I used to drink a little in the 1980s, or so I've heard. One year, the Giants, a team I had followed as cognizantly as one could, was headed to the Super Bowl for the first time in franchise history.
I had to go to the game. I had gone to almost every home game that season with a friend of mine and when he called me to let me know he was allotted two tickets, I had to oblige.
We met at Kennedy Airport the Friday before the game. He set up a $200 round trip to LA for each of us thanks to a female 'acquaintance' of his and we flew coach in tight quarters with several hundred other very ordinary Giant fans.
I should have known that this trip was going to be full of surprises. I didn't care really where we went or what we did as long as I got to the Rose Bowl and saw the big game. So, when two women from Brooklyn decided to streak naked on the plane, I just figured that this was part of the Super Bowl tradition, like Mardi Gras.
By the time we landed, my boy Eddie was pie-eyed and I was fairly numb. Little did we know that we had a 45-minute drive to the hotel. I got behind the wheel and miraculously steered us without event through Los Angeles for about 44 minutes until a city bus hit me on Sunset Blvd. The police quickly surrounded the car and pulled us both from the vehicle.
"I'm driving because my friend is too drunk to drive" I told the cops. They looked at me, stunned and sobered by the collision, and somehow allowed us to proceed to our hotel—the Hyatt on Sunset.
What comes next may or may not be true. Depends on who you ask.
Tomorrow - Chapter 2 - What are you guys, in the Mafia or something...?