BEHIND ENEMY LINES

An editor puts on his Brewers uniform for the Phillies game.

Neil Janowitz

Our man lived to tell the tale. His death would have made us quite wealthy, after the lawsuit. We're mixed.

Upon arriving at Citizens Bank Park yesterday, I departed my cab amidst sniper fire. I kept my head low and, along with the two infantrywomen flanking me, attempted to move discreetly through enemy territory. Hostiles abounded, attacking on sight. My platoon of three managed to make it to our interior outpost relatively unscathed, but therein found little protection. Cowering behind the modest ramparts of section 132 row 36, a horrible truth became apparent: There were no allies in sight. We were on our own.

Well, sorta.

I'm a Brewers fan, and one whose self-preservational instincts lapsed years ago. I probably shouldn't have gone to Philly for the game, and I definitely shouldn't have gone wearing a full uniform Brewers get-up comprised of team-issued pants and socks, a pinstriped jersey and tattered hat. I'd heard stories about the harsh reception Philly fans give foreigners, but I needed to feel it for myself. The stories can't be true, I figured. Phillies fans can't be that bad.

Well, how do I put this? They are.

Yesterday, Mag editor Sarah Turcotte and Mag writer Molly Knight came with me for NLDS Game 1 in Philly. The defaming began as soon as we reached the stadium. It continued throughout the game, an endearing soundtrack of hate. Phillies fans had exhausted the "gay" entry in the Thesaurus (it also means happy!) before we even made it to will call, and I often glanced over at Sarah and Molly to find alternating looks of terror and incredulous amusement. This was like nothing we had seen or heard before.

Perhaps fortunately, the actual ballgame had a more familiar feel to it: the Brewers fell into an early hole and steadfastly refused to recover. As soon as Philly put up three in the third, the invective became more playful. A group of home fans sitting behind us even reassured us that we had nothing to worry about—Phils fans, they said, were far more civilized than Eagles fans (though they then noted that a Brewers-fan friend of theirs stayed home after nearly getting in a scrap the last time the two teams met).

During the seventh I took a walk to seek out other Brew Crewers. I found one, waiting in line for the bathroom—or, as he dubbed it, the "chamber of death." Moments later an usher exclaimed, "Brewers fan—lucky you're still standing." When I asked if anything heavy had gone down during the game, he said no—things "only get really nasty when the Mets are in town."

When the ninth rolled around and the Brewers showed a brief sign of life, I was able to walk down the aisle in full regalia without hearing even a whispered slight. The crowd had turned its focus to the ballgame. Briefly, it restored my faith: There I was—a Brewers fan alongside Phillies fans, rooting with a mutual respect for each other and the tense moment. That was what baseball is all about.

Then Corey Hart struck out with two men on, the Brewers lost and our walk back through the parking lot was awash with vulgarities even more extreme than those from before the game. This is "civilized," they say? What would they have done with Mr. Met?

Print Article . Email Article. Subscribe to The Magazine