Pomp, circumstance and my pressbox bagel

“You'd better be pulling for Navy,” said the gentleman with the face made of fine, Corinthian leather.

“At ease soldier,” I replied. “I’m with The Examiner so I’m not supposed to be cheering for anyone.”

“Well, then you gotta go,” he said.

“Sir, don’t make me use this,” I quipped as I whipped out my press pass.

His laughter informed me that our Cold War was over and I soon discovered the parking lot Poseidon was a retired Navy veteran from Virginia Beach named Brad Sike. He told me he’d been to so many Army-Navy games he, “lost count around 1987.”

“I’ve been to them all,” he said. “This game means so much, I wouldn’t miss it.”

After saluting Sike so-long, I power walked my way through the parking lot and got stuck in the sea of sailors stepping into the stadium. I was surrounded by officers, and because I’m no gentleman, I broke formation and double-timed it through the bushes directly to the press entrance.

I was so thoroughly searched by the security guard manning the gate, I fully expected him to say, “You’re in the Army now,” as he sent me on my way. I’m not saying he was invasive, but the only cavity he didn’t search was the one in my right bicuspid.

Following my inspection, I gingerly walked to the elevator and headed up to the media Mecca where my breakfast awaited.

As soon as I walked into the breakfast nook, I saw Navy broadcaster and acclaimed sportswriter John Feinstein. He was wearing a U.S. Open sweater that looked like it had been around since the U.S. opened in 1776. “At least I outdressed him,” I said to my bagel. Neither my bagel nor Feinstein laughed at my remark.

I returned to my seat and looked out admirably at the huddled, quilt-covered masses braving the frigid December day. Then I banged on the glass separating us and did my best Marcel Marceau to inform them how warm and cozy I was. I received a one-finger salute from a man whose wind-blown hair rivaled Donald Trump’s comb-over. (Sir, if you’re reading this, I think you are No. 1, too.)

The press box was full of sights and sounds, including the gentleman seated behind me battling the whooping cough and/or a sinus infection. When he launched a tiny phlegm bomb onto my shoulder during a coughing fit, I asked Examiner sports editor Jon Gallo if there was such a thing as secure air space in the press box. He looked at me like I was a moron.

Once Army and Navy parachutists descended into the stadium, the pomp and circumstance was in full-bloom. I’m guessing it was windy since they started their jumps somewhere over Catonsville. When it looked as if one guy was going to miss the stadium completely, I got scared for his safety.

“You think landing in the wrong spot in Iraq is scary, try touching down uninvited in Pigtown wearing parachute pants and a nap sack,” I said to Gallo.

When I loudly asked if the powdery substance coming from the jumpers’ boots was “Agent Orange,” Examiner staff writer Ron Snyder encouraged me to, “Never speak again.” I want to thank Ron for that bit of advice because I would’ve yelled “O” during the National Anthem and probably would’ve been escorted out.

As the teams ran onto the field, Navy mascot, “Bill the Goat” narrowly escaped being trampled by the Midshipmen. The Army mule was not as lucky, as he nearly fumbled his head after getting tripped around the 40-yard line. Little did I know: That would be the hardest hit anyone wearing an Army uniform would have all day.

Because I was laughing so hard at the Mule getting kicked, I missed the jets flying over. I did manage to see the not-so-exciting helicopter fly-by, but if you’ve ever lived in Baltimore, you see helicopters everyday.

I’ll let the real reporters take it from here. The game before the game was enough for me.

Tony Giro is a lifelong Baltimore sports fan who blogs on examiner.com for fans. If you subscribe — it’s free — you’ll be emailed each time Tony posts a column. He can be reached at timeout@baltimoreexaminer.com. And yes, he’s still bitter about the Skipjacks and Bullets leaving town.