Awesome Things #1: Fishnuts 69

“Sometimes there’s a man, well, he’s a man for his time and place.”

It’s rare that a moment comes along when these words can be said in some sort of context; aside, of course, from a quoting spree inspired by The Big Lebowski that can spontaneously explode forth from the mouths of fans of the film. My friends and I vomit up the film’s F-word laden lines often enough that I was easily able to assign this particular sentence to the man in this photo for the inaugural installment of Awesome Things.

Go ahead, call it a lack of creativity. Call it a hackish rehash of pop culture garbage. Despite the fact this piece may very well be an amalgam of both, can’t you agree that it is perfectly fitting to assign that line to a man wearing a jersey that reads “Fishnuts 69”?

Ol’ Fishnuts here is one wonderful example of what Awesome Things is dedicated to reporting. To all you willing bibliomaniacs of the word-circus herein, you’re in for a treat. See, I’ve taken a handful of photos with my three-year-old workhorse of a camera-phone that were just too difficult to describe through spoken word, yet too fantastic not to share with people. The things I’ve seen have more than earned their time in the spotlight (even if said spotlight is comparable to a book-light with a fading battery) by merely existing. The earth’s a big place. A big ridiculous place. There are far too many awesome things out there that never get the attention they deserve. I want to change that. Welcome to Awesome Things.

Philadelphia sporting events are known for their fans’ absurd displays of loyalty (and debauchery). I, myself, have done my part by booing fans and players of opposing teams, and sporting my favorite ball club’s colors. In Philadelphia, however, I’m a lightweight. I’ve seen Eagles fans standing nearly nude, covered in green and black body paint…in December…in the nosebleeds. I’ve seen a man dressed in a chicken suit wearing a Raul Ibanez jersey in the three-hundred level during a Phillies game. I’ve seen drunken revelers chug beer from wiffleball bats. I’ve seen a man boo with such masculine gusto it made several Washington Nationals turn and look into the stands. A friend of mine booed a young child to tears. Another friend saw a seemingly sweet little old lady dump a full beer on a Cowboys fan. My friends have nearly gotten into fights, nearly been ejected from games, and have been wrongfully accused of hurling racial epithets; I assure you, they were hurling only expletives that begin with the letters “F”, “S”, “A”, “B”, “P”, “C”, “D”, and “T”.

So, yes, I’m lightweight.

This past year I’ve made an effort to focus on a sport that I know very little about (that’s not to say I know all that much about any sport (I like sports, so sue me), hockey. I could never watch hockey on television. I know little to jack about the rules. Truthfully, it’s a sport I think you’ve got to grow up watching to really grasp the goings on on the ice. Nevertheless, when asked to go to a game for a friend’s birthday shindig, I went along for the ride.

I wore a Phillies shirt.

I was immediately penalized and only could kill the aforementioned penalty by zipping up my sweatshirt.

Let me be clear: Not knowing a single thing about that brutal, manly game, I loved every second of it. It’s the Icecapades meets American Gladiators. NFL Blitz meets a ballet recital. I was taken aback, impressed and terrified, shocked and wowed. I was a little boy grinning like an idiot with a hotdog clenched in my fist. Then…it was over. It ended. It was time to leave. I wanted to buy a hat, a shirt, SOMETHING! But, alas, I would have felt like a fan boy poser who has no right to wear the gear of a team he barely recognizes, that plays a sport he may never fully understand. Obviously, I vowed I’d return to learn just enough to merit, at the very least, a T-Shirt, or a hat (if one was being sold in a size large enough to fit comfortably atop my gargantuan noggin.)

On March 21st, 2010, however, I realized I would never be a Flyers fan that could fit in with the likes of those that converge in that particular arena in south Philadelphia game after game. These people, nay, these Philadelphian heroes, are a different breed. Grittier than Eagles fans, more militant than Phillies followers, these men and women are gods amongst insects. Decked out in orange and white, they wield horns, foam fingers. They scream and curse at their team, the opposing team, and each other. Amidst all of this cacophony (and, admittedly, hilarity), my friend and I witnessed a man. A man Eric and I now refer to as Fishnuts 69. As Fishnuts sidled past people in his row to find his seat, Eric and I said, in tandem, “Holy shit.” He wore a customized authentic Flyers jersey that didn’t display the name of Mike Richards, or Simon Gagne, or Danny Briere, or any other Flyer on the current roster. It simply read “Fishnuts” across his shoulder blades. And the number he chose is the funniest number a male can think of.

This, of course, was the number 69.

We tried piece together a possible way to justify the purchase of the jersey. We said maybe his name was pronounced “Feeshnoots” and he was born in 1969. Or maybe it was a gag gift he received for his birthday. Whatever the reason may be, Fishnuts, or someone close to him spent one-hundred and fifty-five dollars (before shipping (I did my research)) to get that particular name and that particular number embroidered on the back of a Flyers jersey. This was either an act of drunken stupidity, we assumed, or it was a choice made by a man to be the best dressed Flyers fan in attendance whenever he chose to attend. The fact of the matter is, Fishnuts proves that not only am I an inadequate Flyers fan, there’s also no way I’d ever have such strong feelings about any sports team that I’d be willing to deem myself Fishnuts and wear the number 69 proudly on my back to support them. I’ve got to leave that responsibility to other people far more dedicated to their squad than I.

Fishnuts 69 is a man for his time and place. In a time where sports heroes of old are being replaced by modern god-like marvels who are breaking records, bats, bones, and, in some cases (many cases, actually), laws. This new generation of athlete is over the top, incredibly dedicated (to the sport or the cash, no one knows), loud, vibrant, and absurd. This new generation of athlete requires a new type of fan: Fishnuts 69 is that fan. He’s that man. This is his time.

Now, where could I possibly fit in here? Do I even have place in professional sports fandom? More than likely the answer is a resounding “NO!” At least not in hockey, anyway. Hell, I just found out what the Philadelphia Flyers logo really is. I’m not Fishnuts 69, not by any stretch, and, well, I’ll let Sam Elliot take care of the rest. “Sometimes there’s a man—I won’t say a hero, ‘cause what’s a hero?—but sometimes there’s a man.”