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Are You Ready for Some Snowballs? (aka, ‘All My Rowdy Friends Are Freezing Their ‘Nads Off Tonight!)

I went to the New England Patriots game today.

It’s only the second regular-season Pats game that I’ve been to, and — if I’m counting correctly, for once — only the sixth pro football game I’ve attended at all. So it’s a pretty special occasion, I’d say.

(Hey, I know people who’ve had six children or more, so each football game I’ve attended is more special than those births, right? You know, proportionally. No? Relatively? Theoretically? No?

Eh, what do you know, anyway? You’re probably one of those ‘seven kid’ people. Weirdo.)

Anyway, it’s still a thrill to watch a pigskin showdown in the flesh.

(That’s me ‘in the flesh’, by the way, not the players. I’m not sure it would be a ‘thrill‘, exactly, to see a bunch of oversized corn-fed linemen, down in the trenches without their uniforms on. Some of these monsters push four hundred pounds — without all their clothes holding that flab in, their ‘three-point stances‘ would turn into six- or seven-point nightmares, as the rolls of cellulite from their thighs and stomachs and ankles and… um, elsewheres sag to the ground. Try and picture that. Go ahead; I dare ya.

While we’re at it, though, I should say that ‘in the flesh’ is just a figure of speech, too. I may be at the game ‘in person’, or ‘live as it happens’, or ‘in the building’, but I am certainly not literally there ‘in the flesh’. I’m no offensive lineman, but I am ‘offensive’. Oh, yes — ain’t nobody wanna see my rosy-cheeked, pearly-white ass dangling around at the stadium.

Oh, I’m sure I’ve got a ‘money-maker’ in there somewhere, but I’m not gonna shake it in public. Or private, for that matter. It’s actually rather high on my list of priorities to keep the shaking going on back there to a minimum. And I almost wrote, ‘bare minimum’, but I think we covered that ground — and my ass — already. So let’s move on.)

Where the hell was I, anyway? Ah, the football game. Righty-ho.

So, today was a ‘guy’s game’. Four of us boyfolks (damn, that sounds gay! Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course… but remind me never to use that around the other guys, or they’ll kick my ass) were scheduled to attend, while the two wives, one (newly-minted) fiancee, and one girlfriend that we have between us were to find their own entertainment for the day.

(Oh, and just in case there’s any confusion — that’s four pairs, with one girl and one guy each. It’s not like one of the dudes is hogging two or three of the women. This ain’t Utah, folks.

And while we’re at it, don’t any of you pervs get all sticky over that ‘we have between us’ line, either. Four pairs, one of each gender, no mixing and matching like a bunch of lubed-up Garanimals. This ain’t Vegas, either. Or Amsterdam, or General Hospital. We clear on all that? Good.)

Anyway, we ended up being just a threesome (why, oh why do I use words like that, just when I’ve got the pervs under control? Now I’m gonna have to hose ’em down all over again…), because one of the guys decided he was too sick to go. Or something — I never quite understood his excuse, really. Something about he just got over being sick, or he doesn’t want to get sick, or he was once sick, and didn’t really enjoy it… I dunno. He’s a fruitcake. Forget him. I won’t mention him again.

But the three remaining Musketeers got the day started at nine this morning. Which was painful, let me assure you. Nine am is approximately two and a half, maybe three, hours before my ideal Sunday would get rolling. I don’t like to see nine o’clock on a weekday, much less a made-for-rest Sunday. Now, add to that the fact that I had more than a little tequila last night, and let’s just say I was struggling a bit when my wife got me out of bed.

I got up and showered, though. Seriously, what choice did I have? Otherwise, they’d have left me there, sleeping peacefully but without a game ticket. And I couldn’t have that, so I schlepped out of the sack and got my ass in gear. Fifteen sleepy minutes later, I was ready to plan my outfit for the day.

And plan I did, because plan I had to do. (Apparently, I also had to write like Yoda talks for a little while. But I think it’s over now. Thankfully.) Anyway, as I’ve mentioned several times before, I’m not particularly a fashionista. I wear jeans or shorts and rugbys, and don’t give my ensemble much thought in the morning, or ever. Ah, but today was different. Not because several thousand people were going to see me as I moved through the parking lots and stands at the game. No, no, Nanette. Rather, it was because the temperature at game time was several thousand degrees below fricking zero, and I was gonna be out there in it, among the elements, with nothing but sixteen layers of clothes to protect my fragile widdle body.

So, I planned, and I dressed, from the bottom up. I put on a pair of boxers, as usual. At that point, I’d have liked to strap on some thermal undies, but alas, I have none. I briefly considered stealing a pair or two of my wife’s panty hose, but decided against it. If I were playing in the game, perhaps. (Hey, if it’s good enough for Broadway Joe…) But to just watch the game? Nuh-uh. So, I slipped on a second set of boxers — also known as ‘double-bagging my boys‘ — and hoped that would be enough. From that important decision, I was on a roll.

Two pairs of socks. Short-sleeved T-shirt, long-sleeved tee. Jeans, sweatshirt, another sweatshirt. Then the coat, gloves, scarf, and earmuffs. Oh, and shoes.

(Before the gloves, of course — ever tried to tie shoelaces with gloves on? It’s like playing Operation with salad tongs. Takes a full year off your life every time you try. No foolin’.)

So, anyway, not the most well-planned cold-repelling outfit, but it’s the best I could do on short notice.

(And at nine in the damned morning. With a smallish hangover. I’m surprised I managed to get dressed at all.)

In particular, I found that I was rather lacking in the ‘leg protection’ area — all I had between my beautiful knees and the cold, harsh elements was a thin layer of threadbare denim. But it was the best I could muster, so I soldiered on, and we three football kings made our way to the game.

We spent about two hours tailgating in a parking lot, and then three-plus hours inside the stadium, all the while exposed to the wintry New England weather. And I’ve got to admit — I don’t know whether it was the excitement, or the adrenaline, or just the novelty of it all… but I froze my fucking ass off out there. Fucking hell, it was cold! We were in the car for twenty minutes on the ride home before I could feel my fingers, or my damned toes, or — especially — my poor, frosty knees. It was unreal. And then, just in case any of us were actually becoming accustomed to the cold, the lords of football climatology saw fit to dump six inches of damned snow onto us during the second half. Whee-frickin’-ee-frickin’-ee. Ooh, ooh — can we do it again? Oh please, oh please, oh pretty please, can we? I think there are still some parts of my ass that aren’t entirely black with frostbite — let’s do it all over again!

Okay, I’m kidding. Mostly. It was as cold as Bill Gates’ evil dark soul, or the shattered remnants of Joan Rivers’ career. And I did have numbness in all of the extremities I mentioned above, plus one that — *ahem* — I’d rather not mention right now, though I would like to see it again soon.

(It’s okay, boy. We’re warmer now; it’s safe. Come on out, little dude — I’ll keep you safe. I promise.)

On the other hand, it was a hell of a lot of fun, too. We had good food and beer in the parking lot, then a great game in the stadium, and an easy Patriots win. Hell, I even got to bug by buddies whenever a Syracuse alum made a play on the field.

(Which was early and often, for the vanishingly few of you who would actually give a damn. Donovin Darius had several tackles, and Kevin Johnson led all receivers in the game with five catches for eighty-plus yards and a TD. Go, Orangemen!

And if you don’t give a damn… well, you’re not alone. The guys I was with didn’t, either, and I annoyed the steamy piss out of them with ‘cuse trivia. Much more than I’m annoying you right now. They almost left me at the game, in fact — I’d have had to hitchhike home in a blizzard, so I finally shut up. So just know that you’re in good company — almost nobody cares about this shit. Just think of it as my way of bringing all of the rest of you closer together.

Yeah, didn’t think of that, did you? See? It’s all about you, even when it’s not. Keep that in mind, folks — other blogs don’t love you like I do. I’m special.)

So, that was my day, or at least the biggest part of it. Five hours of excitement and icicles, football and freeziness, cold beers and even colder berries. But now that it’s all said and done, I’m finally warm, and I’ve still got my game-day memories. So the experience was more good than bad, and — assuming I don’t wake up with some sort of whooping cough flu tomorrow — I’d do it all over again.

You know, once my little fella comes back out to play. I think he needs a few weeks of warmth and TLC before he’s exposed to that sort of cold again. Maybe I’ll even get him into a sauna, or steam room, or something. He deserves some warmth for a while, after being such a trooper today. And I’ll tell him just that, if I ever see him again. He retreated pretty far up there, though — it was way cold, and I was out there a long time. I just hope I don’t have to use the plunger to coax him out. That’s never fun. Bleh.