Walking into the Jets vs. Pats game two weeks ago, I had an unfortunate accident.
It was around 3:50 p.m., and my father and I were traveling upward on the escalator-to-hell toward the 300-level.
There were thousands of Joeys from Staten Island and Francos from Flushing harassing Pats fans, proclaiming, “WE FUCKING GOT IT THIS YEAR, CHEATAHS! AHHHHH! SUCK A FAT BLOODY SOCK, COCK!”
Approaching the top of the escalator, I turned back my head and peered back into a sea of green …
SNAP! FUCK!
My three-year old leather reef sandal — which clung to my foot like a spray-on condom — was instantly devoured by the escalator’s gaping mouth.
I instantly reacted, dodging past the herd of fans coming off the people-mover. The sandal was wedged right at the top, so I reached down and grabbed for it — nearly getting Trent Green’d by a portly guy in a Mangold jersey.
The sandal’s seams shredded with the third tug, ripping the rubber sole directly off the flipflop.
Needless to say, I was forced to walk around barefoot for the entire game. The walk up the stairs to our seats was interesting.
“Where’s ya fucking-a shoe, asshole?!?!?!”
“Is that for-a fucking-a good luck, asshole?!”
A game program served as my replacement “shoe” during the game.
The walk back out to the parking lot after the game was terrifying.
And now, the sole of my foot is permanently black.
Moral of the story: No one’s more hardcore than Los.
No one.
