Where it all began

Part 4 of 5

It was nothing more than a few football fans shooting the breeze during a smoke break at a previous prison work camp – my uncle’s prison work camp.

To my knowledge, there were only one or two football fans in the camp, but as more folks admitted – abashedly, as myself – to being Chargers fans the topic turned to tailgating and catching a game at Jack Murphy Stadium.

This was August, game tickets had been open to purchase for three weeks. On a whim, I checked ticket availability and nearly got a woody from shock as I found $50 seats available on the field level, 10 rows from the field. That’s how field level it was. If we wanted to punch Ryan Leaf in the mouth, all one of us would have to do was hurdle the railing and start swinging.

I heard the horror stories of fans from other teams needing connections to get seats to a game. Ask these fans about single-game tickets and they’d laugh their fool heads off as if I dressed my frank and berries in a miniature tuxedo and shaved a smiley face in my short hairs. So, when I saw seats available, I quickly fired off e-mails to gauge interest and the best game to attend.

When all was said or done, no one batted an eye at the $50 price tag – on our salaries, that was like a two-weeks of groceries, beer or pot (pick your poison) – and the consensus game was a Nov. 22 tilt against the Kansas City Chefs.

And while good friendships developed during my 18-month stint at my unc’s prison work camp, friendships that I knew would carry on long after I was paroled; I never thought our tailgate tradition would last nine years (we’re 5-4). Now, I can’t imagine ever not making our annual trek to Jack Murphy for our Charger tailgate tradition. In fact, it would be a sin – the punishment being a year of watching Raider games from there past four seasons – if we weren’t tailgating 10 years from now.

If you ask each Bolthead in our group what game was their favorite, I can confidently predict they’ll say this game. The game we broke our cherry on, and No. 2 on my all-time Charger memory list:

Nov. 22, 1998: Chargers 38, K.C. Chefs 37

It was a wild weekend to start.

On Friday, I was paroled from my unc’s prison work camp and to celebrate my emancipation, Funky C and Rum Punch Queen threw a house party that ended with myself, Funky C and some random new inmate (if this was a horror movie cast, this guy would be the disposable film extra who says something like, “Once I make it out of this I’m going to kiss my momma,” before getting hacked by Jason) sitting around a folding table with legs bowing from the two cases of empty beer bottles on the top. We finally crashed at 3, Saturday morning.

I returned to the scene of the crime Sunday to carpool to the game. We started our ride to the game at 9 a.m. In a day when few, if any, had cell phones, we all planned to meet at Lil’ ChargerGirl’s apartment and then caravan to the stadium, a process that proved faulty the next year.

Today, we call it base camp, because Wife, in her infinite power to be cool, creates an at-home atmosphere complete with tent, chairs, a trio of food tables and a roadside grill that’s better than our home cooker. This first year consisted of three coolers, all filled with our favorite beverage – beer, beer and beer – a small hibachi grill that cooked three small burgers and someone in the group had the presence of mind to bring some meat we could smack into patties.

There were 10 of us for that first game. Nine years later, our core group has been whittled down to five, four of which are my closest friends.

Because we were 10, and this was our chance to blow out the year and get wild at a football game, the smart guy who brought the meat also painted out letters that, if spelled right, would spell Go Chargers. Remember that, it will come back later.

Our seats were 10 rows off the field even with the west goal line. Today, I don’t even look for those seats, I look for anything under $100. And let me tell you, brothers and sisters, it's slim pickings. Fifty bones barely gets you into the parking lot nowadays.

We sat among a gaggle of Chef fans who, despite rooting for the bad guys, were good people who loved football and could take our shit and give us some back. Speaking of Chef fans, in this nine-year span, we’ve also encountered 49er fans (a-holes), Bengal fans (butt munches after finally getting a decent team), Buc fans (the few we saw seemed OK, and the one with us – ChargerFanbyMarriage - I think was scared for his life), Cardinal fans (the one who was supposed to go chickened out, which is par for the course for a bird-themed team) and Patriot fans (the few good ones are beaten into bloody lumps by the Chowder heads in the bunch). Of that bunch, Chef fans by far are the classiest I’ve found in nearly any sport.

We were feeling good at halftime. The Chargers held a tenuous 17-14 lead, having given up a touchdown late in the second quarter. Any time a Chef fan tried to give us the business, we pointed to the scoreboard. That was our answer … until Sammy Morris capped the Chefs’ opening drive with a 1-yard run. Scoreboard, the other way.

It would get worse. The Chefs put up 20 unanswered over the third quarter and two minutes into the fourth, leading 34-17 with 12 minutes remaining. Folks started picking up their crap and heading for the exits. The dude who made the signs for our group left them behind and followed suit along with three others.

Folks who head into burning buildings to save old women and their cats claim something shuts off in their head and they just react to the situation.

That’s what Lil’ ChargerGirl, Funky C, Rum Punch Queen, another disposable cast member and I did, we just reacted. We weren’t heroes; we just did what any Charger fan would do.

I grabbed a Charger flag that was discarded in a puddle of beer (I hope it was beer), stood up on my chair and waved it like I was a Civil War bugler rallying the troops and yelled keep the faith. Lil’ ChargerGirl joined the chant and before we knew we had our section shouting down any Charger fan caught exiting the row with the thoughts of beating traffic. At one point, just to protect my own hide, I shouted to the section that I was not leaving, but going to the bathroom. Unfortunately, some unscrupulous Charger fans picked up on this antic and announced the same excuse to save themselves from incessant ridiculing.

But a funny thing happened – the Chargers started coming back.

Terrell Fletcher took a Craig Whelihan handoff (rolls off the tongue like Ladanian Tomlinson and Dan Fouts, doesn’t it?) and scampered up the middle for a 4-yard touchdown.

34-24.

Keep the faith was shouted again from our section and as the camera panned our section, we quickly assembled the signs between the six of us to spell out: Go Crhrages (the second r was upside down, which was my responsibility along with the h and a). We realized we had to regroup to erase our Jumbotron gaff.

Pete Stoyanovich connected on a 50-yard field goal for the Chefs midway through the fourth, and again the path to the exit was lit up like the Vegas Strip on New Year’s Eve.

37-24. Keep the faith!

With the clock marching to the four-minute mark we watched as Whelihan led the Chargers down the field on sharp passes that were missing all season (it was Leaf’s first year). He capped by hitting tight end Freddie Jones in the middle of the end zone for a 25-yard TD strike – right in front of us. I swear, they heard our chants of keep the faith.

37-31.

Again, the camera panned our section and this time we had our game faces on. The red light glowed and we thrust up our signs spelling: Go Chargers. We jumped up and down like we just won a million bucks, and after the Chargers took the punt (Marty Shottenheimer put his offense in a bubble, giving the Bolts a shot to win it – thanks Marty) and ran it out of bounds, leading to a TV timeout, the camera came our way again. Again, we were ready.

Twice on the Jumbotron. We were stars.

With Marty Shottenheimer putting is offense into a shell, the Chargers were able to stop the Chef drive and force a punt with a little more than a minute left.

One minute to glory.

Whelihan’s arm was gold that day – it would be his lone bright spot as a Charger – and in the fourth quarter, dude couldn’t miss. He hit receivers I never heard of, but we all knew Charlie Jones’ name after the game, because live, in our corner of the end zone, he hauled in a 1-yard pass that sealed the game with eight seconds left.

38-37.

If we had cell phones, we would have called the schmucks who left the game. Although, if we did, all they’d hear were gravely whispers because our voices sounded like we just gargled with battery acid and razor blades.

But we had to remind ourselves that there was eight seconds remaining, and these were the Chargers. John Carney scooted the ball to the second level of defenders who made like the Cal kick returners, with the Chargers playing the Stanford role, but after two pitches the Chargers wrapped up the Chef ball handler and the game.

Keep the faith. 38-37.

The Chargers entered that game at 4-6. They finished the season 5-11. I’d like to think we saw their last win of the season because we kept the faith.

Our tailgate tradition has seen two weddings and we’ve brainwashed two additions with another one on the way. Like I said before, I can’t imagine a day when we won’t be staring at the Bolts schedule in June wondering what game we’ll be catching that year. But I can imagine the day when we have to buy three extra tickets – one for Funky C and Rum Punch Queen’s son (he’s already attended two. What a champ); Lil’ ChargerGirl and ChargerFanbyMarriage’s daughter (who comes to games decked out in a mini LT jersey. Another champ); and soon our Freeloader. The brainwashing will start in the hospital.

I don’t think they’ll have any trouble keeping the faith with us bending their ears about games like this.