![]() ![]() The three of us had arrived in Atlantic City after two and a half hours on a Greyhound. ![]() ( There was.) For my part, I had stoutly packed my baggiest pair of basketball shorts-an indelible part of any self-respecting Sandler fan’s wardrobe-but had been thwarted by the gritty autumn winds whipping off the ocean that day. ![]() “Is there a game on tonight?” my friend asked. Many, many others came decked out in Phillies gear. “O’DOYLE RULES!” the Billy screamed back. As a row of costumed frat buddies took their seats, a redheaded woman several rows over shrieked out their identities one by one, as if recognizing old friends: “Happy! Zohan! Nicky! Billy!” Many had come dressed as Sandler’s characters it was three days before Halloween, after all. Wearing a gray zip-up hoodie and stopping to periodically sip from a takeaway coffee cup, Sandler told stories about clown coffins, orally pleasuring a balloon, and getting his penis Botoxed. ![]()
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