Before the glitz, there was RFK Stadium in Washington, D.C. This place was like that old pair of jeans you refuse to throw away—stained, slightly torn, but impossibly comfortable. Opened in 1961, it was a concrete jungle where the seats felt like they were designed by someone who hated knees.
But man, the noise. The stands were so close to the field you could hear the players grunt. Fans would pack in, and the whole stadium would shake like a washing machine full of cleats.
If you went to a game at RFK, you probably ended up sitting next to a guy named Sal who had painted his chest burgundy and gold. He’d offer you a sip of his “special” punch he brought in a cooler. You took a sip. You regretted it. You loved it.
The parking lot was a free-for-all. Imagine trying to parallel park a minivan in a mud pit while a guy in a hog costume yells at you. That was RFK. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a soul that made you feel like you were part of something real.
