Eagles vs Vikings: A Tale from Jetro Lot

I arrived at the Jetro parking lot at 2PM. It was not a tailgate, it was a battleground.

I have been going to the Jetro lot for years. All the familiar faces were in attendance, but on this day the lot barely recognizable. It was NFC Championship Sunday. The last time the NFC Championship was in Philadelphia, Brian Dawkins was sacking a pre-conviction Mike Vick. Back then, it was the Falcons that challenged the Eagles. We already took care of them in last week’s skirmish. Today, it was the Vikings.   

Eagles fans are passionate but rarely violent. On the day of the game however, Eagles fans treated Vikings fans the way America thinks they treat all visitors. It was hostile. Surplus beer was launched towards Minnesotans. There was tangible animosity towards those in purple. If you ask me, it is because they drew first blood.

Vikings fans had to know that Philadelphians take the Rocky franchise very seriously. They showed up in numbers at the art museum (Rocky steps) that morning to dress the Rocky statue in Viking colors and film Iceland’s “Skol” chant for Facebook. It was received by the city of brotherly love as a blatant act of aggression. My personal Sylvester Stallone allegiance bleeds from Rocky to Rambo: “They drew first blood, not me.”

This was not a normal tailgate. I saw two different pee buckets gets kicked over in separate instances. The motors from advertising prop planes could be heard from overhead. Adults were wearing dog masks and barking in support of their underdog Eagles. Crowds were getting dense. While it was a beautiful January day in Southeastern Pennsylvania, I felt a lingering humidity in the air. A humidity that seemed to consist mostly of nervous energy and urine from the spilled pee buckets.

Three distinct factions arrived to tailgate in the Jetro parking lot. The Minnesota fans were the easiest to spot in the crowd of tents, trucks, and trouble. I could have picked out the Vikings fans even without their penchant for purple. They all seemed to have the same look on their faces: lost and drunk with nervous excitement. They might always look like that; I’ve never met a sober Minnesotan.

The Eagles fans, the second group, made up a majority of the crowd. They knew what this day meant; I could read it on their faces. During the 2002 season, they had seen the Eagles lose in the NFC championship game to the Bucs. That was the last Eagles game to be played at Veterans Stadium. That day was devastating. During the 2004 season, those same fans got to watch the Eagles beat the Falcons in the NFC Championship game; that victory secured a Super Bowl matchup against the Patriots. What kind of day was today going to be?

The last group to fill the Jetro parking lot was the general boozing public. With a rare January forecast in the fifties, every fan of day-drinking in the area joined the Vikings and Eagles fans for the pre-game. There were nearly twice as many tailgaters as usual. Many of the non-ticketed in attendance were young students taking full advantage of syllabus week. Like those going to the game, it was easy to identify the members of this final group by their attire. Some were wearing the jerseys of teams that didn’t even make the playoffs. Many were wearing skinny jeans; the jeans were a dead giveaway. You don’t care how tight your butt looks when you are going to the game; you always go for comfort.

It was this third group that caught the attention of law enforcement. In the middle of the lot was a large concentration of drunk college kids. At least a hundred gathered around the M25 section of the lot. More and more flocked into the crowd as game-time approached. Around 3:00, the horse cops arrived. Five men with guns and badges sat atop horses at one end of the parking lot. A dozen other official looking people followed on foot as the horsemen trotted towards the drunks.   

I ran down to get a better view but kept a safe distance between myself and the horses. I keep my distance from horse cops. I know myself well enough to not trust myself enough to not pet the horse. If drunk people are around a horse, there is a 100% chance that someone will touch that horse.

Shortly after the horses arrived at the party, someone did touch a horse and was immediately collared by one of the horsemen. I saw this first mischief struggle slightly as he was passed from the horse cop to a cop who had their feet on the ground.

My attention was then drawn to another tailgater who was being dragged away from the crowd by the horse cops. The crowd cried in support of the man as he tried to wriggle free from the officer. But then he punched the horse cop. He might have caught the officer in his shin. Crowd support shifted quickly. Previously emboldened by mob mentality, that man was now on his own. A hushed murmur fell over the parking lot. The horsemen took out their clubs and beat the young drunk into submission. The crowd immediately surrounding the arrest scattered from the scene. Others moved closer to investigate the sudden change in the pitch of young screams. I had seen enough.

After watching the arrest, we decided to finish the tailgate inside the stadium. We breezed through security; the silver lining of a truncated tailgate. After sharing a few beers and our excitement in the concourse, we made our way to our seats in section 124. We weren’t the only ones anxious to get to our seats, with fourty-five minutes left till kickoff nearly the entire stadium was full. We were all there early, we were all expecting a battle.

The National Anthem is a song about the aftermath of battle. On Sunday it was the cue to begin one.

We didn’t get a battle, however. The Vikings hit first, the Eagles responded. The rest of the game was a massacre. The first few Eagles touchdowns were exhilarating. I remember feeling weightless as everyone jumped and screamed in unison. It slowly became clear that the Vikings were not going to come back. Furious support turned into euphoric celebration. A massacre turned into a party. I figured this is how the Aztecs felt after ritual human sacrifice.   

The post-battle hymn was a cacophony of horns. I slapped five with anyone who would accept it as we walked back to our car. Not even traffic could stop us, we were quickly out of our lot and onto the highway. It was there that we found silence again. The day was won; I began to dream of what could be.  

Two weeks. Super Bowl. Patriots.