Fan fights and cheap food: how a New York baseball fan fell in love with the Phillies

by Frank Hadley

In New York, hot dogs aren’t cheap. The last time a hot dog cost one dollar in Yankee Stadium, Mickey Mantle was still in high school. So I was thrilled when a friend got us tickets to a Phillies Dollar Dog game. I knew this would be a great time to chow down on some cheap dogs and maybe even watch a baseball game. But come game day, I found out that the majority of people at the game just used the hot dogs’ modest pricing as an excuse to buy more beer, and when that extra beer kicked in, they figured it wouldn’t be a huge financial loss to buy even more hot dogs – for use as projectiles. When used as weapons, hot dogs can cause drunken baseball fans to start throwing punches. The fighting and fanfare during this ballgame was so fun to witness firsthand that I couldn’t help but return to the stadium. Again, and again, and again. This is the story of how I became a Philadelphia Phillies fan.

It’s really not that hard to believe. Other than two teams holding 28 total world championships, New York baseball just isn’t worth it. I went to one Yankees game this year with my dad and girlfriend. On top of traffic that moved slower than an 80-year-old driving a moped, it cost 30 bucks for a space in the lot. When I made my way to the concession stand in the fifth inning to buy us lunch, it cost me 50 bucks to for a whopping four hot dogs, three small Cokes, and an order of French fries. It was just enough money to ensure I’d watch the rest of their season in front of a TV.

And here lies my beef with New York baseball: the whole point of being a sports fan is to see games live, not sit on a couch flipping between the game and reruns of Antiques Road Show on PBS. What’s better than sitting there with 40,000 other people sharing the stagnant smell of lucky jerseys, socks, and ball caps that haven’t been washed since the team’s last playoff win? Or screaming “DON’T DO IT!” whenever some schmuck decides to propose to his girlfriend via the electronic scoreboard. Or shouting insults of opposing players’ personal lives as they come up to bat (Larry Wayne, anyone?). When you go to a game in New York, all you can think about is your financial security and how it’s been violated by a baseball game.

To go to a Phillies game, however, is nowhere near the financial massacre. With a third of the stadium holding ticket prices of $14, a pro ballgame is only a dollar or two more than a night at the movies. Should you actually get tickets before they sell out in New York, it’s a $25 minimum; Ebay scalpers are usually your only (overpriced) bet. In Philly you can get tickets minutes before the first pitch. This means a lot more people show up who don’t care if they waste a few bucks by getting kicked out early for fighting.

Such was the case at a game this past season at Citizens Bank Park. It happened to be Memorial Day. At some point before the seventh inning, two shirtless guys in their mid-20s came strutting into our section. Adorned with the words “NAVY VET” written in Sharpie across their backs, they demanded to know who threw a hot dog at them. It was hard not to notice the irony in self-proclaimed sailors getting excited over a wiener.

Lacking a clear answer and throwing around incoherent expletives, they decided some kid in the top row must be the culprit. Drunk and staggering up a long flight of stairs, they were not in shape for a fight. That didn’t stop them. A full-fledged brawl broke out. It screeched to a halt as Shirtless Guy #1 was kicked and tumbled down the stairs. The only thing that stopped him from the 30-foot plunge into the lower section was a pane of Plexiglas at the bottom of the stairs – I presume it was installed there for just this reason. Within minutes security arrived to eject all participating drunkards. Then it began to rain hot dogs. Like B-52s taking out an ammunitions depot in World War II, dozens of hot dogs set their crosshairs on blue-shirted security guard targets. Five or six soon-to-be-ejected fans in tow, the security guards retreated with humiliating red-and-yellow stains on their shirts. Once they left, we settled down to watch the rest of the game.

I didn’t care what the score was after the final pitch. That was the most fun I had had at a baseball game since I met Bobby Bonilla in the parking lot when I was nine. The Phillies themselves were secondary to sitting among the most obnoxious, vulgar, and awesomely alcoholic fans to be found in a major league ballpark. This would never happen in New York, full of its highbrow businessmen complaining about the gum they just stepped in with their $1,000 ostrich-skin shoes. From now on I’m sticking to Phillies games. I’ll just make sure not to wear my old Daryl Strawberry jersey to the stadium.