I heard the first firecracker last night moments after New England handed the Giants their fourth Super Bowl championship. Within half an hour, hundreds had taken to a stretch of Third Avenue in Bay Ridge for an impromptu celebration, packs of fans forming a jerseyed throng from the Pour House to the Salty Dog. Strangers spontaneously, drunkenly embraced in the middle of oncoming traffic; crowds stood on the corners to watch as groups paraded beside moving cars, carrying jerseys, flags, and at least one effigy of Tom Brady.
Cops were everywhere, even in the sky, as choppers buzzed overhead; they directed traffic and tried to keep the revelers in check. They formed a barricade along the curb in front of the Salty Dog to keep the crowd outside—probably a hundred there alone—from spilling into the street. Passengers in a car thanked one officer for keeping the streets safe while she hollered at them to stick their asses back through the car’s windows.
Toilet paper covered the sidewalks, bunched into storm drains and hanging from trees. A din of celebratory horn honking competed with bursts of hollering, chants of “you down with JPP?,” toots from referees’ whistles, and air-horn blares. Passersby rattled the gates of storefronts.
Near 80th Street, I heard a bang, and turned my head to see a firework—not a firecracker, mind you, but an honest-to-God, Fourth of July style blossom of light.
UPDATE: Video on YouTube.
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