Let’s get this out of the way: The 2015 Super Bowl was quite possibly the best day of my life. The Patriots won in miraculous fashion and Tom Brady, my favorite athlete of all time, won his fourth championship on a beautiful Arizona night. It was an absolutely incredible experience that I will never forget, and I got to share it with my fiancée.
This was my first live Super Bowl and one of only a few NFL games I’ve ever attended. For a variety of reasons, attending live NFL games just doesn’t appeal to me like most other sports do, but this was obviously special. As much as the NFL totally deserved all the backlash it received this year, they really know how to put on a show when it counts the most. All the things I worried about, (drunk people wanting to fight, bad concession setup, security taking forever, etc) were non-issues and I just had a full day of non-stop fun and excitement.
Choosing to attend a Super Bowl as a non-rich person is obviously a rash, expensive decision. Because it’s a neutral-site game and the participants are obviously not determined until two weeks before the game, it’s a move that needs to be made rather quickly or the cost can skyrocket to prohibitive levels. Before the AFC Championship game, I told my boss (a Ravens fan who attended the lights-out Super Bowl in New Orleans) that I would consider going to the Super Bowl if the Pats made it there, an idea he fully endorsed. This made me feel better about bringing it up to my fiancée, who very reasonably made me repeat several times that yes, we are going to spend this much money to do this and no, I’m not going to be a sulky, miserable crybaby all the way home if the Pats lose (that last part was probably a lie, but luckily we’ll never find out).
After watching the Seahawks win a classic NFC Championship game with a few buddies, I went home to watch the Pats in the comfort of my own home where I could really let out all my sports fan anxiety and not worry about being judged for being a nervous wreck. The game got out of hand pretty quickly and the Pats kicked the crap out of the Colts (lol Deflategate). At the end of the 3rd quarter I told my fiancée it was time to buy Super Bowl tickets, words that my 10 year-old self would be very happy to know would be in his future but still didn’t totally feel real. Then we brought up StubHub and things got nice and real on me.
As usual, I bought my tickets on StubHub, as I find it to be a trustworthy, user-friendly website. I went into this knowing I was just going to buy whatever the cheapest ticket was, even if that meant sitting on the ceiling. For certain big-time events like this one, StubHub does zone-based ticketing, meaning you choose a general section of the stadium (Upper Corner, Upper Sideline, Lower End Zone, White Collar Criminal Cleveland Browns Owner’s Box, etc.) and your tickets will be somewhere in there, but you don’t know what exact section, row and seats you’ll be in until you have the tickets in-hand. I imagine this is a hedging strategy by StubHub for situations where they don’t necessarily have the tickets in-hand yet either and don’t want to make promises they can’t keep, which is fair enough. Also, you had to pick up the tickets in person at a designated location (described below) before the game (none of that PDF chicanery for this one), which I imagine prevents counterfeiting.
I can’t stress enough that this was an irresponsible financial decision. We paid $2,088.85 for each of the two cheapest tickets on StubHub, in the Upper Corner zone. The next morning my credit card had been temporarily turned off and I received both a call and an email from Bank of America’s fraud department asking me to confirm that yes, I am a wasteful idiot and no, my card did not get stolen so please turn it back on.
It turned out that we should have bought two more tickets and flipped them later because during the miserable two-week slog of Hot Deflategate Takes leading up to the game, ticket prices got up to a record-high of $10,000 just to get into the building. According to several reports, multiple disreputable ticket buying sites (including SeatGeek, which I will never use because of this) failed to fulfill orders, offering up to twice what people had paid as an apology for not giving them tickets to the game they flew across the country and spent a ton on airfare and lodging to attend, many of them as a once-in-a-lifetime event, as if that’s somehow a reasonable way to make up for it. I don’t wish plaintiffs’ lawyers on nearly anyone, but I hope those companies get sued into oblivion for what they did that weekend. According to the same reports, StubHub issued a statement in the days leading up to the game promising that they had bought extra tickets to ensure all orders would be filled. That, right there, is why I trust StubHub for things like this.
Because I know full-well that I’m not rich, cool or famous enough to get into fancy Super Bowl parties, and because I was already taking enough time off from work for this, we made this as short a trip as possible, spending a total of about 36 hours in Arizona. We flew JetBlue non-stop from JFK to Phoenix the night before the game. Nearly everyone on our flight was wearing Pats or Seahawks gear, with 12s outnumbering New England fans easily (or it’s just easier to spot grown men in neon). The pilot made a typical “I hear there’s a game tomorrow!” pilot joke and we took off for a nice smooth ride. I’m extremely good at sleeping on airplanes, but was way too excited to doze off on this one so I watched something like 8 straight episodes of Key & Peele. We landed at around 10:30pm local time and the airport was full of 12s chanting “SEA” “HAWKS” at each other like a high school pep rally. I admire the enthusiasm to some degree, I suppose. The airport itself was completely decked out with Super Bowl Logos and Lombardi Trophies plastered all over the walls, which was a nice touch.
We went outside into the cool desert night and a car service picked us up within ten minutes. The driver told us he had been making a fortune all week between the Super Bowl crowd and the Phoenix Open golf tournament, which is basically the Preakness of golf, an annual shitshow where decorum doesn’t exist, you’re allowed to scream at the golfers and everyone has an awesome time or vomits on themselves or both. We drove past a giant casino and a whole lot of nothingness under a sky containing the most stars I had seen in years. Getting out of Manhattan, especially for a trip as quick as this one, can be jarring in spectacular ways.
We mercifully stayed at a friend’s house in Scottsdale, about 30 minutes away from the stadium. Even terrible, far-flung hotels were demanding 4-night minimum stays at $600/night and up, so this was a godsend. Frankly, we probably would have decided to just sell the tickets if we didn’t have a friend to stay with, and then I would have watched the game on TV knowing I could have been there and probably regretted it forever! Shout out to the wonderful Buller family for letting us stay with them.
Game Day, Glendale Arizona
Since this was the most expensive thing I’d ever paid for that isn’t now on my fiancée’s left ring finger, the goal was to get as much out of the day as possible. I woke up with pretty awful back pain, which I elected to completely ignore through sheer willpower. I showered and threw on my Tom Brady jersey while my tiny, white fiancée threw on her Vince Wilfork jersey. We scarfed down a quick breakfast and were on our way. We got a car service to take us to the stadium at 9:30 in the morning for a 4:30 kickoff. The first half of the drive was beautiful, with mountains on either side, cacti dotting the wide open red sand desert and a huge, clear blue sky that made this New Yorker ponder the insanity of the fact that this place and the island of Manhattan are part of the same country. It was hard to capture this from an iPhone in a moving vehicle, and the photo above is the best I could manage. About halfway through the drive we entered heavy fog, and the visibility outside was so poor when we arrived that you couldn’t see the cloud-colored stadium from the street. We encountered zero traffic, but were also incredibly early. I wasn’t taking any chances that day.
The epicenter of the Super Bowl pregame scene was the Renaissance Hotel across the street from the stadium, which doubled as the official StubHub tailgate headquarters and ticket pickup location. I imagined the ticket pickup situation would involve standing in a long line for several hours, possibly outside. This was thankfully not the case. The pickup area was a decent-sized conference room with a ton of people working. Everyone was extremely nice and we were in and out of there in less than five minutes (we clearly beat the crowd, as this was 6+ hours before kickoff).
Holy Crap I’m Holding Super Bowl Tickets
I find those YouTube videos where people unbox new electronics and stuff to be pretty dumb and kind of obnoxious, but opening an envelope containing your tickets to the Super Bowl is one hell of a feeling. Until this moment, the whole trip hadn’t felt real. It seemed like every moment leading up to this was just a fever dream that I’d soon snap out of and realize I was sitting on a couch at some friend’s house watching on TV with my shirt covered in buffalo chicken dip. Holding your tickets to the Super Bowl you are about to attend is as powerful a feeling as shooting a gun or getting a substantial raise. I’m looking at them right now as I type this and, even though they’re merely keepsakes at this point, they still look like pure gold to me.
StubHub gives you the tickets in a protective sleeve on a lanyard (like music festivals sometimes do), which seemed like a good idea. I don’t want to mess up my $2,000+ Super Bowl ticket (face value: $800, which is just rubbing it in) by shoving it into my wallet or whatever. We put on the lanyard and then tucked the tickets under our jerseys for security purposes.
After we got the tickets, we journeyed into a massive conference room that had been converted into the official StubHub tailgate party (I’m of the belief that it isn’t tailgating unless you’re outside, but whatever). They put a lot of effort into this thing and there were all kinds of football-related activities to do in there. It was still pretty empty when we arrived so we played nearly all the silly little games within about 15 minutes (throw a football into the Ticket Oak! Kick a field goal from 10 feet away! Run an obstacle course! Play trash can beer pong with no beer!). We didn’t wait in line to ride the zipline for two reasons: I hate lines and even though this was a party there’s something kinda depressing about riding a zipline across a hotel conference room.
Our first celebrity sighting of the day was Donovan McNabb spewing his standard nonsense on NBC Sports, which was broadcasting from the party. This was probably history’s least thrilling celebrity sighting. At some point Jeremy Maclin and Demaryius Thomas were supposed to show up, but we didn’t stick around long enough to meet them and then immediately have nothing interesting to say to them because my only “interaction” with either guy is fantasy football and they (rightfully) do not give a single shit about that.
After messing around at the StubHub party for a little while, we met up with my former Boston roommate Chris, who was with his dad and brother at the bar on the other side of the hotel (this hotel was absolutely massive). By this time, probably 11am, the fog had cleared and an absolutely beautiful day revealed itself. We hung out and had a couple beers while they figured out their ticket situation. They had two tickets between the three of them and had just gotten into town from Vegas the night before. They expected to buy one from a scalper or whatever for about $4,000, but even the nosebleeds were selling for twice that and Chris’s dad wasn’t gonna go home and tell his wife they spent an extra $10k on a vacation they took without her (this is how you remain married for 30+ years). Eventually they folded and sold both of their tickets for around $7k each, so Chris’s dad just casually walked around with $14,000 in cash all day. At some point Mark Cuban made his way through the lobby with a suitcase in tow, which would have been my second celebrity sighting of the day if I hadn’t been in the bathroom when it happened.
At around noon we decided to use our two free drink tickets and headed back over to the StubHub party. We were walking around the party drinking cans of Bud Light (you get what you pay for) when a guy in a t-shirt whipped a badge out of nowhere and asked us to show him our ID’s. He was with a guy in a generic worker’s uniform with the name Larry sewn into it. Sarah and I were caught pretty off-guard by this and Sarah reflexively asked “wait, are you serious?” in a non-threatening manner. The cop said he was “serious as a heart attack” and we showed him our ID’s while I asked his partner if his real name was Larry, which he neither confirmed nor denied. The whole interaction was pretty cordial, but it was a bit startling to get carded at noon by two undercover cops in a hotel conference room.
We eventually met up with Chris and his family again, this time outside in the hotel courtyard that had been set up to show the game on two big projector screens surrounded by outdoor bars and had a nice party vibe to it. It was clear that Seahawks fans were massively outnumbering Patriots fans, and there were far too many adults wearing beaks and customized 12 jerseys, but everyone was civil aside from a few more loud “SEA” “HAWKS” chants. Everybody acted like adults, mainly because nobody wanted to be the idiot who spent the Super Bowl in Maricopa County jail for no good reason, though I bet they could have drummed up a decent reason to detain this fella:
I’ll point out here that I had a total of maybe three beers at the Renaissance and stopped drinking a solid two hours before the game. Though I certainly enjoy having a cold one at sporting events, I wanted to be completely sober for this one so I wouldn’t miss anything. I also didn’t want to get up from my seat over and over to pee or buy more beer at whatever ungodly price they were charging, and I certainly didn’t want to miss something due to drunkenness. I paid a lot of money for this and it was a really special experience for me, I wanted to take in every moment. There’s a time and place for getting after it at professional sporting events and it’s called “baseball season.”
The Great Almond Smuggle
Because TV news always makes such a big deal about Super Bowl security, and because the Super Bowl always gets labeled as a “terrorist target” by your cable news fear-mongers of choice, I was intrigued by how the security situation would play out. Also, I had brought a small packet of almonds with me from the house we were staying at and, upon remembering I had them, decided I’d try to sneak them in and see what happened.
We left the hotel around 3pm and started walking across the street to the stadium. The area had been decked out with random structures like this one that didn’t serve much of a purpose but looked cool anyway.
Getting into the stadium was much easier than I thought. Though we had to walk pretty far around the building to get into the massive security perimeter, we were never stuck in a long line and it never felt overly crowded. There was one of these dudes there, because zealotry is a year-round hustle.
A really big, muscular black dude wearing a Patriots jersey with a name I didn’t recognize on it was ahead of us in line to get in, and the guys behind us knew what school he played for but got his first name wrong. I assume he was a training camp guy or benchwarmer at some point in his life and still had his jersey, and this was a great excuse for that dude to show it off, though he looked pretty disappointed that nobody knew his first name.
As expected, the security perimeter itself extended far into the parking lot. We were patted down and our tickets were checked multiple times. I saw at least 10 police dogs sniffing for whatever police dogs sniff for (drugs, explosives, the butts of other police dogs, etc.). Eventually, we got to the metal detectors, the moment of truth for my almond experiment. We had to take off our jackets to go through the metal detector and I left the nuts in a jacket pocket. The very friendly lady manning the cell phone/keys/change bowls told us the trash can for contraband had “like 50 bags of Skittles” in it. Nice try, 12th man.
My almonds did not join the Skittles in the terrifying incinerator of doom from the end of Toy Story 3 (this is what I imagine happens to every object that gets confiscated at sporting events and airports). My jacket was handed back to me as I passed through the metal detector, and the nuts were all mine. The packet of nuts was basically weightless (whoever packaged them did not want you to be nourished at all), and I imagine anything heavy or bulky would have been caught. Then all sorts of Super Bowl Hell would break loose and the nice metal detector lady would rip off her skin and reveal herself to be Roger Goodell, Protector of Shields and Destroyer of Contraband Strugglers. He would then make you his personal poison-tester and video evidence destroyer for all eternity.
Long story short, we got into the stadium pretty easily and the whole thing was really well-managed unless you have a nut allergy.
Because we didn’t know the exact location of our seats until we opened the envelope in the pickup room, I had wild fantasies of StubHub accidentally giving us tickets on the 50 yard line next to Beyoncé or some such shit. Back on planet Earth, our tickets were for section 421, row 20, seats 9-10. The Terrace Level of University of Phoenix Stadium (I guess Student Loan Scam Field doesn’t have the right ring to it) has 24 rows, so we were nearly as nosebleedy as you could possibly get. Since we paid less than, conservatively guessing, 95% of the people attending the game (who actually paid for their own tickets), this seemed reasonable enough.
University of Phoenix Stadium opened in 2006 and still looks brand new. Everything was well-marked and getting to our seats was very easy. Somebody handed us free Patriots hand-towels with all the Pats catchphrases on them (DO YOUR JOB is by far my favorite hardo football coach mantra) on the way in, and had similar ones for the Seattle contingent.
We had an excellent view of the entire field, and even though the Terrace Level feels pretty steep when you’re walking to your seat, you don’t feel like you’re watching the game from space, which is impressive design work. Since row 20 is close to the top of the entire stadium, our view of the videoboard was partially obstructed and whenever instant replays were shown we couldn’t see everything. The angle of our section made it difficult to figure out how many yards had been gained on any single play as it happened, but it’s football, you find out what happened quickly enough. I found this angle to be much better to watch from than the end zone, where you often can only tell what’s happening when the ball is coming towards you.
The stadium has a retractable roof that was open for the game, and luckily our side of the stadium wasn’t caught in the sun for the first half like those across the field from us. Our section was directly above the spot where Julien Edelman caught the touchdown that put the Patriots ahead for good, on the near side for the standard TV camera angle. The seats were right in the middle of the row, further affirming that getting up to pee/buy beer/whatever else would have been terrible.
To our right were two pretty normal 12s who didn’t talk much and then a bunch of very fat old people between us and the aisle who gave me a dirty look the one time I got up from my seat at halftime to use the bathroom because god forbid someone needs to leave their seat once during a 4-hour game. On our left was an older asian woman who attended the game by herself and was a little batty but definitely a nice person. She didn’t appear to have any rooting interest and the seat next to her was empty, meaning some idiot left around $10,000 worth of resale value just sitting there unused. There should never be an empty seat at a Super Bowl, especially one in perfect weather like this.
12th Man: Oh, You
Our section (and most of the stadium, it seemed) was at least 75% full of people in Seahawks gear. I hesitate to call the general population of people who refer to themselves as the 12th Man as “Seahawks Fans,” because that would imply they could name the starting quarterback prior to Russell Wilson or watched a single game before 2012. The 12th Man nickname belonged to Texas A&M fans for many years before the Seahawks “faithful” sunk their teeth into it anyway, and there’s been plenty of litigation over the years regarding that particular trademark issue. Though I’m sure they’re mostly nice people, this was new-money fandom at its finest. I have too many problems with the existence and popularity of the #12 Fan jersey to list here, but it really comes down to the decision that none of the kickass players on your awesome football team are good enough for you to wear their jersey because one day they’ll be gone (likely crippled and possibly broke from playing professional football on a non-guaranteed contract) but the team will remain, bro. Of the thousands of 12s I saw in Arizona, maybe 5 of them were wearing the previous-model jersey from 2011 and before. They also had no idea how to actually cheer during a football game, being just as loud when the Seahawks were on offense as they were when the Pats had the ball. One guy who had to be in his 30’s and had a real high school spirit squad vibe to him started taunting me after a Seahawks touchdown. I pointed out that he was wearing wide receiver gloves and no, Pete Carroll’s not going to put you in the game, dude. He sat down and didn’t look at me again, which was nice. I don’t want to say this entire fanbase deserved to lose Kevin Durant and Ken Griffey Jr., but this specific guy did. So you know I’m not making this up, here he is wearing a visor and using a digital camera because his 12 jersey is the only object he owns that isn’t from 2006.
At one point, after at least 45 minutes of deafening screaming from every direction, I cheered a little bit when the Pats scored a touchdown and the guy in front of me, wearing a 12 jersey (because of course he was) told me I was being too loud. I gave him a firm-but-not antagonistic “you can’t be serious, you people are literally deafening me” and he backed down. By the end of the game things were pretty cordial with him. He was with his son who appeared to be around my age and actually seemed like a real, lifelong fan.
The only Patriots fans in our immediate vicinity were two teenage bros sitting directly behind us who were completely hammered. Before the game started they were talking a reasonable amount of shit to some 12s and then asked me if I’d help them out in case some sort of donnybrook (or worse, a fracas) broke out. I told them that I wouldn’t let them get their asses kicked (one of them had braces and they were severely outnumbered, they would have gotten destroyed), but I was absolutely not going to get kicked out of the Super Bowl for two kids I didn’t know. This seemed to talk some sense into them. They calmed down and refrained from calling Russell Wilson a cocksucker so loudly. I was glad they didn’t get themselves in trouble so Sarah and I would have someone with whom to celebrate touchdowns and whatnot during the game.
Overall, this was the whitest, least-diverse sports crowd I’ve ever seen outside the SEC. The vibe was pretty inconsistent, though that seems natural given the neutral site. Over the years I’ve heard a few gripes about Super Bowl crowds feeling cold and corporate. Maybe that was true in the lower levels where more people are there for business reasons, but the Terrace Level where we sat felt more like a real sports crowd. As much as I mock nearly everything 12th Man, they certainly brought a healthy energy level to the proceedings.
The halftime show was cool enough (Missy Elliot! Katy Perry riding a lion! Lenny Kravitz for no reason!) but clearly was meant more for TV than the live audience. I knew nothing about the #leftshark until the next day and only when I looked at the videoboard midway through the performance did I notice how bizarre that concert was (sweet beach motif at the desert Super Bowl, guys). The bros behind us hoped that Katy Perry would get stuck on the shooting star as it carried her off the field, and I have zero doubt in my mind that Goodell would have ordered the teams to play the second half with one of the world’s biggest pop stars precariously dangling over the proceedings.
Quick aside: I had always wondered how halftime shows always seemed to have the crowd lit up in one specific color during the musical performances. These were in every cupholder at the beginning of the game:
Mystery: solved. Did the stadium announcer give a 90-second “how to turn on your finger lights” lesson? You bet. Did the old people in our row participate? Absolutely not.
We’re rounding 4,500 words at this point. You know what happened, and it was incredible. Just before the kickoff after Edelman’s visibly concussed go-ahead touchdown, I turned to Sarah and said “ya know, we haven’t gotten a turnover yet, law of averages tells us we’re going to get one here.” The Seahawks father and son both turned and faced me with abject terror in their eyes, not needing to say anything. This is the best sports prediction I have ever made.
In case you’ve forgotten how this game ended, here you go:
At this point I blacked out and nearly fainted despite being completely sober. I fell into my seat in a daze and was told that I sat there for a few seconds just staring directly ahead while the Patriots bros behind us tried to give me high fives. I quickly came-to and gave Sarah a kiss, then stood up on my seat and hugged both of those delightful teenage dipshits at the same time. I don’t know their names and will almost certainly never see them again, but I’ll never forget those guys.
As soon as Malcolm Butler picked the ball and the Seahawks players started fighting for no reason (because of course they did), the 12s vanished immediately. The father and son in front of us gave us a hearty handshake and went on their way, by far the best 12s we met. Sarah, the Pats bros and I went down to the bottom of the section and took some photos. I’m happy to say the NFL used the entire confetti budget, though I imagine the Seahawks-colored confetti was sent to Somalia as packing peanuts for the Seahawks Back-to-Back Champions t-shirts.
Because I generally consider the NFL an affront to common decency, especially when it comes to benevolence toward the general public, I was shocked at what happened next. A security guard approached me, Sarah and the bros and told us we could watch the trophy ceremony from the lower level. Suspecting he was just trying to get rid of us, I asked him if he was serious. He reassured me that the lower levels were indeed open. At this point we lost the bros. Our temporary friends, forever gone. Godspeed, bros.
We headed for the exit ramps (escalator usage as a means for egress: always for suckers) and were careful not to accidentally leave the stadium while hi-fiving and hugging random strangers on the way down to field level. We considered buying some championship gear on the way down, but the concessions were an absolute mob scene so we skipped them and got a couple t-shirts at the airport the next day instead. We walked about a quarter of the way around the stadium to get a better view before deciding to just get in there and enjoy the ceremony.
The trophy presentation was just a sea of happy people taking pictures for each other, a refreshingly selfie-averse crowd. People were smoking cigars openly in the stands and nobody seemed bothered by it. We didn’t have a great angle to see the actual stage, but I didn’t really care. Watching Tom Brady and Bill Belichick get handed their fourth Lombardi Trophy by a terrible human being who, among his many, much worse violations of public trust over the past few years, basically accused them of cheating for two entire weeks leading up to the game was an absolute delight.
After the game we tried to go to the Renaissance to meet up with Chris and his family. Our phones were dying and we should have been exhausted, but there’s no rush like watching your team win a championship (this is the first time I’ve done so in person for any of my teams, and it felt AWESOME). The Renaissance stopped letting people in without room keys, which seemed reasonable given 70,000+ people were leaving the stadium across the street at one time and this was the closest bar. Chris and family came outside to meet us and we walked over to the Westgate Entertainment District, a completely soulless collection of bars and restaurants next to the stadium. The place was an absolute mob of drunk, happy Patriots fans. At one point some random jerk dropped a shoulder into Chris’s brother and then his whole crew of like 7 other kids followed us and called us the N word (we are all painfully white) for an uncomfortable amount of time, clearly looking for a fight. They very obviously had not been at the game and didn’t appear to be up to much good, but we eventually shook them without incident (which was lucky, Chris’s dad was still walking around with $14k in cash from selling his tickets that morning).
We eventually found a Buffalo Wild Wings on the far edge of the area that didn’t have much of a line. We got drinks on the outdoor patio pretty quickly and hung out for a while to talk about how great the game was. They had an awesome time watching on the outdoor projection screens at the Renaissance and the Pats win alleviated all disappointment about not going into the game (they had also attended previous Super Bowls and regularly attend big time Boston playoff games, so this wasn’t as huge a deal for them as it was for me). Eventually, Chris and family went inside to eat and we said goodbye.
We had a car service (not Uber) pick us up and the driver took forever to get to us even though the game had ended almost three hours earlier at this point, but that’s his fault and not a reflection on the event itself. It was a long ride back and we were simultaneously jacked up from the win and completely exhausted. We got back to the house safely, drank some water and went to bed. The next morning, we showered quickly and headed to the airport, where the “SEA” “HAWKS” chants that had so boisterously greeted us upon arrival had gone silent, as Richard Sherman had a mere 12 hours prior.
I’m pretty sure February 1, 2015 was the best day of my life. This was one long, exhausting, totally kickass day with the best payoff possible. The game itself was an absolute roller coaster of emotion and this post would have either been horribly depressing or never written at all had Pete Carroll used common sense and given Beast Mode the ball at the goal line. Our flights back got all sorts of messed up due to heavy snow in the Northeast and we wound up spending a night in Houston, a city that was not even on our original itinerary. None of this bothered me one bit. The game was more than three weeks ago and I’m still on top of the world.
If your team is in the Super Bowl and you can even sort of swing it financially, go to the Super Bowl. Trust me, it’s better without the commercials.
Thank you for reading 5,800 words of Went to That.
Go to a game soon.