- Feb 8, 2001
- 29,033
- 6
- 81
Article
AS TABLOID STUNTS go, flying in the opposing team's mascot and putting him on stage in front of 500 rabid Eagles fans before an NFL playoff game seemed like a good idea at the time.
Yeah, the thinking went, let's hang a slab of red meat dressed in a purple-and-gold Vikings jacket in front of a bunch of hungry boo birds and see what happens.
The results were predictable.
Pure, bloodthirsty bedlam.
Ragnar the Viking, the hairy, battle-ax-wielding Minnesota mascot, arrived in town on a bit of a dare from the People Paper and man-about-town Harry Jay Katz. In an interview last week, Ragnar doubted he'd be making the trip to Philadelphia for yesterday's game because he had to buy his own ticket. But Katz put up the dough for the airfare, and even hosted the mascot and his entourage at his home all weekend. The Daily News found decent seats in the end zone.
Yet, despite our best-laid plans, within 12 hours of setting foot in town on Saturday, Ragnar already was refusing to wear his fur costume to the game.
"I'm worried I could get killed," Ragnar - aka Joe Juranitch - told me.
Yesterday morning, he happily posed for costumed photos at Katz's home. But he toned down the look with a leather Vikings jacket and shades before setting off warily for the game.
Somehow, I convinced him the Broad Street subway was a perfectly safe mode of transport. And, indeed, it wasn't till he and Katz had safely disembarked and hiked toward the stadium that they were actually egged.
An hour before kickoff, I managed to get Ragnar through the Linc's parking-lot gauntlet and onto the WIP-610 pre-game show.
Up on the stage, he was greeted with typical Philly cheer and what passes for gracious hospitality on the part of Messrs. Cataldi and Eskin.
"What are you doing here?" sports-talker Angelo Cataldi demanded.
"I came to see a game," Ragnar replied.
The crowd's chorus of "A------, a------," reached a crescendo.
"You understand the danger you face?" Cataldi continued.
Ragnar gulped and smiled like a gentleman.
"It's like a t-bone in a zoo," Cataldi said.
"You pathetic loser," Howard Eskin spit. "Get him out of here."
The crowd surged. The jeers grew. One goon, I swear, was tying a noose.
Katz searched for uniformed support, then looked angrily for me. I ducked.
Five minutes later, everyone's heart was still pounding.
"I thought you said there would be only 10 people there," the hairy mascot said, breathing heavy.
Katz was whiter than those rally towels that the fans were waving wildly throughout the Birds' victory. He would've throttled me if I weren't a step quicker.
It's a credit to Ragnar's disarming Midwestern demeanor that we managed to make it to the stadium without serious injury. Along the way, he happily jawed with foul-mouthed fans and even posed for goofy photos of youngsters pretending to strangle him.
The first sign that the weekend could turn weird was early Saturday, when Katz and Ragnar showed up at the Vikings' hotel, the Loews. As recounted by several astonished witnesses, Katz found the biggest guy in the lobby - a 6-8, 343-pound behemoth offensive lineman named Bryant McKinnie - and pulled out a wad of cash.
"I'll give you 2,000 bucks to arm-wrestle me," Katz dared.
That got McKinnie's attention.
"I know a way," Katz boasted, "to pull your arm right out of its socket."
McKinnie paused.
"Three thou," Katz said, flashing the wad.
McKinnie seemed tempted, if for no other reason than to learn Katz's supposed martial-arts technique. The deal didn't go down, but the intimidation worked, judging by the final score.
As the end of the game approached, I went searching for Katz and Ragnar at their seats.
Nothing. Nothing but scattered bones. A guy in a McNabb jersey smiled and told me it was only chicken wings. But I wasn't convinced our guest was safe till hours later when I got a call from him.
"Where you at?" I asked.
"The Palm - Harry's treating us to dinner."
So, how'd you like your visit to Philly?
"I concede," said Ragnar. "Go, Eagles!"
AS TABLOID STUNTS go, flying in the opposing team's mascot and putting him on stage in front of 500 rabid Eagles fans before an NFL playoff game seemed like a good idea at the time.
Yeah, the thinking went, let's hang a slab of red meat dressed in a purple-and-gold Vikings jacket in front of a bunch of hungry boo birds and see what happens.
The results were predictable.
Pure, bloodthirsty bedlam.
Ragnar the Viking, the hairy, battle-ax-wielding Minnesota mascot, arrived in town on a bit of a dare from the People Paper and man-about-town Harry Jay Katz. In an interview last week, Ragnar doubted he'd be making the trip to Philadelphia for yesterday's game because he had to buy his own ticket. But Katz put up the dough for the airfare, and even hosted the mascot and his entourage at his home all weekend. The Daily News found decent seats in the end zone.
Yet, despite our best-laid plans, within 12 hours of setting foot in town on Saturday, Ragnar already was refusing to wear his fur costume to the game.
"I'm worried I could get killed," Ragnar - aka Joe Juranitch - told me.
Yesterday morning, he happily posed for costumed photos at Katz's home. But he toned down the look with a leather Vikings jacket and shades before setting off warily for the game.
Somehow, I convinced him the Broad Street subway was a perfectly safe mode of transport. And, indeed, it wasn't till he and Katz had safely disembarked and hiked toward the stadium that they were actually egged.
An hour before kickoff, I managed to get Ragnar through the Linc's parking-lot gauntlet and onto the WIP-610 pre-game show.
Up on the stage, he was greeted with typical Philly cheer and what passes for gracious hospitality on the part of Messrs. Cataldi and Eskin.
"What are you doing here?" sports-talker Angelo Cataldi demanded.
"I came to see a game," Ragnar replied.
The crowd's chorus of "A------, a------," reached a crescendo.
"You understand the danger you face?" Cataldi continued.
Ragnar gulped and smiled like a gentleman.
"It's like a t-bone in a zoo," Cataldi said.
"You pathetic loser," Howard Eskin spit. "Get him out of here."
The crowd surged. The jeers grew. One goon, I swear, was tying a noose.
Katz searched for uniformed support, then looked angrily for me. I ducked.
Five minutes later, everyone's heart was still pounding.
"I thought you said there would be only 10 people there," the hairy mascot said, breathing heavy.
Katz was whiter than those rally towels that the fans were waving wildly throughout the Birds' victory. He would've throttled me if I weren't a step quicker.
It's a credit to Ragnar's disarming Midwestern demeanor that we managed to make it to the stadium without serious injury. Along the way, he happily jawed with foul-mouthed fans and even posed for goofy photos of youngsters pretending to strangle him.
The first sign that the weekend could turn weird was early Saturday, when Katz and Ragnar showed up at the Vikings' hotel, the Loews. As recounted by several astonished witnesses, Katz found the biggest guy in the lobby - a 6-8, 343-pound behemoth offensive lineman named Bryant McKinnie - and pulled out a wad of cash.
"I'll give you 2,000 bucks to arm-wrestle me," Katz dared.
That got McKinnie's attention.
"I know a way," Katz boasted, "to pull your arm right out of its socket."
McKinnie paused.
"Three thou," Katz said, flashing the wad.
McKinnie seemed tempted, if for no other reason than to learn Katz's supposed martial-arts technique. The deal didn't go down, but the intimidation worked, judging by the final score.
As the end of the game approached, I went searching for Katz and Ragnar at their seats.
Nothing. Nothing but scattered bones. A guy in a McNabb jersey smiled and told me it was only chicken wings. But I wasn't convinced our guest was safe till hours later when I got a call from him.
"Where you at?" I asked.
"The Palm - Harry's treating us to dinner."
So, how'd you like your visit to Philly?
"I concede," said Ragnar. "Go, Eagles!"
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