“Everyone, remember you were here for the downfall of Tom Brady!”
Spoony runs the joint and he can be an abrasive chap if you catch him on a bad day.
A few weeks back on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I snuck out for a quick pint and when I arrived at the pub I asked if I was allowed to sit at the bar. A fair question in COVID times I’d say.
Spoony wasn’t so accommodating: “Whadda ya think the fucking chairs are there for?”
But today he’s alive with energy, and so is his pub. It’s Irish and nestled a few doors down from the whack-jobs and vape-heads on South Street. Nothing special or hipster about it, just a local boozer where locals booze.
Tom Brady and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are playing the LA Rams in an NFL playoff game on the TVs and there’s not a single Brady fan in earshot.
Smug energy fills the bar and it doesn’t take long for me to learn why. Before I can even sit down, the older man to my left with hunched shoulders and spotty skin greets me like a friend and eagerly tells me how Brady’s been called for the first personal foul of his career.
“20 fucking years he’s been playing, not one personal foul. Unbelievable!” He says.
“He’s a pussy!” Adds someone else from behind me.
“Aww, poor Tommy!”
Philadelphia sports fans at their finest.
The beauty of drinking at the bar is that every conversation has an open-door policy. Anyone can come in or out as they please. In a manner of minutes, I’m brought up to speed on both the game and Brady’s approval rating in the bar.
I like to play Switzerland in situations like these, especially in Philadelphia with a fanbase as unforgiving as their cheesesteaks are greasy. So today, I’m rooting against the champ and thirsting for a Rams win. It’s probably the best way to get on Spoony’s good side, too. Which is where I want to be.
He casts a large shadow, Spoony, like an industrial fridge. Bald as a bowling ball, he lunks behind the bar in rusty strides but hot damn, he knows how to pour a Guinness and keep a legion of drunks happy.
To my right, in the corner, sits a middle-aged man wearing a weathered Eagles cap. I accidentally acknowledge him by making eye contact for a split second so he tells me that his friend or nephew or someone is at the game. They have season tickets. We go back and forth about the stadium and sports in Tampa Bay before returning our gaze to the game.
In the seat between him and me sits another soon-to-be friend. I’m guessing he must be 6 foot 5 or 6. Heavy-set. Workingman's hands. He’s towering over a pint of cider next to an empty shot glass that Spoony pours whiskey into without asking.
The guy in the baseball cap pipes up when the coverage shows Brady with a bloodied lip in slow-motion. “Looks like lipstick, haha!” He’s talking to no one in particular but someone sends an answer from my left, down the other end of the bar.
“I bet if he throws a pick he says he’s injured!”
“Pussy!” Says another.
Spoony holds court underneath the main TV, he’s watching the game but never loses sight of a thirsty patron. I decide to get a whiskey shot, too, because I don’t want to be the only one nursing one drink at a time.
At one point, as the excitement of the game grows, Spoony beats his chest with his fists like a rowdy gorilla. No one seems to notice. Or if they do, they don’t care.
When the halftime break commences, he mutes the TV and turns the music on. Meat Loaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light sings through the speakers and everyone hums quietly into their drinks out of what feels like respect for the lost rock icon.
I look over to my left to see the fellow who greeted me and notice he’s texting someone about the Tom Brady foul he was so excited about earlier. I can read his text because he’s using the extra-large font.
For a guy who loves his simple pleasures, it doesn’t get much better than this. A couple of cold pints on a dreary Sunday in Philly, sports on the TV, and some boozed-up conversations of nonsense.
Life needn’t be that complicated sometimes.
Of all the beer joints in all the towns in all the world - you - walk into Spoony’s. Haha, great snapshot of local life, Allan! 😊