.:: The StrongBrain Collective ::.

I have never in my life concentrated so diligently on any single televised sporting event. Ever. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the televised sporting event was the Super Bowl (2/1/04). And it had nothing to do with my team, the New England Patriots, participating in the game. Truthfully, my intense level of concentration was entirely due to the geographical location at which I viewed the game: San Diego, California.

Let me tell you something about this locale which might explain why I was distracted from the game. The weather is unreal. People who live here, like me, are spoiled. It's raining right now and natives are sending frantic text messages and calling each other as if a tsunami were bearing down upon them. They are also driving 10 mph below the speed limit and cringing at the term "hydroplane" as if it was a name of a villainous character from a Stephen King novel. They rapidly change the subject to converse about the other 348 days of the year when it's not raining and the sky is a resplendent shade of blue. The people are that spoiled.

Another thing about this area: women. The fact that I was sitting inside watching a football game when there was no more beautiful weather on this planet was distracting enough. But the real reason I was forced to knuckle down and concentrate on the Super Bowl was because of what occurred ten minutes into the game -- a female San Diegan walked by.

The trite talk I was having with my friend Andrew just ceased in mid-sentence as my gaze followed this girl's path. Andrew, who was sitting next to me, just leaned over and said quite appropriately, "Dude, aren't we at a Super Bowl party?" Indeed.

I don't know. Perhaps she had to go to the bathroom. Perhaps she wanted some nachos. Perhaps she wanted to get a better view of me. It didn't matter. What does matter is that she walked directly in front of the TV screen. Normally in this case, I would move my head and impatiently wait for the person to pass, or even say vociferously "Hey you! You make a better door than a window!", but this woman was walking in slow motion. She was moving with the fluidity of a sidewinder, her butt undulating from left to right and right to left and left to right and right to left and left to right and right to left and left to ri... uh sorry.

She was wearing white shorts and a gray sweatshirt that hugged tightly her perfect midsection and toned shoulders. This was a sweatshirt with a zipper; and this zipper was not pulled all the way up to her neck. Instead, it was locked at a very deliberate position. Nestled into the "V" of the sweatshirt opening were two breasts, each forming the top half of a perfect circle that could not ever be replicated, even with a compass and instructions from NASA. Not ever.

She had blonde hair, bleached from the sun. When she smiled, rather drunkenly, her perfect teeth and bright smile lit up the room. This woman was beautiful. And despite the fact that the two sentences I had thus far heard her speak did not contain a single verb, I was falling in love.

And there were other girls like her at this "Super Bowl" party. More beautiful. Less beautiful. Taller. Shorter. It didn't matter. They were there, and I couldn't speak with them. I had to concentrate! Nevertheless, I was still frustrated. My "game", as it were, is defined by witty banter and humor. And there is no better venue to demonstrate this acumen than at a house party, where discourse dominates the scene. I was not at a club, where nnn sss nnn sss nnn sss nnn sss nnn sss is all you hear and half of what you say. Or a bar, where the first 20 words out of your mouth either make you ... or break you.

But, it was not meant to be. I had a very important ballgame (or as Phil Simms would say: "FOOTball game") to watch. I could not bestow my wisdom and brilliant commentary upon these poor, unsuspecting ladies. It was not meant to be. I could not get up and make sarcastic remarks and laugh amiably at their humor. It was not meant to be. The Patriots were in the Super Bowl for Christ's sake!

So, with a heavy sigh, I watched her walk out of my life forever.

Andrew elbowed me and smiled: "Dude, aren't we at a Super Bowl party?"

This sentiment was repeated many times throughout the evening. Neither of us could get over the amount of pulchritude in the house at which we were supposed to be yelling and jumping. There was a girl wearing a jean skirt that had about as much material as one of my socks. There was a girl wearing the halter tops of all halter tops, and she must've adjusted it sensuously 37 times. I know because I was watching furtively from my spot on the couch. Let me just tell you that I did not see one commercial. I did not see an ounce of halftime. Janet Jackson's nipple can't compare to two women taking body shots off each other. And then sharing the lime together. And then passionately discarding the lime and all pretenses to just make out.

"Dude, aren't we at a Super Bowl party?"

Oh yeah. So we were. Perhaps I should talk about the game and not the distractions.

The fingernail on my right hand's pointer finger is demolished. It was either the red cup filled with Heineken or this fingernail that spent the majority of the day on my lips. It was a fantastic game, stressful, but fantastic. You appreciate the game's victory so much more when you have a heart attack during it, like a person enjoying every minute of their life after nearly dying. And I nearly died innumerable times on Sunday.

I have to say that I was nervous, even scared. After Adam Vinatieri missed that first field goal, my friend Andrew sat back in his chair and said curtly, "Inauspicious beginning." To say the fucking least. It was a 31-yard field goal, a chip shot. And Adam missed it. Was it an omen of things to come? Would this be the game where every ball that would usually bounce the Patriots' way suddenly bounce askance?

Our once lively attitudes became suddenly reserved. Rather than ostentatious chest thumpings and reverberating high-5's, we quietly gave each other fist pounds when things went right; and "don't worry, we won two years ago, did you see that girl?" when things went wrong.

We also played upon the jinx factor of the announcers. Often in sporting events, the announcers will make a comment about how much this athlete or that athlete has been succeeding lately. And invariably, the athlete will fail in their next attempt. You see it all the time:

"Larry Bird has not missed a free throw in 38 attempts!" Brick!

"Manny Ramirez does not have a hit with men on base in these playoffs!" Home run!

"Adam Vinatieri has never missed a field goal in these circumstances!" Wide right!

So, Andrew and I played on that jinx, but intelligently and reverse-psychologically. We'd say the opposite of what we wanted to happen:

"Tom Brady has not completed a third down pass this year!" Completion!

"The Patriots defense has not made a stop this quarter!" Delhomme bounced it!

"Karsay has not fucked up a kickoff in his career!" Out of bounds!

I suppose, then, you could say that Andrew and I were singularly responsible for the Patriots Super Bowl victory! Monetary donations are accepted.

In all seriousness, it was a fantastic game to watch. It was back and forth with flurries of points and a dramatic finish. It was great! The seesaw fourth quarter (37 total points scored) created a lot of anxious moments. I haven't touched a man so much in such a short period of time before. I found myself going back and forth grabbing Andrew's shoulders and my other friend Christian's leg to alleviate my soul's disquiet. But, as I said above, the victory was that much sweeter because of the neverending drama. It really was a great game.

Even if I had to use all my willpower to watch it. I love this town.