For perhaps the first time in 20 years, Neal has actually been able to back up his bragging with action. As such, we're both headed up I-90 early tomorrow towards Foxboro, Massachusetts to witness the AFC Championship game between the Chargers and Patriots. He told me on Sunday he'd be able to get tickets through work, which I promptly filed away into the "yeah, sure you can" folder, along with most everything else Neal's said he could do since high school. So when he actually produced two field level tickets behind the end zone, I half-expected Paris Hilton to knock on my door wearing a grizzly bear fur and ask me to make a sex tape with her (which I considered about as likely). It's projected to hover between 15 and 20 degrees, with winds below zero, which seems fitting for an NFL playoff football game. We're planning a tailgate session from the back of our rented 2004 Ford Focus beforehand, which should help numb us properly to prepare. Regardless of the outcome, I'm already a super big winner. I'm either going to see the greatest upset of all-time, or the greatest football team of all time, or both. We're debating how much Chargers gear to wear (although with the weather it is a bit irrelevant), so if you see me tied to the goal posts around the first quarter with a shit smear on my forehead, you'll know how that went.
Go bolts. Go.