Bob Griffin

Regular, Krupa's

by Brian Hickey

photo displayed at krupa's

I got an urgent text message from the bar the other night around dusk. Seemed that Griff needed me to call ASAP, which was weird, considering I'd left the bar about a half-hour earlier. But to save him a quarter — or whatever it costs to make a local call — I dialed the pay phone over at Krupa's.

"You know," he said with that slight slur that immediately tells you he's got a couple in him, but not so many that he's stammering through every word, which he has been known to do, "I always wanted to be a belly dancer. And I wanted to sit on my couch eating cookies and milk while watching Monday Night Football."

Luckily, I had a couple in me, too, because nobody should be subjected to sober images of Griff trying to charm snakes with Fig Newtons in hand and some skim on his chin (even if an Eagles/Cowgirls game is on). But just as soon as my mind had been blown by the sheer absurdity of what he was saying — turned out that's how he signed his yearbook at Central before graduating — reality returned.

"But then," Griff continued, "I got shot."

This I know: Even if Griff hadn't lost a lung to a bullet when he was 21, he still wouldn't have ever become the skinny-white-male version of Taheya Carioca. But what I'll never know is this: What did that unexpected act of violence, spurred by a traffic dustup near Eastern State Penitentiary some 20 years ago, steal from him?

Over the course of seven years of hanging at the best taproom in town, I've often heard stories that I always suspected were garnished with legend and exaggeration. Specifically, that Griff had the type of arm that was skillful enough to make Cole Hamels' changeup look like a Little Leaguer's second-best pitch.

But then, the tale always concludes, he got shot.

I've always taken everybody's word for it, which is fine, considering that what's always impressed me most about Griff is less physical — though he's a strapping anthill of a man — and more mental. Beyond just his ample smarts, I'm referring to smack-talking abilities, which is a favored pastime over at 27th and Brown. The regulars talk lots of it, effectively, in that way in which nobody's really being rude but just showing affection. Of course, sometimes it goes a little too far. And if it isn't drunken me that's taken it there — which happens from time to time — it's Griff. Strike that: It's just about always Griff. Like the time he asked the woman of a descent with no tradition of sporting water-bucket headware if she carried buckets of water on her head. He's also comfortable in the realm of womens' weight, which often goes over like gangbusters.

But, realizing that this variety of humor isn't everybody's cup of Screwdriver, and never being in a condition that enables me to remember exact phrasing, I digress.

A Fairmount lifer, the fallout from the shooting has Griff on disability these days. He's also in the midst of undergoing some physical therapy over at Penn that'll make it easier for him to climb to the top of the Phillies park next time I get nosebleed tickets. Which happened the other night, leaving me to point out that an 80-something patron could've been back and forth to McFadden's in the time it took him to climb one flight of stairs. (Unlike the time he bought me a pink Wiffle ball set upon learning that I didn't hit a home run during a media-day batting practice, he had nothing to fire back with.)

It's not so much the smack-talk content that I find so endearing. (Because, quite frankly, half the time, his comments lack incisive bite; it can come off more like unfiltered riffing which isn't good on Saturday nights, which have traditionally hosted Georgie vs. Griff smack-talk battles, with Georgie playing the role of undefeated champion.)

Rather, it's the fact that the line is always clearly placed in front of Griff yet, knowing full well he'll get flagged the minute he crosses, he'll stagger right past it, often to hilarious results. (See sidebar.) Dude just does and says what he wants to do or say, and I've always respected that in people. Especially people who, at least once a night, luck into the type of spot-on comment one would expect out of a Rhodes scholar, not a bar bawler.

So, after Griff mentioned his gut-grooving ambitions, we got to talking about this article.

"It's my obit, you know," he said, before asking whether Liz Spikol has a health plan, because she seems like just the kind of woman who'd keep him on his marital toes. (Wrong paper, Griff, but I'm sure she does.) "Just be honest."

Well, I can't do that without running the risk of a libel suit, so I'll leave it at this: Griff's my Favorite Philadelphian because he's had piles of adversity thrown his way and instead of going all Heidnik and digging a basement well, he's kept his sense of humor and seems to enjoy every day he has.

"Tell Angie that I'll see her for lunch," he said of my bride as we wrapped up the conversation, "as soon as you leave the house on Thursday."

Is that so, Griff?

Well, tell your girl, Colleen, that I'll be by later tonight and I'm gonna deliver her favorite dessert.