
After the game we headed back to the Head House Square area for some late night cocktails. We settled into the bar at Downey’s. At that time Downey’s was popular and successful spot, selling their proprietary Downey’s Whiskey Cake in supermarkets throughout the area. During the day they had a beautiful raw bar and a great Sunday brunch that was always packed. In later years, under different owners, the pace had declined to such a low point that it was featured on the reality show, “Bar Rescue, with John Tapper”. I had the misfortune to see that episode and was shocked at the condition and filthiness of the once stellar establishment.
After a few cocktails we finished the evening with a couple of Irish Coffees. We had a friend, sister to the friend that got us the tickets, that had an apartment on West Walnut Street, near Center City. She was out of town for the weekend, so this was where we were to spend the night. The previous fall as I walked from Center City to this same apartment, I ran in to Pittsburgh Pirate great Willie Stargell. I said hello and offered him congratulations for his fairly recent World Series title in 1979. I also told him that he broke my heart by beating my beloved Orioles. I also asked what brought him to Philadelphia. Said Willie, “I’m having lunch with Lionel Ritchie, just waiting for him to get here. “ Wanting to be cool, I wished him well and went on my way. So much for cool, I still regret not hanging with “Pops” and subsequently meeting Lionel Ritchie, one of the biggest stars of the time.
Anyway, the accumulation of dinner, cocktails, but mostly, the Irish Coffees, resulted in a early morning trip to the porcelain bus. Since my alarm was set for 6 am, this all culminated in my waking with a significant hangover. Why so early you may ask, so I will expound. On Sundays, you could park on Walnut Street, but during the week parking was prohibited, starting at 7 am Monday. At the end of the block was a small parking lot, closed when we initially arrived, but opening at six. It was my intention to move my car to this lot and return to bed. Being in rather poor shape, I dispensed with getting anything on my naked body other than shoes and socks. I had in my possession a Burberry classic trench coat, tan, double breasted with epaulets, the whole nine yards. Wrapping my self in this coat, I proceeded to the street, greeted by subfreezing temperatures and high winds. One other aspect concerning Mondays on Walnut Street, it was evidently trash day. This was evident by the pile of trash bags piled right in front of my car. Mentally noting to back up and pull around these bags, I entered and started my car.
The distance that I had to travel was less than half a city block. My car was not handling quite right, and actually seemed to slide sideways as I entered the parking lot. At this same moment, the attendant comes rushing towards my car, waving his hands and pointing at my car. I get out to hear him yelling, “You done run over somebody, Oh My God, you done run over someone. “
Thinking, what the hell could I have hit, I only went 50 yards? looking under the front of my car I see a couple of trash bags wedged under my front axle. My driver’s side front tire was slightly elevated off the pavement. In the time from seeing the trash bags, realizing the need to back up, and then starting the car and pulling out, I had totally forgot about those bags.
I assured the attendant that it was not a living human, just some trash bags. Getting down and pulling one out, of course the bag rips, cyclonically blowing trash around me. That same wind picks that moment to blow open my trench coat, exposing my full nakedness to the attendant. The look on his face was a mixture of shock, fear and confusion. lowering his head to the ground, he stammers, “DDon’t wwwworrry, I’ll get it.” Quickly retying my coat, I turned a military turn and went back to bed.
That same year, this same lady and I spent a week in Dewey Beach at a friend’s parents beach house. He was also generous enough to let me borrow his brand new Nissan 300 NXS. Being adventurous, we decided to rent some gear and try our hand at fishing. Neither of us knew a lick about fishing, but it seemed like a good idea. After a fruitless couple of hours with nary a bite, we were heading back on the coastal highway. A beautiful summer day, the T-top off, fishing poles sticking up from he back. Having a bit of a heavy foot and a pretty powerful car, it was inevitable that I would exceed the speed limit. Shortly a State Trooper heading the opposite direction, pulls a u-turn and subsequently pulls me over. In a sugary Southern accent he apologizes for pulling me over, explaining that because I was picked up on radar and recorded, he had to issue a citation. Apologizing again, he asks. “Been fishing, catching anything?” “No“, I reply, “not even a bite.”
“That’s a shame“, he says, “you know, they say that bad luck travels in three, Y’all got enough gas?”
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