Even The Gap Band Has A Song About How I'm "Outstanding"

Totally representin' Cape Cod at Gillette as the Patriots prison-raped their New York visitors yesterday.

 

 

A little coffee, some chips, some fried turkey sandwiches, a bit of brandy to fortify ourselves against the brutal 50 degree temperatures... and off we go...

 

In this light, Gillette Stadium looks a lot like the Alfred R. Murrah building in Oklahoma City after McVeigh redesigned it. This may have been 12:30 PM, and I must have passed about 1000 people who had obviously been drinking since 7 in the morning.

 

Our cheerleaders wear pants, which is sort of disappointing. I prefer either a cute 1980s sweater/plaid skirt look, or that S+M cheerleader look that you see in leading men's magazines these days. The  middle ground is often where the sinkhole lays.

 

One of the good things about being the son of a wealthy man is that you can afford to get professional women to attend the Pat's game with you when Dad slides you the playoff tickets because he has to go to Oman orsomething. He could have taken his friend Eric, but Eric can't pick an apple up with her ass like his current date can.

At one point, we got to talking... and I said, "Wow, your son seems to be having a lot of fun."

"That's not my son... that's my date. I don't even like football."

I stood before her with my mouth open, as if I had just watched someone smash their fist through a Rembrandt.

"A guy came into Zachary's (a local bitty tar) and gave me $5000.... told me to wait on the corner of 130 and 6A in a Tom Brady shirt at 10 AM today. A limo picked me up, and here we are."

"The game is actually sort of fun once you get into it."

I finally snapped out of it. I am a sports reporter, and the readers of CapeCodToday.com 's sports section would no doubt want the whole story.

I asked to interview Hoss (the stripper- Nicole- had told me that the first thing the kid said when she got into the limo was "You shall refer to me as "Hoss."). Nicole and I switched seats, and I tugged on the sleeve of the kid's Ted Bruschi jersey.

"Excuse me, ummm, Hoss... I'm with CapeCodToday.com. How did you get to be so f*cking cool?"

"I'm kind of busy, lady..." he said, while looking me up and down, "unless you'd really like to go to the Boston Bruins game on January 17th. Now, go get me some nachos."

I needed a beer by that point anyhow, so I gave Nicole back her seat and went to the concession stand. I'm pretty sure it's no crime to have a 12 year old date, and I could use a new Patrick Leahy away jersey.

 

 

This guy was nice enough, bought his row a round, cheered good plays made by the Pats, wished us luck in the next round, posed for a picture, joined the fans as they standing O'd the Pats while they exited the field... he was a perfectly gracious visiting fan.

However... he made the mistake of wearing the wrong colors to the wrong party... and when we were leaving... mere yards from the sanctuary of his RV... he crossed the path of someone who was somehow still upset after a home team playoff victory... and he got a whiskey bottle off the head.

Old wounds heal slowly,and the words "Bucky Dent" can still make a healthy man wince in these parts. I'd expect the same thing if I wore a Big Papi shirt while strolling through Hell's Kitchen during a playoff battle.

Fashion is a fickle beast, and it is impossible to keep on top of it. Still, there are some rules that will always be true. Never wear white after Labor Day, never wear red to a funeral... and don't rock the Jets jersey in Foxboro.

While the lesson the man learned was a valuable one, it was a shame that a good whiskey bottle was shattered in the deliverance.... but it was heaviest thing I could reach as he passed.

 

Back to Cape Cod, where things make more sense.