Frankie C’s Excellent Super Bowl Adventure: Day 8
By Frankie C.
Cold Hard Football Facts Bon Vivant
To catch up on Frankie’s Adventure click here for Day 7
For the first time on the trip, I’m suffering as I wake up. It’s the middle of the night and I’m in full hangover mode. I have to stumble around the hotel room tripping over shoes and suitcases in the dark to find some Advil and a cold washcloth. My head is pounding. I take the Advil and apply the compress and writhe in bed until my body finally relaxes enough to pass out again.
I wake up again, this time pain free. I boogie down to the curb for a smoke and then to Starbucks for some coffee. I get my coffee and make my way back to the room. On the way, I pass Kurt Warner, Charles Woodson, and Mike Ditka. I couldn’t resist saying hello to Iron Mike. “Good morning Mike.” He responded by staring straight ahead and ignoring me. I think he handled it well.
It’s game day and the hotel staff and guests are buzzing around like it’s the annual crack smokers convention. I quicken my pace so I can hide in my room.
I hit up Osterio Pronto for some breakfast with Kerry. The omelette line is 5 deep so I opt for the biscuits and gravy. My cholesterol #’s are going to break the meter when I get home. I convince myself that 3 chunks of pineapple will balance the scale.
I haven’t even started the blog of day 7 yet. I’m way behind. I sidle up to my laptop and make eyes at it. This machine is the only thing in Indy that’s been able to resist my charms. I think it’s because I brought it from Boston, where I have no magic at all.
After a brief massage, the laptop is cooperating. Just once I’d like to just dive into the act without the foreplay. Kerry gets word from his business partner that we’ve scored tickets to the Patriots after party. We head back down to Osterio Pronto to get the tickets. I don’t want to jinx anything but it would incredible if this turns out to be a post game victory party.
Gorgeous Jessie from the other night just texted that she’s going to meet me in the lobby bar around 4 p.m. to watch the game together. My mood is picking up in leaps and bounds. The blog starts taking shape more rapidly. I have a hard time believing my good fortune. Kerry’s getting his stuff together to head over to the stadium. I’m actually psyched to have a little time without having to go anywhere or do anything. I’m still not quite ready to consider drinking again yet.
I’m still trying to get this Day 7 blog up. Writer and Block, have you guys met? Yes, we’re old friends. I keep on churning it out.
Thank God, it’s finished. You know I can’t have children because I don’t have a uterus, right? Well, believe me it’s a medical impossibility. They say after a mother gives birth and holds her child they have an inseparable bond for life. When it comes to this blog, I’m the mother that just wants to give the infant up for adoption and never look at it again.
I shower it up and unleash as much handsome as I can. Honestly I’ve unleashed so much handsome on this town I think what I once considered an endless reserve is now running pretty low. I’m bloodshot and worn out and I look every day of my age. Which is 29, in case you were wondering. Kerry and Bill and Bill’s father (who just rolled into town) head out for the stadium and I’m gloriously alone. I watch a little tv and wait for Gorgeous Jessie to keep me company. I’m so grateful she got in touch. I was planning on just sitting in this room alone. That would make for a pretty weak blog tomorrow.
Jessie arrives and I meet her at the lobby. We decide to drink. I secretly curse myself. I’ve got a long night and I know this is not going to help. That first beer goes down like arsenic drizzled over rusty nails in a dirty busted glass. I power through it. I briefly consider a shot to help me over the hump but I reign it in because the Patriot after party doesn’t even start for 6 and a half hours. I have another beer. And another. And another.
We’re creeping closer to game time. My stomach is in knots. I can’t tell if it’s from being banged up the night before or just nervous about the game or the young beauty on my arm. We decide to get some dinner. We head into what feels now like my own personal restaurant, Osterio Pronto. I ordered the spicy sausage pasta and Jessie had the steak. Towards the end of the meal the game kicked off. I happen to hear something about the Pats winning the toss. This is a good omen. Jessie and I finish up the meal and head out to the lobby bar to grab a seat and watch the game.
The Pats are down by 9. My stomach is completely uncooperative. It’s obviously the game that has me upset. I can’t even drink. I make the switch to diet coke.
It’s halftime and the Pats are up by 1. My stomach doesn’t care. I have to hit the gift shop in the lobby for alka seltzer. The pain subsides but drinking is still out of the question. I’m stuck with diet coke.
The Pats are up by 2. I’m surrounded by *ssholes, I mean New York Giant fans. This only serves to worsen my stomach condition.
The Giants score with 57 seconds left to take the lead. The Pats have 1 timeout. I’m a Patriot fan and I know that Brady has led Super Bowl comebacks before. That being said, I know it’s over and I settle up the tab and walk Jessie to the cab stand. I can’t bear to watch the end. If something miraculous happens, I’ll hear about it. I’ll watch the replay. I just outright refuse to watch the Giants and their *ssholes, I mean, fans celebrate. I see Jessie to the cab and head back to the hotel. It’s a full blown *sshole hoe-down. I go directly to my room with my eyes pinned to the floor. I have a ticket to the Patriot after party but I can’t even bear the thought.
I’ve been lying in bed an hour when Bill and his dad come in. They are Giants fans but gracious in victory. They’re the best that fanbase has to offer.
Kerry calls. He’s still at the stadium finishing up. I’m trying to figure out some way of not going to the party. Bill and his dad have left to join the other revelers out on the street.
I have a conversation with myself where I put myself down repeatedly for wanting to pussy out of the party. We should celebrate a great season. I finally rally. I call Kerry to say I’ll meet him at the party.
I arrive at the party, held at Victory Field, just steps from the hotel. As I walk in, the crowd mood runs the gamut between the out-right depression of some kid in a Pats jersey literally face down on the floor to the euphoria of some hundreds of girls rushing the DJ Stand to get a picture of Judo Douche Pauly D from Jersey Shore. Pauly D is imploring the crowd to fist pump. If it weren’t so hysterical, it’d be sad. I get a beer and wait for Kerry.
Kerry’s still not here. Pauly D is repeating the phrase “Yeah, Buddy” over and over. What is the big deal with DJ’s? What’s the enviable skill there? Anyway, there’s a crew loading up a stage in the background. At least we know it’s not Pauly D all night. Talk about insult to injury. The party planner has set up food stations all over the area with buffalo wings and salad and an occasional carving station with roast beef. I grab some wings and find a place to eat and people watch. My mood is slightly improved.
Kerry arrives just as Maroon 5 takes the stage. We grab a beer and take a listen. I’ve never been a huge fan, but the band is rocking the house. It’s uplifting. Kerry does some schmoozing with the media folks in the crowd. I do the manly man sway, where you’re dancing but you can pretend no one knows.
Matt Light of the Patriots jumps on stage and toasts “The best organization in the NFL, The New England Patriots”. That’s a toast I can get behind. I do so love that team.
Maroon 5 finishes their set and I’ve had enough. Kerry agrees. We kick it back over to the hotel. He’s headed to the bar, because he hasn’t partied all day. I go back to the room. I’ve had enough. I’m throwing in the towel, not just on the night but on the whole week. Goodnight Everyone. We’ll get ‘em next year. The Pats still rule.
For Day 9 click here.