A Strange Phobia

There were two relevant instances when I was truly certain that I had barely cheated death.


January 2000. Superbowl 34. Rams vs. Titans.


A few days after.


I was face planted against a STD infested steel pole, traveling 40 miles per hour with rapid stops. Each time the sliding doors would open, more people were cramming themselves onto the platform. From my rear, I was damn near sodomized by an unidentified large mouth breather and was getting groped from the front by a toothless hobo. All the pushing and shoving was forcing the relentless metal rod against my nether regions, almost to the point of a grinding arousal. The consolidated air reeked of sweat and booze and I was convinced that the legal 72 occupant capacity had been exceeded by almost triple that amount.


No, it wasn’t another night at the strip joint.


Being 20 years old, my buddies and I thought it would be a splendid idea to head on downtown to the Ram’s victory parade. Little did I know that everyone else that lived within a 20 mile radius of the Gateway to West had the same intentions.


And they all insisted on the Metrolink as their trusted means of transportation.


My second near death experience was at an outdoor 311 concert roughly 10 years ago. It rained that day and the Alpine muddy slopes of Riverport combined with a bunch of intoxicated fools created a recipe for disaster when the concert adjourned. What ensued could’ve been classified as a textbook landslide and I was smack dab in the middle of the stampede. I was somehow pushed off of the steps and onto the slippery incline RIGHT when the other patrons were uncontrollably barreling down the hill. I bruised my tail bone and received a swift blow to the noggin that would make Bisbing cringe and thank his lucky stars that he wasn’t in my shoes. 
         

Yes, I face planted that night as well.


Both of these experiences contributed to an odd little anxiety that I’ve developed:  Enochlophobia, the fear of crowds.


Although I am fully appreciative of the monumental event that is taking place in my beloved city this week, I have no desire to attend.  Even if I had the monetary fortune that would allow me to purchase the ungodly priced tickets, I would still be apprehensive of traveling downtown to the All Star game. Sure, I might catch a brief glimpse of Nelly, Ashanti or Halle Berry, I could witness a rivaly between Pujols and Jeter and ABOVE ALL, I could cheer on President Obama as he throws the legendary first pitch (I’m feeling tingly just thinking about it). Yes, that would be wonderful.


If it were a stadium of just me.


And since I know that is not going to happen, I’m going to settle for viewing the game in the comfort of my own home.


I know, I’m a big, fat killjoy. On Tuesday, I should haul my kid to the guts of the mosh pit so that he can experience the most important event in St. Louis’ recent history but because of my distress over large assemblies of the liquored up, I will pleasantly refrain. Most of you would argue that there is a certain ambiance that accompanies being “part of the crowd” and I would agree. I’m also not disputing the tourism revenue that is sure to profit our city as well as the national attention on the Lou. I mean Christ, it’s about time we are put back on the map.


I just don’t want to end up with a fat lip and aching nipples.


Maybe I’m looking for excuses when in reality, it’s a jealousy thing; I loathe those who can afford to take the day off (two days if you are indulging in the ice cold Budweiser goodness) of work to attend the game. You are fortunate considering that out of my VAST network of friends, I know of one single acquaintance that will be attending the game.


Yes, if you are going to the game tomorrow, I envy you.

I yearn for your courage against the herds, the parking, the potential for rain and the mile long lines.


If I wasn’t cursed with this blasted disorder, I’d been facing the crowds right along with you. But my predicament will keep me on the couch with a Salisbury Steak tv dinner, my post workout clothes, the game on the tube and my alarm clock set for 5 am.


And if the camera man should pan to where you are sitting, give me a wave, a smile and raise your glass to me.


I’ll smirk knowing that later, you’ll be fighting the crowd as I’m dreaming sweetly.