Green Smoke

By Frank West

“My name is Frank West. I’m a police detective and the best fucking tailgater you’ll ever meet.” That was my first line on Food Network’s Chopped, Season 31 Episode 2, titled “Tailgate Greats,” after which yours truly was crowned Champion, and pretty much how I started on the road to “Superfandom.” I can drone on and on about bizarre predicaments I have found myself in chasing my beloved NY Jets over the past 38 years, but Green Smoke asked me to speak a bit on my trip to London, so here we are. I’ll occasionally drop the line “that’s a story for another time” if I feel myself at risk of diversion, and if enough are interested in a particular story, I can write a follow-up piece should Green Smoke desire. I hope I don’t take too much of your time, and as those of you that know me will attest, I go balls out on everything, be it my fandom, my cooking, or, in this case, my storytelling, so please bear with me as I tell you about my first trip to London and what would become My Three-Day Reign over what felt like the world.

Step 1: Game Planning and Preparation

When the rumors were confirmed that the Jets were in fact playing in London, I immediately reached out to my boots on the ground, that being my beloved Gang Green UK members, Anth Cook, Nic Grant, and John Bradley. I’ve met dozens of GGUK members over the years, but it seems that Anth, Nic, and John possess the constitution to not only deal with my antics but embrace them, so who better to start my strategizing with than guys on the other side of the pond.

Having a flair for the dramatic I knew I wanted to do something that would make some waves, but I had never been to England, and it’s hard to have your finger on the pulse of a nation, especially one you’ve never even visited, so anything I was going to do had to be vetted by my guys. I immediately began watching abnormal amounts of television, movies, social media posts, etc., stemming from the UK. I am talking about everything from Monty Python and Benny Hill to dramas and documentaries. I was getting nowhere fast, although my Cockney accent impersonation was improving. Then one day, by happenstance, I turn the TV on to find Braveheart playing, and not only is it playing; it’s on the iconic monologue, “Aye, run and you may live…” and BOOM! I’m visualizing myself wearing a kilt, standing on a bar, saying, “Let me guess, you heard Frank West was 7 feet tall and shoots lightning bolts out his arse!” …. Chant with me; we may win…” but I had to clear it with the boys.

To say John was excited was an understatement. He began texting and emailing me different tartans in green and white, white and green, anything to match the Jets color scheme. But Braveheart was about a revolution against England; how would this be received in London? “Nah mate, it’s all in good fun,” Anth ensured, so I picked out a medieval-looking blousy shirt and began my search for a man’s wig with a Nordic braid.

The Audible

April rolls around, and my work assignment changes. Without getting into specifics, the unit I am reassigned to does not have a facial hair policy, and having watched the stubble on my face get whiter and whiter every day over the past 22 years as I shaved, I saw an opportunity to, for once in my life, don my Jet Green Santa ensemble without the need for wig and beard. On June 1st I stopped shaving every day, save but to clean up the lines so as not to look scraggly.

Fast forward to the first week of August and Hall of Fame Week in Canton, Ohio, an event I attend annually with the rest of my Pro Football’s Ultimate Fan Association, PFUFA, family, but that’s a story for another time. The important takeaway is that running into my brothers and sisters from the PFUFA for the first time with facial hair took them by surprise. It wasn’t until my NFL brother Keith Smith, aka Crusader Raider, from London, asked, “Will you be wearing your Jet Green Santa uniform in London?” The HORROR! All the planning for Braveheart was now out the window. Braveheart didn’t have a beard, and I have to be as authentic as possible, or I’ll lose sleep. What could I do besides go back to the drawing board? I made a deal with myself: I’ll just google “British” and find something in the results to work with.

Flags, Tower Bridge, Big Ben, none of which helped. I keep scrolling. Beefeater? Maybe. Then there he was, Charlie Charlie Charlie! A quick text to Nic and Anth to confirm my dressing as a king of sorts wouldn’t piss anyone off, and I’d be set. “Nah mate, get out of your head; it’ll be fun. So long as your crown is St. Edwards style.” St. Edwards Style? What the hell does that mean? Back to Google. Ok, now I’ve got it. I basically throw the logo for Crown Royal on my head, and I’m legitimate.

Search after search with negative results. I couldn’t find a St. Edwards-style crown for sale anywhere, let alone one that was green and white, so I had to take matters into my own hands and make one. So what would an over-the-top superfan do next? You guessed it: download every picture of King Charles at his coronation wearing said crown, Google search his bio data, determine the measurements of his crown with the scale I just created, make it out of cardstock, call in a favor from a friend with a metal shop to cut it out of aluminum, weld it together, call in a favor from a tailor friend to craft the velvet/fur lining, order every Jets lapel pin and keychain I can attach to add to the authenticity, then contact the Queen of Bedazzling herself, Liz Mueller, to adorn my creation with green and white gems. I thought it was the obvious route.

What would a king wear besides the crown? Back to the coronation photos. Scour Etsy for someone to make me a green velvet robe with fur lining, and ironically find a lovely woman that resides in London to make it and ship it to NJ; check! Do I go with John’s kilt? Not with the robe. And what about the shirt and pants? Well, no self-respecting king should be seen in anything less than a Wesley Walker uniform, so why not? Let’s call in another favor to modify a pair of on-field pants to have some pockets, and we’re set. And just to give a bit more context to this situation, this is all being done on the road in Canton whilst cooking for several hundred people during the Hall of Fame Week festivities. I never claimed to be normal.

I love it when a plan comes together!

The pieces begin coming in one at a time, and I continue to check every item with my brain trust, in this case, Anth and Nic, if for no other reason than they are English, and I am fully aware of their ability to keep secret superfan affairs under wraps. (Operation Vegas Flag, if you know, you know.) I was getting positive vibes every step of the way, which was a breath of fresh air, seeing how I outsourced the robe. This was the first crown I ever attempted to build, and I don’t believe anyone has ever sewn up pad compartments and installed zippers on the thighs of football pants. I was starting to relax a bit after a few weeks of panicking that things either wouldn’t be done in time or otherwise not look right.

ETD 48 hours

So in all the excitement, I will admit I didn’t think to ask my bride if she was coming with me. I know that sounds HORRIBLE, but you have to understand, I am not treating this as a vacation of any kind; this superfan nonsense is serious business, and she outwardly refuses to get caught up in my shenanigans, questioning me countless times, “Why the hell don’t you just go to the game like a normal person? Why does everything have to be a production?” which tells me she gets it, but she doesn’t get it. My lack of planning was not a problem; getting one 5’1” woman to England would be easy; I could have put her in a carry-on if I had to. However, with a little help from a friend who would remain nameless (you know who you are 😉), we found a flight. The only caveat was she would leave a day before me.

With less than 48 hours to my departure, Mrs. West is going batshit crazy trying to decide what to bring and pack her bags when she queries, “Are you gonna pack?” I asked what she meant, which, in her frenzied state, further infuriated her. “For England! You are leaving in two days, and you haven’t packed!” She belted out in a tone that emulated a screeching eagle or a seagull. I mean, she is only 5’1”, so a sparrow maybe, whatever. I pointed to my suitcase and said, “I’ve been packed for days.” My little queen violently threw open my luggage and made her observations known: “There’s nothing here but your king shit, four pairs of underwear, and four pairs of socks!” I responded, “Well, yeah, I brought an extra pair just in case there’s an accident.” I thought it was funny as hell; her not so much. “Are you serious right now? You’re only packing this?” she asks. “I mean, yeah. I don’t wanna be a show-off and flex with all the different shirts and pants I have.” Mrs. West was not amused; however, I still crack up every time I think of it.

Pre-Game Jitters

I’d be lying to you if I told you it’s easy to throw on some crazy getup and march around like you own the place. At home, Jetlife Stadium, no problem. I’ve been doing it for years, and it’s almost expected of me at this point. I can’t tell if people are laughing with me or at me half the time, and quite frankly, I don’t care. People are laughing, so if I brighten someone’s day at my own expense, so be it. This, however, is different. I have seven hours in a flying tube to think about how this isn’t only an away game, but it’s another country that speaks a completely different version of the same language (example: spotted dick stateside, you get a shot of antibiotics; in London it’s served with tea, just saying). I’ve got a few doubts and even more butterflies in my stomach as I board the plane.

O’Brien to Walker

A little bit of a red herring with that title. It’s an inside joke between me and my gal. She is the worrying type and demands I tell her when I land, which I always forget, so a few years ago I started reliving that fateful day that roped me into this whole mess, that being September 21st, 1986, every time a pilot says, “We’re beginning our final approach; make sure your seat belts are fastened and seatbacks and tray tables are in the upright position as we come in for our landing.” If you know me, I’ve told you the story a thousand times. I got to my first-ever game late, missing nearly the first half. I got to my seat, and it happened: my favorite player of all time, Wesley Walker, lined up directly in front of me, maybe 100 feet away. O’Brien, under center, takes the snap, looking left, looking left, draws off the coverage, and then fires down the middle. He’s got Walker: TOUCHDOWN! Right about there is where the wheels hit the ground, and I text Kristina, “O’Brien to Walker.” She gets it.

So I’m walking through Heathrow, and around it, and under it, and quite frankly you need to figure out a better layout because I’m too old or too lazy to be walking 16 miles to get to ground transportation, but then it happened. A very nice security guard corralled our tour group into this little waiting area for some unknown reason, begging our forgiveness for the delay, assuring us it would only be a moment, and they were just trying to load some buses. A few dainty little ladies then marched into the area we were being held in, which additionally held a restroom, at which point I noticed the tiniest little Vikings logo on one of their sleeves. This was the Minnesota cheerleading squad stopping to use the “loo,” as it is called in the UK, after their flight. I took it upon myself to welcome them to England with a spelling lesson, wink wink, as they exited the restroom.

After a few laughs with the rest of my tour group, I took a quick survey of the area we were being restricted from entering, and I noticed a few larger fellows wearing the same dull gray jumpsuits with the same little Vikings logo. We were being delayed so the opposition could board their buses. There was one thing to do. Throw open the suitcase, don the King apparel, and harass the shit, shite, whatever, out of the Vikings! Pre-game jitters: gone! I was in full superfan mode, declaring war on the Vikings and offering mercy to anyone who would kneel before me. I was relentless, dare I say borderline annoying, until former Jets guard and current Viking Dan Feeney walked out a few steps ahead of Sam Darnold, and I heard him say, “Santa? Is that you?” Can you believe I was speechless, albeit for 0.33 seconds, after which I exclaimed, “He remembers me; you will be spared!” I then gave my regards to Sam. I had met him one-on-one a few times, and he was always polite/respectful, and I don’t believe he was given a fair shake by the NY media, but that’s another story altogether.

I have ARRIVED!

After a long flight, and what seemed like an even longer bus ride, I arrived at the Royal Horse Guard to find my room wasn’t yet ready. I was disappointed on many levels. You see, we had made arrangements for a nice, quiet English breakfast with my brain trust; however, the delay caused by the Vikings, as well as the miserable rate of vehicular travel through England, led me to be too late for breakfast, yet too early for check-in. What was I to do? I have an “ah ha” moment when I realize my bride is a few blocks away at another hotel near Trafalgar Square. And before you go judging me, i.e., “He forgot about his wife again?” this is superfan business; I kind of black out and go on autopilot when things get moving. Mrs. West gets plenty of attention, but those stories are none of your business! 😜

I check my bags and take the walk to Trafalgar Square and meet my Kris at a rooftop breakfast bistro overlooking the Square. Now she had told me how nice everyone had been, going so far as to say the woman at the bistro had complimented her on her wedding ring, and she had asked me to meet her here, seeing how I would likely be super busy all weekend, but she had no idea when I would be arriving, so I figured I would have some fun. As the hostess asked how many would be dining, I saw Kristina’s face light up, and she began walking to the entrance, at which time I waited until she was within earshot, I flipped open my wallet, exposing my badge, and began talking loud and fast. “I’m Detective West. I’m looking for a woman with long brown hair, hazel eyes, 5’1” tall, wearing an emerald ring. I’m here to place her under arrest!” I could see it in the hostess’s face; she wanted to cover for her, and there was a fleeting moment when she attempted to step in front of me, then decided against it. “You’re such a jerk,” Kristina said, and the staff erupted into laughter. “Now that I think about it, she told me you were a police officer and Santa Claus for the Jets,” the hostess said. My bride gives me a rash of shit over the superfan nonsense, but when I’m not around, she seems to be talking positively about me quite a bit.

We had a little something to eat: bangers and mash, some beans and tomato, and black and white puddings, but hotel style, not what I and the boys had planned. I let the gang know I was on the ground and firmed up our plans for the evening, Redwood Sports Pub & Kitchen, 7pm GMT. I headed to the room and took a power nap. I was gonna need to hit reset before I went off the rails with the guys.

As I exit the taxi in front of the pub, I see a few familiar faces, Wayne Chrebet, Tony Richardson, and Laveranues Coles. Tony was the first to recognize me. “Man, Frank, you went all out!” he said. Wayne just smiled and admitted he didn’t recognize me with the beard, and Laveranues just shook his head, almost in disbelief, and asked, “Are you going to this thing?” I said yes and then told them I was surprised they were. I didn’t know Anth and Nic had reached out to them. They let me in on the whole radio show, podcast, or whatever the hell it was they were doing that I had no idea about. For a minute I began to think, “Am I that out of touch?” I used to know every facet of what the team was doing, when, and where; now I’m just going places and doing things around the team, but football is only a small part of it. I’m more interested in seeing my Jets family.

We continued on our way into the establishment and were met by a couple of larger gentlemen at the entrance to the outdoor section of the pub. One of the men looks to Wayne and asks if he is here for the event, whilst the other, larger of the two (6’5” 300#’s), looks at me and says, “Your Highness,” as he moves the gate for me to enter. I look at Wayne and say, “It’s good to be the king.” I was being facetious, but I had no idea how prophetic a statement I had just made as Wayne, Tony, and Laveranues laughed.

Then there they were, my holy trinity of UK brethren, Anth, Nic, and John. All ear-to-ear smiles, all excited to see me. We exchanged hugs, having not seen each other in a long while, at which time I remember I had just walked in with Jets royalty; I casually said, “You guys have met Tony, Wayne, and Laveranues, right?” My guys couldn’t have been less interested, just saying “Hi” to the players as they continued on their way, assuring me we would catch up later. Nope, my friends, my brothers, wanted to spend a few minutes with “Their King.” I’ll admit, at the time I was just as happy to see them, so the moment passed me by, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you I’m teary-eyed as I type this. Anyway, moving on. Nic breaks up the ‘hug fest’ and says, “If you don’t mind, come with me,” at which time he walks to the front doors of the pub, throws them open, and screams, “MAKE WAY FOR HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, THE KING!” What was a roaring crowd breaks down to a low rumble as everyone’s eyes were averted to the doorway where I stood wearing this homemade regal ensemble. The ‘silence’, though extremely brief, was deafening, after which the roar resumed, now coupled with laughter, and a few off-time Jets chants broke out. People were laughing; mission accomplished.

The rest of the night was something else. All the energy of a game, all the accoutrements of a tavern. Jets chant after Jets chant, picture after picture, and so on and so forth until the Red Bulls got to me. Something I hadn’t planned on, having to use the “loo,” I was directed to the second floor of the establishment when I heard another familiar voice in the crowd, “Frank? This, this, you’ve outdone yourself.” Chris Johnson exclaimed. In addition to the show the former players would be doing, the Jets front office had a get-together upstairs. It’s always good talking to Chris. To his credit, he always seems to value any feedback I give him, but now is not the time. Nature is calling, so I excused myself and handled business.

I got through it; let’s leave it at that, so I went back to the boss and had a bit of chinwag. “This is outstanding; you need to do this every game,” Chris said. I told him I thought it was a bit much; he insisted it wasn’t. We agreed to disagree, and I left it up to the team, stating if they win whilst wearing it, it will be deemed good luck, and I will continue to do so until proven otherwise. We shook on it; the deal had been cut. We snapped a photo, after which I knighted Chris and advised him he now outranks his brother.

With Day One in the books, I was starting to feel like royalty. I tried not to get too full of myself, because, quite frankly, I am certain I would have received the same treatment from Gang Green UK had I shown up wearing a tee shirt and jeans. These are my guys; we fly together, we cry together. Jet fans for LIFE.

A Man About Town

“As part of your exclusive Jetaways package, you will receive a tour of London on an iconic double-decker bus.” Sensational! Sounds great! Anything to keep the Mrs. happy, but I’m just looking forward to spending a bit more time with my friends. I had no choice but to make the best of it, which entailed me standing on the top of the bus and screaming to every Jets fan I saw, as well as screaming at any Vikings fans I had seen. This was unmitigated entertainment. I had the streets of London belly laughing for a few hours, and I forgot about my tour group. They needed an oxygen mask after the show I put on. As part of the tour, we were to stop at a few landmarks for photo ops. I assumed the people on the tour would take pictures of said landmarks, but on that particular day I was a landmark.

Scenic Tower Bridge overlook, a line of people 10 or 15 deep to take pictures with the King.

Big Ben, with a line of people 20 or 30 deep to take pictures with the King.

Buckingham Palace, line of people… Go to Google Maps, select satellite view, be my guest, and try to count the heads lined up to take pictures with me. I’m not sure it could be calculated.

I did advise the guard at the Palace they were doing an amazing job and could take the rest of the day off. The real guards, by the way, are around the corner with assault rifles. I received a “Thank you, Sire,” but those fellas are dedicated and stood guard on their own time thereafter.

Now you may not know this about me, but since I’ve been an adult, I have disregarded my mother’s advice, and I do talk to strangers. Some of my favorite strangers to talk to are taxi drivers. So upon conclusion of our bus tour, we hopped in a cab and headed to Barrowboy and Banker to meet with Keith Smith (Crusader Raider). All the way I asked the driver the stirring questions, “What’s that?” as I pointed at a phone booth, “What’s that?” as I pointed at the overground platform, and “Is that Moby?” as we passed a bald fella riding a bike with some kind of techno music playing from his handlebar-mounted radio. I believe he was relieved to let me out of his car.

First order of business when meeting a fellow PFUFA member on the road: Coin Shot. If you are unfamiliar with the term, we are each issued an official PFUFA coin upon induction, and we coin check one another from time to time to make sure you have your prized possession on your person. If not, the party that failed to produce their coin will buy a round when applicable or do a predetermined number of push-ups on the spot. Everyone knows I don’t drink, so they’re sure to have their coin because they don’t want to push the floor.

The second order of business when meeting on the road, at least for me, is to look for tailgate inspiration in the local fare. So I ordered up the menu. In the case of The Barrowboy and Banker, I went straight down the page. Scotch eggs (wrapped in haggis), Yorkshire pudding, fish and chips, a proper meat pie, etc. Throw it all on the table, and the only rule here is take what you want, but eat what you take. I didn’t tell them about the haggis until the second half of that rule was completed. Sidebar: Since I’ve been home, I have recreated all the abovementioned dishes with the Frank West flair, but that’s a story for another time.

After our meal, Keith, Vinny, and I played a bit of catch-up before Kristina got his ear. After all, Keith had just given Vinny and me “English” lessons in Canton a few short months ago, whereas Kris hadn’t seen him in a year, so they talked as I took in the sights of Borough Market. All I could think to myself was I can get used to this, and I’m not referring to the people tipping their hats and calling me Sire, Your Majesty, or Highness, or asking to take pictures; no, that’s all well and good and does wonders for one’s ego, but I mean the sights, sounds, and smells of Borough Market. I was captivated by the volume of traffic and the amazing assortment of foods. I was awestruck. I could have spent the entirety of my stay just walking and watching these people, masters of their crafts, cooking and baking, buying and selling, cutting and preparing items. It was poetry in motion. A foodie’s dream. At one point I was so caught up in watching an instructor at a school for butchery that I didn’t even realize I was distracting the class. The students had been taking turns standing in the window next to me and getting a photo with the King, but my perceptual narrowing fired up, and I was unequivocally dialed in on what the professor was doing, so I hadn’t noticed them until Kristina started laughing, “I’m having fun watching them watching you watch them.” She’s not a big drinker, so I think the wine from lunch was starting to hit her.

Our time with Keith had come to an end. He had to make his way back home, and we had a dinner date on a river cruise, for which my queen had to get ready, so it was back to the hotel.

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we FLY!

One thing my wife will swear to is that I won’t eat before a game. I can’t explain it. I have catered tailgates with over a thousand people in attendance, preparing hundreds of pounds of food that people insist is “the best they’d ever eaten” (their words, not mine), but I couldn’t tell you what it tastes like, because I have no appetite on game day. So the night before I get it in. If you’ve had the good fortune/misfortune of sitting with me at a game, you already know it’s full speed ahead in turbo mode until the clock reads 00:00, so I have to fuel the fire. In this particular case, Jetaways arranged a dinner cruise on the river Thames, but it’s a large vessel, and we weren’t the only tour group on board.

The Vikings fans on board fired the first shot, albeit a generous one. A nice young lady, believe it or not, from Green Bay was in town to support her Vikings (I’m still scratching my head on that one), and she had sent a bottle of champagne to my table. It was a nice gesture and a sign of good sportsmanship; her miscalculation was in the timing. Mrs. West had gone to the ladies room when it showed up, and upon her return, she demanded an explanation. I told her the truth; it was from a Vikings fan, but that wasn’t good enough. She wanted to know which one. At the risk of starting an international incident, I began peace accords, pointing out to the queen she was the one wearing the crown, and I was likely 20 years the girl’s senior, but that didn’t help. I had to get down and dirty here. As we discussed earlier, my bride isn’t a big drinker, and she’s been drinking wine all day, so I need to end this quickly. “Look at me. Do you think anyone dressed like this would have anything to do with a Vikings fan?” For some reason, that made sense in her slightly inebriated state. I excused myself and told her there was a pretty young Jets fan that requested to take a private photo with me. That was, of course, a lie, but it started a civil war.

The views of London from the water were beautiful. I mean, it’s no New York, but the Thames is far narrower than the Hudson, and the buildings are a wee bit smaller, so you can take it all in a bit better. We took photos as a tour group, and of course each person wanted a one-on-one pic with the King. The Vikings fans joined us above deck for some photos, at which time I took the opportunity to offer them mercy in exchange for kissing the robe. One fan actually took me up on it; however, her companion said, “Hell no, hawk tua, I’ll spit on that thing.” This opened a can of worms she wasn’t ready for, and had you been following my Instagram story at the time, I am positive I got a laugh out of you.

The cruise came to an end, and it was time to head back to the hotel. Knowing I just antagonized my queen a bit on the boat, I had to make it up to her. I knew if we walked back to the hotel, I’d be stopped every 50 feet to take a picture. I also knew the following day would be even worse, seeing how it was game day, so I picked out a colorfully illuminated rickshaw to take us back. This made her happy. King and Queen being escorted to our hotel in a pink heart-shaped coach. I even had the fella stop so we could get ice cream. Don’t say I’m not a romantic.

Preparing for Battle

It’s game day, and this never gets old. Regardless of our record, our opponent, and in this case our location, NY Jets are about to play football, and I’m gonna do my damnedest to let them know I’m there to cheer them on. We piled into the Jetaways tour bus and started making our way to Tottenham. It was a strange feeling for me. At times I was reminded of Green Bay, where the countryside merges with the city and gives rise to a stadium. Yet some areas reminded me of Queens. Almost like it was a smaller version of Northern Boulevard leading up to Citi Field. Either way, it’s game day, and I’m focused on wrecking some Viking ass!

As we walked from the area the bus had dropped us off about a half of a mile to the stadium, I was now the center of attention. After all, it is game day, the Jets are playing, and the social media posts of the Jets King were floating around the world at this point. My favorite of which was likely from @thegreatgatsbyshow of the LA Jets fans, which included a picture of me on the top of the double-decker bus with a caption that read, “Just Frank West, doing Frank West shit,” but that’s another story. With every step, there’s another person asking for a photo, or a video crew asking for my prediction, or a little fan asking for an autograph. It’s a feeling that never gets old, and in this case people are in overdrive. I’ve never received this much fan-to-fan interaction, not even on my induction day to the Jets Fan Hall of Fame. The feeling was indescribable, and as the stadium got closer and closer, the number of fans kept growing and growing. I was the king.

The tailgate included in our tour package was literally steps from the stadium. It was an exclusive venue, but it was a Vikings home game, which meant the majority of the place was decorated purple and yellow, with just a handful of green and white tables to one side. This didn’t bother me. As a PFUFA member, I am accustomed to partying with all fans. Ribbing is ok, provided lines aren’t crossed. As long as you remember it’s ok to hate a team and not the fan, everything will work out.

As things get going, Tony Richardson makes his appearance. He was hired by the tour group to come take pictures and sign autographs for the group. Tony and I have known each other, dare I say, and been friends for a few years now. In fact, Tony is a big part of the reason I ended up on Food Network, but that’s a story for another time. On that day Tony and I signed autographs and took photos with Jets and Vikings fans alike. At one point a staff member approached T Rich and asked him if he could introduce him to me. I found that odd. After all, Tony is one of the best fullbacks of all time, and this fella is less intimidated by talking to him than he is addressing a weirdo from NJ. When T. told me the kid wanted to meet, I asked his name, put on the best dry, blank stare I could muster, approached the young man, looked through him, and said, “Kneel.” To my surprise he did it immediately, but I stayed in character, and at arm’s length I took my sceptre and touched each of his shoulders whilst saying in my deepest British voice, “In the name of Weeb Ewbank and St. Joe, I knight thee, Sir Kyle of Tottenham.” I offered him my hand and helped him up. He was ear to ear smiles, which couldn’t hold a candle to the elation I was feeling that people were entertaining my bullshit.

I left the tailgate a bit early because I wanted to see my guys who were having their own thing a ways down the road, but they were en route, so all I could do was wait and take a few hundred more photos in front of the stadium, all the time giving spelling lessons to anyone who would listen. Over the horizon, the mob appeared. All the crowd favorites. The 103 Crew, Gang Green Germany, Mikey Hulk Hands, and of course our hosts, GANG GREEN UK. The boys were popping green smoke as they marched through the streets, singing and chanting the entire way. It was a sight to behold. Part of me regretted having not walked up there sooner, yet another part of me knew it was the right move. I have integrity; I am a man of my word, and I was committed to the tour group, so I had to spend time with them, yet at the same time, had I been in the mob, I’d not have been able to have appreciated it in all its glory. Hundreds of voices ringing out as one. Every man, woman, and child moving independently through the street, yet at the same time part of a single entity. That was fandom. That is Jet Life. That is what keeps me coming back regardless of record or standing. And as I stood in the streets of Tottenham gazing at a group of people that I hold in such high regard, they continued toward me until they were upon me, then surrounded me and called me their king.

I’m crying now. I can’t type anymore. I’ll leave it there. As for the game, that’s a story for another time.

Thank you London.