Boom Boom - Super Bowl - 2014

Last night I heard a rumble from the river. The thunder sounded like a battle. I worried that the Canadians had attacked New York City. I called several friends living on the Hudson. The growling grew louder. Finally Rod Longprong answered his phone.

"I heard the same thing. It's fireworks."

"Fireworks for what?"

"For Super Bowl Weekend." I was thinking some rich banker's engagement party.

"Oh." I felt foolish about fearing an invasion, then again The Patriots weren't in the Game, so I could care less about the SuperBowl in the Meadowlands.

Broncos versus Seahawks.

I'm picking the Seahawks.

Anyone but Peyton Manning.

Mommie Dearest - 2017

And what's so funny about that aspiration?

The news media once more are complaining about the hookers lining the highways for the fat white men in the Hummers. Football, hookers, and Hummers. Nothing says America more than that other than dropping the rent in $1 bills at a strip club.

In 2009 the mayor of Tampa arrested scores of free-lancers during Super Bowl week.

Everyone called him a 'wimp'.

Real fat white men know that they pay for it.

One way or the other.

But the truth of the matter is that there is no proof about a hooker invasion for the Super Bowl.

More alternative universe thinking, so my advice is simple

"Hey, mommie, work that pole."

It's the American way, because that's one job they can't offshore to India.

Super Bowl Sunday 2015

It's Sunday Bowl Sunday and the New England Patriots are playing last year's champions for the 2015 NFL title. Seattle's Legion of Boom have promised to shut down the Pats' stellar tight end, Le Gronk, and punished any receivers daring to cross their paths on the other side of the scrimmage line. The 'Hawks coach had spent several years at Foxboro Stadium before the owner got Bill Belichick from the Jets. My home team has won three Super Bowls in the 21st Century, but none since # 12 Tom Brady married supermodel Giselle. Few male New Englanders have mentioned this obvious curse, because Giselle was a Victoria Secrets lingerie model, although my niece prays daily for the split-up of Brady family for different reasons. 

She is in love with # 12.

He has perfect hair despite most of it being plugs.

This afternoon Courtney called to ask where I was watching the game.

The landlord of the Fort Green Observatory is watching the game with his eight year-old son, James,  whom I have nicknamed 'Lucky Charm'. 

Turning down chicken wings and beer on a couch is tough, however AP is not a real sports fan and both his son and I consider him a little unlucky.

Option # 2 is to sit at Frank's Lounge on Fulton, except the TVs in the Old School bar date back to the 80s and my eyes hurt trying to focus on the blurred images.

A third possibility would be Mullane's Sport Bar on Lafayette, if bearded Will was working there, but he was fired by the bald owner for being too scruffy. 

Drinking at his new place of employ worked for me, until Will said that a neighborhood organization was having a soiree at Eats on Mrytle and added, "They have a DJ, so there's no sound on the TV."

"Damn, I like my spot there." I had watched both Patriots' victories at bar stool # 3.

Last choice is chez Neil R, a die-hard Yankees and Knicks fan. I'll be the only Patriot supporter at his house party and everyone will know it, because I'm wearing a Richard Seymour home jersey.

# 93.

The sun is going down and I have to make a decision.

I hope it is the right one.

GO PATRIOTS

Super Bowl Snatch

I love the unpredictabilty of chaos

No one could have predicted on Kearse catching that deflected ball on his back.

On the ensuing play Lynch was tackled and I'm screaming for Belichick to call a time-out, because I know that the 'Hawks will scoree. Nothing comes from Belichik. He's acting like a deer caught in the headlights and Carroll's says to himself, "Now I have the old bastard. He'll call a time-out and give me three shots at the end zone."

Except the seconds slip off the clock.

Long seconds.

No time-out.

Carroll looks at Belichek.

"What's that bastard up to?"

Now's there's only time for three plays for Seattle and one of them has to be a pass.

The 'Hawks have a play.

A slant pick in the center.

Carroll makes the call.

Everyone in the world is expecting Lynch to run.

Everyone, but Belichek.

The Wizard of Foxboro knows the future, because he's seen the videos on the upcoming play dozens of times. The defense knows this set-up. They've played it in practice. There is only one place the ball is going to go.

To the cutting receiver.

Hike.

The ball is snapped with 26 seconds lft. Lockette runs his pattern. He's in the clear.

Destiny has written Seattle as the winner.

None of the Seahawks see # 21, the walk-on rookie from Western Alabama.

At some casinos they call the game of Blackjack 21.

Ten and an Ace are a winning hand.

Positioned in the end zone Butler sees everything. Wilson. Lockette. The pass. The ball. He steps in front of Lockette, knocking the taller end to the ground, as he miraculously intercepts the game-winner.

Tom Brady raises his hands to heaven.

I jump out of my seat.

The game is over.

The Patriots win 28-24 and Belichek looks across the field at Pete Carroll, who thought this was a done deal.

Belichek doesn't smile. He doesn't say a word. He walks down the sideline, knowing one thing.

It ain't over until it's over.

Chris Chase of USA Today shares my opinion.

By the way I can watch this following highlight forever.

Lip Synch - 2013

Beyonce wowed her fans at the Super Bowl, but her lipsynching performance had me questioning whether the time has come to rethink stripping Milli Vanilli of their Grammies. At Frank's Lounge the bar crowd defended the pseudo-diva.

"She's dancing and sinning."

"James Brown never lipsynched, except for ROCKY 3."

Free Milli Vanilli.

I know Beyonce would understand.

The End Of An Era

Five Super Bowls appearances resulted in three championships for the New England Patriots during the early Belichek-Brady era, although both post-season losses came in the last minutes at the hands of Giants quarterbacked by Eli Manning in the last minute by the quarterback'sspectacular passes against a weary secondary and the result in 2012 mirrored the defeat of 2008, but in reality this year's match-up was determined very early in the 1st quarter by an intentional grounding call against Tom Brady, which resulted in a safety and a punt to the

Of course my sister calling during the game was the kiss of death.

"Are you watching the game?" I sat the game with a long-time friend in the West Village. Bill was a Packers fan. We had $20 on the game. It was a friendly bet.

"No." She was working on test papers for her college students.

"I can't talk. It's bad luck to speak with someone not watching the game." The damage had been done and then I looked over my shoulder at Bill's Italian wife. The director from Pescara was busy writing a film proposal. Two negatives made a positive and I relaxed a little with the Patriots leading by a point into half-time.

Madonna's greatest show on Earth was a disaster. She opened the set with VOGUE, her smash hit from the last century. Her dance routine reminded me of an aging quarterback running from a blood-thristy linebacker. She was slow. Faster than me, but I wasn't on stage before a billion people. When play resumed, I wallowed in a quiet calm with a Brady score.

It wasn't enough and the clock ticked away with the Patriots. The Giants had the ball and marched down field.

I bit off three fingernails and gnawed them smooth, then the Blue scored a TD with 56 seconds to go.

Damn the safety, damn my sister, damn VOGUE.

I couldn't get it out of my head.

Madonna, that old witch had ear-wormed me and maybe the Patriots too.

Brady's Hail Mary pass into the end zone resulted in nothing.

Game over.

The Giants win.

I can't remember the score, but I rode home to Brooklyn on the A train listening tomesctastic Giant fans recapping the Superbowl. I really didn't hear them, because my ears were ringing with VOGUE.

The curse of Madonna.

The bitch.

Back at FortGreene I put on some MC5. Soothed by HIGH SCHOOL I told myself it had just been a game. It was easy to believe the lie.

To hear the instrumental version of the MC5's HIGH SCHOOL please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P6XV2OblHvo

BETTING THE OTHER WAY by Peter Nolan Smith

Richie Boy and I bet the Super Bowl according to the Manny Principle, which was that Manny never beat the spread for the NFL's final game and in 1990 the championship game posed the 49ers against the Broncos in New Orleans. All week Googs, Domingo, Richie Boy, and I had been badgering Manny for his pick and on Friday afternoon we intensified the pressure.

"Who you like?" Richie Boy liked to get things out in the open.

"Anytime I tell you, I lose." Manny told us on Friday.

"But we win." Googs had won $1000 betting on the 49ers 19 1/2 point advantage over the Chargers.

"And I didn't see a penny from any of you gonifs." Manny wasn't superstitious, but this losing streak was a joke amongst his friends. "You're invited to watch the game at my apartment. There'll be food booze and a big TV, but you want to make a bet, use your head not mine."

Manny sat at his desk and didn't speak to us for the rest of the day. Richie made two sales on diamonds memoed from the Randolph firm across the aisle. Domingo and I spent the afternoon schlepping orders from the polishers to the setters to the polishers again and back to the store. At closing we locked the goods in the safe and Manny paid our salaries. We got paid in cash. $100 bills. Normally we were out the door a second later, but not tonight.

"C'mon, Dad, give us a break." Richie Boy was pleading on bended knees which wasn't easy since he had popped both ACLs in Jackson Hole a month earlier.

"What?" Manny leaned back in his chair.

We weren't the only ones waiting for his prediction. Mr. Randolph had his hearing aid turned up to 10. The Jamaican guard was eavesdropping at the counter. There was a knock on the door. It was Uncle Seymour. Manny took one look at his brother and said angrily, "You don't come to see me here all year and now you show up like a long-lost shoe."

"Don't have a cow." Seymour was a die-hard gambler. "I was only passing by."

"Passing by, my brother, the ex-cop, passing by on the way back from the track."

"Ain't no racing this time of year." The ex-cop loved the horses and gave most of his pension to the stables via OTB. He turned to Richie Boy. "He's not telling us, is he?"

"No." Richie Boy shook his head. "The old bastard thinks he'll win, if he doesn't tell us."

"Win?" Seymour laughed as only an older brother can laugh at his younger brother.

"What?" Manny was hot. "You think I can win on this bet?"

"Manny, I love you, but you haven't won a Super Bowl bet since the Jets lost to the Colts."

"That's not Manny's fault." I had to defend my boss on this. Maybe he'd give me his bet and I could double up on the $500 in my pocket.

"Ass-kisser." Googs called them as he saw them.

"No, Manny was fucked by a fixed game."

"They don't fix the Super Bowl." Seymour's statement was more a question than a challenge.

"No, four years ago I'm sitting at a hotel in Paris. I run into Bubba Smith of the Baltimore Colts who's promoting POLICE ACADEMY. I ask him after a few drinks, "How you lose that game to the Jets?" At first I thought he would take off my head, instead he whispered, "They got to the quarterback."

"Quarterback?" Seymour remembered his name.

"Both of them." The bookies had threatened to kill their families. Manny's streak in my eyes was intact.

"They fixed the quarterback?" Manny had won a month's pay on that bet.

"Why you think Joe Namath was so confident. He knew the fix was in."

"It was only one game."

"What about 1979? All the smart money went on Pittsburgh to cover the 3.5 spread, then the bookies stretched it to 4.5. You might remember the game but Dallas trailed 35-17 with 7 minutes left, but somehow come back to score 2 TDs and beat the spread, fucking everyone who bet the Steelers."

"I lost that bet too."

"I won." I knew Manny thanks to his brother working with me at Hurrah, a punk disco on West 62nd Street. I bet my salary on Seymour's recommendation of the Manny Principle.

"Dad, you're gonna lose. Nothing you do can stop you losing the Super Bowl." Googs was in debt to his car dealer. "I win and I'm good for the winter. Think of your kids. Me and Richie."

Manny eyed us all. "No."

"Dad," Richie Boy spoke with a soft tone. He used it to close deals. "How much you gonna bet. $500? $1000. You tell us your choice and we'll make good your loss."

"A real hero." Manny shook his head defiantly. "You want me to lose."

"I don't want you to lose, but you're going to lose." Richie held up 10 C-notes. "You lose every yer. Not on everything. Just the Superbowl. We'll make good for you."

"You want me to bet. I lose the bet and then you pay me the money."

"Simple. You come out ahead."

"What makes you so sure that I won't win this year."

"Manny?" Richie Boy, Googs, and Seymour shrugged sympathetically. They were family.

"I can win with you guys. I bet the Broncos."

"You bet the Broncos?" Seymour demanded incredulously, since the 49ers had lost their two regular season games by only 5 total points. "You know something we don't know."

"Only that John Elway is going to win a Super Bowl some day."

We held our breath. Manny didn't think it was funny and pointed a finger at his son. "Okay big shot, just remember what you said, because this year I'm winning big."

We went to Manny's apartment in Grammercy Park that Sunday. He had a spread from Little Italy on the table. The couch was big enough to take Googs, Seymour, Richie Boy, his wife from Buffalo, and his two high school friends; Werthel and RD. We bet heavy the other way from Manny. The game was a blow-out. Richie Boy paid his father $500 for his loss and we drank the rest of his vodka toasting Manny, but he was in too good a mood for my tastes and when we went out onto the balcony for some air, I asked, "Why you in such a good mood?"

"Because I bet the 49ers."

"But you told us that you bet the Broncos?"

"And you believe everything someone tells you?" Manny liked answering a question with a question. "Don't believe nothing and don't tell anyone this either."

"Why you tell me?"

"Because no matter if I tell you not to, I know you'll tell your friend Richie that I bet on the 49ers. I want to see his face on Monday."

"But you took $500 from him?"

"No, he gave it to me." Manny looked over his shoulder and smiled, "Everyone's much happier thinking I have a curse. Why spoil their good time?"

I felt bad about saying nothing to Richie Boy about his father's bet that day, because he was so happy. Monday would be a different story.

For a related article click on this URL

http://www.mangozeen.com/2010/01/31/fiction/mr-bellers-neighborhood-reading-218.htm

My Super Bowl Call 2014

The First Super Bowl in 1967 was competitive throughout the first half with the score 14-10 in favor of the Green Bay Packer. The 60,000 plus audience in the Los Angeles Coliseum cheered on the Kansas City Chiefs, which had outyardaged the NFL champions. The second half began with an interception. 21 points went unanswered and the game ended 35-10 with a victory for Coach Lombardi.

The Green Bay Packers were each paid a salary of $15,000 as the winning team. The Chiefs were paid $7,500 each.

Today's match between the Seattle Seahawks and the Denver Broncos has the attention of the nation.

Billions of chicken wings, beers, nachos, burgers, pizza et al will be consumed on the second Biggest Feeding day on the American calendar.

The Broncos are the 2.5 point favorites.

The over-under is 48.

28-20.

The weather in the Meadowlands is perfect for football.

I call it 35-21 for Seattle.

Go with the over.

ps I bet $5 on the Packers in 1967.

I won my bet.

I was 15 and like now $10 is always better than $5.

ps Seattle won 43-8

Super Bowl III 1969

The Baltimore Colts had entered Superbowl III as 18-point favorites over the AFL’s New York Jets. The underdogs were quarterbacked by the flashy Joe Namath and the brash Alabama native boasted in Miami, “We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”

The Colts were infuriated by this brash statement and quashed the first drive by the Jets, however big games are won on injuries as much as luck and after the bruising fullback Matt Snell knocked out the Colts’ safety and the secondary was open for Don Maynard, who scored two TDs.

The NFL champs never really challenged the upstarts, as their all-star OB missed several opportunities to hit receivers in the end-zone. The victory acted as a turbo-charged boost for the AFL, however the Jets have never come as close to the Super Bowl as today’s game against an historic rival.

Betters lost millions on this game. No one ever questioned the outcome. The Jets simply seemed to have outplayed the NFL juggernaut.

In 1984 I ran into Bubba Smith at the Deauville Film Festival. I was attending the event for the French magazine ACTUEL. The Colt defensive lineman was in France to promote the comedy film POLICE ACADEMY.

Not #2 or #3.

The original.

Most reporters were huddled around Steve Guttman, the star of the comedy. Bubba sulked off to the side. He wasn't on my list of interviewees. ACTUEL was more interested in my speaking with Rock Hudson about acting with James Dean in GIANT.

That rendezvous wasn't until after tomorrow's screening of George Stevens' western epic, and I introduced myself to 6-7 280 pound ex-NFL All Star as a longtime admirer. His fearsome tackling at Michigan State had earned the enormous lineman the motto 'Kill Bubba Kill'. I half-expected him to crush my hand, but he smiled when I told him how much I liked his acting.

"Just playing myself."

Neither of us had anything scheduled for the afternoon and I suggested that we retire to the Bar of the Hotel Atlantique. It had a great view of the beach,

I told him about being a Boston Patriots fan.

"Tough luck."

The Pats were my team. Their 1983 season had been 8 wins versus 8 losses. The Baltimore Colts had beaten them twice. Both games had been close I was more interested in the past and Bubba told me how it was to play with Johnny Unitas. He said great without any reservation, but I had dodged the real question and after my fourth glass of wine I leaned over to ask Bubba Smith, “The Colts were such a favorite in Super Bowl 3, how did you lose to the Jets?”

“They got to the quarterback.” Bubba answered without caring who heard that accusation. Most everyone in the bar was French. Few of them had ever heard about Joe Namath's boast about winning against the Colts. They were frogs and they worshiped soccer. Not football.

“The game was fixed?”

A shrug indicated that the answer was mine to decide and I remembered Unitas throwing the ball to the Jets defender and Morall’s three interceptions.

“Who fixed the game?”

It was a stupid question undeserving of an answer and Bubba stood away from the bar. A few of the froggies gawked at him. They had never seen a man or woman that huge.

"Excuse me. I gotta get back to work." Bubba Smith went over to watch Michael Winslow delight the reporters with his imitations of a helicopter. I laughed too.

The retired footballer avoided me the rest of the festival, especially after spotting me dining with Rock Hudson. But I didn’t mention Bubba's confession to the editorial staff of Actuel. None of them were interested in a rumor about a football game in 1969. The editors were having trouble with my article with Rock Hudson. My typing was atrocious.

While I've never seen a replay of Super Bowl III, several bookie friends of mine had listened to my story and mumbled under their breath about how the Mob had threatened the lives of Earl Morall’s and Unitas’ families. Bubba had said nothing, but the opposing quarterback had a big mouth.

“We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.” Joe Namath's words were carved in stone thanks to strong-arm gangsters. Sometimes there is such a thing as a sure thing. although these days games are never fixed by players. They make too money.

On the other hand the refs control the game from start to finish.

Not that I'm pointing any fingers.

In truth I don't know nothing and I'm happier that way.

Knowing even less would only make me happier.

ps Anita Bryant sang the National Anthem in 1969 whose later anti-gay campaign was immortalized by David Allan Coe’s 1978 song “Fuck Anita Bryant”.

RED HOT RED / Bet On Crazy by Peter Nolan Smith

Several years ago I was sitting with a mystical friend at Frank's Lounge, watching the end of the Jets-Colts playoff game. Rooting for the New York team surprised Wilson. He knew my life-long ties to Boston and I told him. "If the Jets win, we get to beat them again and other than winning the SuperBowl nothing is better than beating the Jets."

I hate Jets fans, except for Bob Wolfkowitz. This family friend is a season ticket-holder in the Meadowlands. Their last championship was in SuperBowl III. I hope that another hundred years go by before the Jets win the championship.

"Never the gold for the Jets." I said this loud enough for the benefit of Tyrone. He too is a die-hard fan. I wish that I could wish him good-luck, but when the Jets upset my team, the Patriots, in the first match-up between the AFC East rivals, Tyrone was crowing about how the Jets were going all the way.

My phone was ringing. I looked at the number and put it back in my jacket. It was Richie Boy, my boss.

It was Richie Boy, my boss. We were old friends, but this was a business call and he wasn’t paying me enough to answer the phone this time of night.

"We'll see next week." Wilson was a Giants fanatic. He was praying for both our teams to crash head-on in their buses, so the Jints could sneak into the playoffs. Football fans are devoted fools. "Two strong teams. Evenly matched."

"Dirty Sanchez is no Tom Brady." I imagined the Jets' QB to be a modern-day Paris of Troy looking to steal Helen from New England. There was only one Giselle and she had a big nose. My phone started ringing again. Richie Boy must have finished skiing in Vermont.

"Who's calling you?" Wilson was curious since the only person that ever called me this time of night was Fenway's mom from Thailand and I always answered her. Mam was 26 and as beautiful as the first day I met her four years ago.

"My boss from the diamond exchange."

"Doesn't he know that it's a Saturday?" Wilson worked as a building inspector for the city. 38 years on the job. "Ain't no one working at my job on Saturday unless it's double overtime."

"My bosses don't understand the concept of overtime." I was 58. Finding a new job was impossible for men my age. I was the only one on the subway in the morning. The phone started ringing again.

"Your boss?"

"No, a friend."

Isaac had a store in the Plaza Hotel. We had met two years earlier when Richie Boy opened a shop in the new Retail Collection. The experiment in the basement had been a disaster. One partner was a thief and Richie Boy's Persian backer was broke. I saved the sinking ship by selling a million-dollar ruby. Isaac admired my effort and my cool demeanor after our Persian backer stiffed half my commission.

I answered the phone.

"Man, you've got to tell Richie Boy to chill." Isaac and I were trying to sell a 2-carat red diamond to a sheik. So was everyone else in town, but Isaac had sold the client before, giving him the inside track. "He's calling me every 30 minutes."

"Me too."

Richie Boy had a bad habit of thinking that every sale was a done deal as long as you showed the stone.

I walked out of the bar onto the sidewalk. The night air was cold. Across the street General Fowler's statue was covered in blinking lights. Some sport had draped him in a cape. The wind gave the Civil War hero life.

"Isaac, did you speak with the Arab today?"

"No, I told you and told Richie Boy that I wouldn't be speaking to him until Wednesday. He has to relax."

"Did you call anyone else for a stone?" I hoped that he hadn't.

"Someone showed me a pinkish red." I knew that Isaac couldn't stay off the phone. Richie Boy wasn't the only crazy person.

"Pinkish red is a garbage stone. You show that to someone looking for a red diamond and they'll think you're an idiot. How much they asking for the pinkish red?"

"A bargain. $1 million a carat."

"A piece of shit more like it."

The colored diamond and gem trade are controlled by Afghani Jews. I know most of them. They are good people, but no one has an idea how much they pay for their stones. I figured that they doubled up on the purchase price. It could have been three times that.

"If someone says 'red', show them red." My phone buzzed with another call. I knew who it was. "Do yourself a favor. Stop calling around. Every time you call for a stone, the price will jump. Tell the Arab that too. It's the truth."

"How much can we make on this stone?"

"Enough for me to stop working for two years." I could live on 50K a year. "Let me answer this call."

"Okay, but tell Richie Boy to leave me alone."

"I wish I could tell him the same for me." I switched calls.

"Why didn't you answer my call?" Richie Boy was rightfully agitated by my ignoring him.

"I was on the line with Isaac." I explained how Isaac needed space.

"Space? This isn't a marriage. This is a diamond deal. I have people holding a red diamond for him."

Richie Boy ranted for several more seconds about how he didn't need people to be a prima donna. I didn't need to hear this on the weekend, since nothing and nothing was supposed to happen on the weekend.

"It's shabbath. The broker is at temple. Where are you?"

"Just getting home." Richie Boy and his wife had driven north to spend the weekend at their trailer on a river in Vermont. I had seen the photos. If he threw in a fire and glass of wine with a view of a snowy river, some called it paradise.

"Then have a good night. I'm watching the end of the football game." I hung up and shut off my phone. I returned inside the bar and sat next to Wilson. The Jets had scored a TD.

"What your boss want?"

Wilson was unimpressed about the red diamond sale. He was looking at a good pension in two years.

"What makes a red diamond red?" It was a good question.

I had a good answer. The truth.

"No one knows." It could have been elemental. Maybe a weird radiation from the earth's core or the the vastness of the cosmos. All I knew was that I wasn't selling it this weekend and I bought Wilson a beer, happy to be where I was, for Frank's was good for drinking beer and not worrying about work. It was paradise for some and almost home for me.

And General Fowler too.

This statue wasn't going anywhere soon.

Giselle 69

This weekend Tom Brady will play his 17th Game versus the Denver Broncos.

The AFC Championship will be an away game for the Patriots.

#12 is 2-6 at Sports Authority Field at Mile High and many other teams have trouble with the Broncos and the main reason is the altitude.

None of the other teams in the NFL play so high.

Rodney Harrison said in the Boston Herald, “I remember Junior Seau, one of the best-conditioned athletes you’ll ever see, and after two or three plays chasing Terrell Davis down, he’s out there breathing hard."

I once shoot B-Ball in Lhasa against the Chinese Army. I had two Tibetans for the 3-3. Within a minute the Chinese and me were sucking for oxygen in the thin air. The Tibetans told me to just feed them the ball. No D. We ran the court the entire day and I wasn't even wheezing.

Not the same for the Patriots, who will arrive in Denver on Friday to allow the team a spell of acclimatization, but while the 2000 199th Draftee might be 2-6 against the Broncos, Tom is 11-5 against Peyton Manning and I like that number just right.

I shall be in the Chinatown at the 169, if Johnny is at the bar.

19 feet above sea level.

And I'll be wearing my GISELLE 69 shirt.

Go #12.

May the numbers be with you.

The Ravens

Leaving work on Friday I asked my boss who he liked in the Super Bowl. "I don't bet." "I know that, but who do you like?" Manny had bet on every Super Bowl. His record was perfect. He had never won a bet. "I like the 49ers." That's all I needed to hear. Ravens all the way.