I have only one good story about the Superbowl, and it involves my genitals. But not exactly how it sounds; this will be a PG, maybe Rated R story, depending on how you look at certain elements, I suppose.
Prelude: I never watched a football game as an adult until 2002. I was staying with friends, following my first divorce (and perhaps you assume something about any story that describes the first of anything, and you'd be correct, it assumes there was another divorce, which assumes a second marriage that, while healthy at the time of this story, eventually became the second in a pair of divorces... so far, any way). Anyway, this family I was staying with made a big deal about watching the game, along with tons of food, and I was invited to join in. And so I watched the first football game in approximately 30 years, give or take.
It went pretty much the way I remembered and, a few minutes before what appeared by all evidence a defeat for the Patriots, and I was tired, and so I bade the family goodnight and wished their team some miraculous recovery in the last few minutes of the game. And, indeed, such a thing happened, and the Patriots beat the St.Louis Rams, 20 to 17. Two years later, and different circumstances in a different place, I again found myself watching the game, and feeling the writing was firmly upon the wall, I went to bed a few minutes before the Patriots came from behind to beat the Florida Panthers, 32 to 29. Clearly, I was some unwitting good luck charm for that team, my indifference being their four-leaf clover, their lucky number, their percentage chance arriving, even as I left.
Skip ahead to 2008. A record-breaking all wins/no losses season behind them, the Patriots found themselves at the Superbowl again. Myself, I was at a sleep clinic, having tests to determine if I had Sleep Apnea (I did) and how bad I had it (bad). One of the few perks of being soft-wired to a number of sensory machines, in a not-dark room (with a camera on you as well, and then being told to relax and fall asleep) was a television that had full cable, including the Food Channel, Cartoon and Comedy Channels, and A&E before it became awful and, again in that total fog I'm in regarding the Superbowl in general, completely forgot about it and spent the night watching Iron Chef, instead. Apparently, it is my ignoring the New England only for the last few minutes, and only after having invested time enough for a few quarters, at least, that makes magically luck. We all know how Superbowl XLII ended for the Patriots.
Depending on whether you believe in jinx or not, that may have been My Bad.
2008 was also the year (April, the month) that I opted to get a vasectomy, after having fathered three children. It's a relatively quick, non-invasive, out-patient operation and I was there in the operating room of a leading Urologist, known for his skill in this particular surgery. So, there I was, on the table, naked from the waist down, with a little cloth wall across my abdomen, preventing me from seeing the operation. It's a minor operation, as these things go, but still, both local and general anesthetics are used, so I was fairly loopy, and since I couldn't watch the action, as it were, my eyes drifted lazily around the room, taking in the various signed photographs of Patriots players across the years, along with pennants, posters, news articles, etc.
If you see where this is going, you are fortunate; I lacked that insight at the time.
I started, "Hey Doc, you're a fan of the Patriots?" He nodded. "I've got a weird story for you!" And I started in on the story, and got about two-thirds of the way in, when it occurred to me that I was not thinking clearly, and my audience was not only not the appropriate audience for this story, but that indeed, they also had, at that moment, unrestricted access to my genitals and a number of surgical tools very nearby. You'd think I would have trailed off, or changed the story.
You'd think.
But, no; and cheerily medicated and in wonder at my own apparent powers over chance and circumstance, I went on through to the very end. At which point, I noticed wisps of smoke, rising above the little cloth-wall across my abdomen. "UM..." I said as steadily as I could, given the anesthetic still going WEEEEEEE! in my head, and my sudden awareness that I should not make any kind of sudden move, "Ha ha! Are you burning "Patriots Rule!" down there. He didn't even look up as he said, "No, that's to cauterize the incision... although I did consider it for a moment..." and winked at me. Relieved, and still medicated, I listened to him talk about ice-packs and sitting on them, nothing strenuous for a week or two, and something about there being "deep bruising" and I shouldn't be too alarmed when I see it.
I'm pretty sure that was his delayed revenge, knowing that I listened and heard him, but not really heard him about the bruising. Two days later, I notice, when I went to urinate, THAT EVERYTHING DOWN THERE LOOKED AS BLACKENED A PURPLE AS YOU EXPECT THE CLOUDS AT THE END OF THE WORLD TO LOOK LIKE BEFORE THEY RAIN FIRE.
"Hello, this is Dr.____________'s office. Can you hold?"
"NOIREALLYCAN'TINEEDTOTALKTOTHEDOCTORNOW!!!"
A few days later, the bruising cleared-up, everything worked as it should, and while my attention to things Superbowl has not improved at all (I guess 2012 was on me, as well. My Bad.) but I have managed to check in on a quarter or so of the games in 2015, and this year, when I marveled at how unlikely it would be for the Patriots to come back from a 25 point deficit, well into the 3rd quarter. So I shut my computer down and went to bed.
Patriot Nation? You are welcome.
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