Live from Miami! The Super Bowl blog

MIAMI – Yes, we're at the Super Bowl. Colonel Comey's over at one side of the press box, still miserable over his Vikings loss but soldiering one with nothing but a free pass to the biggest game in the world to keep him happy. He's also blogging the game for the Standard-Times of New Bedford, Mass., where he doubles as the sportz edita.

This is it! Just got over to the stadium a little while. EVERYTHING is rigid and run like a machine. The security, even for the media, was intense. In fact, it rivaled anything you face at an airport: frisked by security, all bags examined, metal detectors, bomb-sniffing dogs. The whole nine yards.

 

In any case, I'm here ... and it will be all football from here on out.

 

Went to the Taste of the NFL Friday night. It basically works like this: there's one celebrity from each NFL market representing all 32 teams (two from New York City), along with an ex "legend" from each team signing autographs at the table.

 

It's actually quite the event and one of the hottest tickets in town. And, at $500 to $1,000 a head it raises a ton of money for charities.

 

I was actually working on a piece for New York magazines foodie website, Grub Street, which covers five NFL cities: New York, Boston, Philly, Chicago and San Francisco, so spent most of the evening at those tables. The Eagles were represented by Jerry Sisemore; Patriots by Gino Cappelletti, Giants by Bill Ard, Jets by Freeman McNeil and 49ers by Eric Wright, proudly displaying an autographed "4x Super Bowl champion" team helmet.

 

The Dolphins had two players: Mercury Morris and Earl Morrall. This being Miami and all, they also attracted the longest lines. Morris, at one point, abruptly stood up and announced to everybody that he had to piss.

 

Spent a few minutes chatting with former NFL player Jim Miller, who sported the Super Bowl XXIX ring he won as Tom Brady's back-up with the Patriots in 2004; met Dick Yuengling, the owner of the nation's oldest brewery; and ran into a guy who has my dream job: he's the national spokesman for Frank's Red Hot and Yuengling beer. His name is Kevin (pictured here) and he owns East Village Tavern and Bowl in San Diego.

 

Here's how pathetic I am ... chefs from every great restaurant in the nation are serving food. The wine and champagne are pouring freely for everybody. And I keep sneaking over and bumming Yuenglings off the guys stuck in the corner with the Buffalo wings.

 

The Bare Naked Ladies closed out the event by playing some of their old classics and pimping their new album.

 

For a bunch of scrawny guys, it seemed like they tried everything at the event. They also agreed with me on the best dish of the evening (other than the chicken wings): the cold-smoked duck from Jack's Firehouse in Philadelphia.

 

Some other winners: the butterscotch habanero bread pudding Sunset Grill in Nashville; and the coconut shrimp beignets from MiLa in New Orleans.

 

Tooled around Ft. Lauderdale ... cool town. Also wanted to take in the fan scene. I fully expect, like most people, that Saints fans will rule the arena on game day.

 

But so far, didn't see much evidence of that on the streets of Ft. Lauderdale. If anything, there were more Colts fans on the streets than Saints fans. Found that a bit surprising. I also got my picture taken with Peyton Manning. He looks much taller and skinnier on TV.

 

That's OK. He said I'm short and fat, even by the short, fat standards of your average web-publishing troll.

 

Pulled into town Thursday night and headed over to the media center in Ft. Lauderdale. The first you notice about the Super Bowl is that every star, semi-star, football legend, and anonymous player in the country spills into town for the game, as if the entire nation was tipped up sideways and every rolls toward the southeastern tip of the country.

 

Adam Sandler and Chris Rock were rolling out of a limo when I arrived at the media center for the first time. Cowboys owner Jerry Jones was getting out of his ride the next time I showed up at the door.

 

Jones is one of the few people I've ever seen who simply looks filthy rich. Just something about him. I was born to look like an obnoxious drunken street urchin panhandling outside Starbucks. Jones was born to look rich.

 

 

 

One part of the road trip was that if gave me a chance to visit every roadside barbecue joint off of I-95, like Moore's Barbecue in lovely Kenly, North Carolina, smack dab in the middle of the state. Real hick town. I fight right in. 

 

The menu had burgers and dogs and thinks like that. And then something that simply said "barbecue."

 

I asked the girl "bahbacue what?"

 

"Pork?," she said ... as if I had just asked her to tell me what planet we lived on.

 

"Does any sauce come with it I said, pointing to the steel tin of shredded meat?"

 

"It's already in there," she said, with the same incredulity of a mother lecturing a child.

 

Despite her demeanor, it was pretty damn good: and at $1.99 probably the best deal of the entire trip. If I had a freezer in the bed of the truck, I would have purchased 50 of them.

 

Yes, I drove from Boston to Miami. Yeah, seems crazy. But there were good reasons for it that I don't need to explain here.

 

I know Washington D.C. got hit this weekend with a massive snowstorm. But when I rolled into town Tuesday night, people were already complaining about the record snow. Then I woke up Wednesday morning to find that that the Pigskin Ford pick-up was covered in six inches of snow.

 

The deep freeze continued for hundreds of miles south: there was still snow on the ground and icy ponds most of the way through North Carolina. Here, look, see for yourself. This "welcome" center was actually like 100 miles over the border.