For one day each year all of America – for better or worse – uses football to forget problems and successes alike for a day to drink like maniacs and scream at the great American mansport. Super Bowl 51 will go down in history just like the rest of them, but this year will have its own place in my memory. While the players on the field risk concussion the fans all over the world drink and eat into poor health with no regrets. It’s not necessarily good for anybody, but we’ve never been concerned much for health. Football captivates us in a mostly nostalgic way, it’s a slow-moving sport with a lot of breaks that we truthfully only enjoy because of the opportunity it provides to connect with the people around us. No matter your creed, we’re all equals on game day; equal to drink, eat, spit, fight, and enjoy the madness together.

It was a cloudy day in Houston, about as perfect as a cloudy day could be, with a light breeze and the regular stench of the capital of America’s oil empire. Those of us that live here are used to it, and those visiting probably won’t spend enough time outside to notice.

The morning of February 5^th, 2017 began like any given Sunday, with an attempt to shake the burden of a late Saturday night. I quite literally rolled out of bed, stumbled into the kitchen to brew some dark coffee and cooked up a light breakfast. As I reminisced on fuzzy memories of the night before I smiled at the comradery I shared with the Midtown patrons in anticipation, I smiled from ear to ear thinking of the shenanigans until a strange memory popped into my mind that made me instantly forget the impatient mistake of drinking coffee straight out of the freshly brewed pot. There was a girl; some girl at some bar. I remember audibly scoffing to myself while scrambling the eggs, staring at them as if they would agree with me. There’s always a girl, and you always fall for her. Sometimes they’re pretty, other times they’re smart, they are almost never both, but that’s exactly how I remembered her.

She was a beautiful, business-minded woman from Ottawa. She blew me away. Every once in a while you’ll run into somebody who blows your hair back, somebody unique. However, a hopeless romantic learns quick and the hard way to not chase the wind. Nothing a swift morning run can't shake from the psyche. I stepped into some running attire and headed out the door, but not before an explosion of Facebook notifications from anxious family members, knowing my tendencies and worrying from afar, but they would have to wait. I floated along on the speedy side of an 8-mile cruise, but couldn't outrun the memory of the mystery woman. I was running against the wind heading North on Main from my apartment along the south loop.

As I ran North on Main past NRG Stadium, sight seeing all the Bible beaters hating on the gays, swindlers scalping tickets, hustlers drawing crowds and fellow gawkers taking it all in. It was hard to escape the feeling of insignificance in such a large crowd. We all walked the same hallowed ground out on yet another Super Bowl Sunday. Even the guy screaming about Jesus on the megaphone had a front row seat to the circus. His veins were popping out of his head as he committed the sin of vanity, believing what he was saying carried weight. At least he was passionate I suppose. I can respect a person who sticks to their guns, but I reserve the right to loathe them for their loud-mouthed ignorance. The decadence was easy to see, with full parking lots charging $200 dollars and most everyone else trying to sell something.

The crazies got there early, knowing they don’t have tickets or responsibilities other than ensuring the madness continues.

“Water! Soda! Chips! One dollar!” It was the same slogan that it seemed a different man was yelling on every corner. Those who weren’t selling something were looking to buy or see something noteworthy. I couldn’t wait to join the ranks.

The return trek to my apartment was with the wind at my back. My mind was clear, all that was left on the to-do list was to sit down and be a human for a bit. A message from a number I didn't recognize was waiting on my phone, but I had more pressing matters at the moment; add it to the messages from family members. I got cleaned up and had elevenses, followed by my first drink. The news was overstuffed with Super Bowl hype and the usual political finger pointing so I washed out the bad taste by knocking out a few short chapters in a thousand page book that I’ll probably never finish. But the last chapter I read closed with a truth often taken for granted, and one that resonated with me: "...one must believe in the possibility of happiness in order to be happy...Let the dead bury their dead; while one has life one must live and be happy." Happy or not I was headed into the belly of the beast to see what a South Texas Super Bowl felt like.

The first couple drinks came and went while I waited for the regular Saturday night bar folk who were on their way to share in a good gander at the spectacle. Noon had passed and the festivities had already begun, I was to be a good American on our nation's biggest unspoken holiday. After all, what were Adolphis Busch's troubles in pursuit of the American Dream all for anyway? I hope more than just a commercial to sell beer. It was time to enjoy being an American, whatever that means anymore.

I revisited the Facebook notifications from the early morning to find a message from my grandmother containing a link to a Dean Martin song about Houston, we are all just faces without a name in this city. It seemed to fit what I saw on my morning run, we were all there but could care less about all of the nameless faces, people we’d never know and names that will probably never matter in the scheme of things. For one day we all seemed to ride the same tollway.

The morning was for me, the afternoon and night were to be dedicated to the people. The most interesting characters at the game were far from the field. I remembered to look at the message from the unsaved contact on the way to the stadium. It was the girl from the night before, she was at the stadium wondering if I was to take part in the festivities. It seemed the wind was still at my back.

Upon arrival to the stadium the rest of the bar-top patrons from Saturday night unexpectedly and politely declined to delve into the frenzy, revealing their intentions for a Super Bowl from the couch. I have had too many of those watching from across the country, it was time to see for myself. Those of us grown in football country would never commit to such heresy when the holy grail is not only in town but so close to the front door mat (I had recently moved a couple 610 exits from the stadium). I've always succeeded in finding my own trouble but I was in the mood for a companion, so I went to ask the mystery Canadian woman what brought her all the way to the Great American Puddle for the Great American Game. I assumed she had tickets. The Super Bowl being in town might be the only time Houston becomes a vacation spot.

She came all the way on a whim with no tickets and apparently no plans. Her sense of adventure didn't disappoint. I hailed an Uber home to grab a cooler and some cold cans, we were going to need supplies. The driver was very supportive, waiting for almost 15 minutes as I stood in a long gas station line.

The Canadian thrill seeker was surprised I came back and I was fully expecting her to be gone when I returned. We are accustomed to underestimate strangers and I'm not sure if it's warranted or not, but it was pleasant to run into a like-minded idiot. We drank and meandered around to observe the religion of football and stopped at many points along the way to discuss the strange intersection of time and place that was our new friendship, consummated by a small blue cooler containing two six packs and a bag of gas station Doritos.

By this time the crowd was dense, we were in the thick of it now and it seemed every conversation with this strange foreigner ended in a mutual smile. Our front row seat didn't cost a couple thousand dollars like the ones inside the stadium and we would get to see the real sport, the spectators. It's easy to forget it is just another Sunday, but the more it went on the more it had me expecting something extraordinary.

Curiosity and wonder ran freely through my mind in the moments before the beginning of the game, I was intrigued. We had paused for a moment to ask ourselves what was happening. What was the nature of our bizarre run-in? Did it have an underlying meaning? At some point, everybody has to decide whether they believe in coincidence or fate, but by this point, it didn’t seem to matter which was the truth, we were simply happy to be in the moment. Nobody comes to Houston for fresh air, but outside the domed NRG stadium in one of the most polluted cities in America I took in my first breath of fresh air since I've lived here while the Thunderbirds flew over our heads. The refreshing breath came in the form of this venturesome woman named Melany from Canada’s capital city who was eclipsing what I had learned to expect from everyday people.

We decided it was the time to secure a place to watch the game. The short walk to the light-rail station was littered with the regular belligerents; all providing entertainment on our walk to the next chapter of our strange adventure. My new friend and I came upon a precarious scene on the intersection of a railroad and a freeway feeder road on the outskirts of a very stressful situation for traffic police and Uber drivers alike. A malfunctioning railroad crossing arm caused a hilarious scene only a five-minute walk southeast of the stadium. There’s nothing quite like watching frustrated and incessantly honking people stuck in traffic when there was definitely somewhere to be. The one police officer who had arrived on the scene was holding up the railroad gate with his arm and screaming into his radio as honking and cursing drivers sped by with no regard to the changing lights or the conducting he was attempting to do with his free arm. We sat on the corner and watched with a crowd of hecklers, sharing our beer and the hilarity with more good-natured strangers.

When we walked into a bar that seemed fitting – a two-story Irish pub – a depraved looking George Bush Sr. was fumbling the ceremonial coin toss on TVs mounted all over the walls. He has lived long enough to see himself become decrepit, and it seems he’ll die during a decadent time in America, one that his family helped to create. It seems Trump's power trip is taking a toll on him, he may be an oil man but even he cared about decency. It was hard not to feel sorry for the man, but it was still early in my own adventure, there was no time for pity. As we walked through the crowded bar, a group of fans was arguing about Luke Bryan’s national anthem, he’s not who I would pick for such a ceremonial performance but apparently, he did ok, hopefully, he didn’t have to read the lyrics from his hand this time around.

I had no surviving notes from the first quarter, but the Falcons opened a hard hitting game with a southern swagger that definitely has a home in Clutch City, where we can appreciate a little showmanship. By the end of the first quarter, my memory was still intact as was the strange and random relationship with this Northern woman with hopeful eyes. The game was scoreless. There was a fumble recovery for a TD that was called back but by this point, I was more interested in my burger – my first solid food since breakfast – and conversation than yet another NFL championship game.

LaGarrett Blunte fumbled at the beginning of the second quarter. The drinks were flowing and I hadn’t even noticed my new friend was exercising restraint, something I’ve never been good at, while I was well on my way to the edge. One scotch, one bourbon, one beer. I made her laugh while Julio Jones wrestled his first of three all-star catches away from the defender. I'm a dreamer, and I've always known I'm not the only one, but now I had proof and it felt like the night would have no limits. It seemed Julio and I were both having a career day as not even 30 seconds later he made an acrobatic tip-toe sideline catch while our shotgun romance flourished. The conversation took a turn for the interesting as we began to discuss beliefs, a topic not usually discussed with strangers but both of us knew time was not on our side.

The rest of the second quarter was a blur, it was beginning to become dangerous. A series of holding penalties on the Atlanta secondary provoked some discontent among their fans in the bar, although the Falcons defense stealing a pick six seemed to calm their nerves. Avid football fans are more entertaining than the football games themselves and it seemed Arthur Blank’s team was Rising Up to the occasion. My Canadian friend began to notice my condition, even the best marathoners show signs of fatigue and we had been at it all day. The Patriots ended the half by putting a field goal up on the board. Another drink, more great conversation. Our developing interest in each other seemed surreal, we had both experienced love in the past but where I was cynical her design was sanguine.

The connection we were making was unbelievable, in the midst of the pop music performance by Lady Gaga at halftime it seemed we were above everything normal and beyond anything expected. Our faces now had names and personalities, Dean Martin would've been proud.

Into the third quarter my tab was open and siphoning my bank account but I had no reservations, only a thirst for more. Peter Gabriel sweet stepped a defender as Atlanta was seemingly running away with the show. If it was going to be a Super Bowl dud at least I’d have a story, but midway through the third quarter, as the Patriots began their revolution I could no longer contain my curiosity. Talk of the ridiculousness of our chance meeting seemed to baffle both of us. No matter, I was content with everything. If it ended at that very moment I would’ve been happy, I went to the stadium looking for something out of the ordinary and had seemingly found it. An entertaining incompletion thrown by the Patriot's Julian Edelman followed by an Atlanta red zone stop, a foiled offensive series by the Falcons and ensuing Patriot field goal. A botched Patriot onside kick was redeemed by an impressive defensive stop, transitioning into a drive that ended in a convincing direct snap for a James White touchdown. We got lost in each others company. The next time I looked up at the game Brady had been hit hard and showed signs of lethargy, as did I, my motor skills were beginning to deteriorate.

Atlanta had scored for the last time. As I looked through the bottom of an upturned shot glass I began to wonder if romance is doomed to happenstance, ever-changing people and circumstances or if we were witnessing first-hand the seemingly coincidental thing some people call fate. There was great confusion, she was probing for my intentions and I was hiding them well, mostly because I didn't know for myself what they were. The idea of fate fosters a strong anxiety and it was building. Perhaps it was silly to even wonder about fate, but when else would I have a chance? Neither of us wanted to take a step closer to the end of such a euphoric adventure, but alcohol has always been a catalyst.

Overtime was more than anybody expected as was the two strangers sitting on the second story of an arbitrary bar engaged in romantic foolery. As the night went on the unusual morphed into the weird and wicked, we were beginning to see the dark side of the Houston skyline. I missed the final touchdown sweep because I was busy trying to make sense of the random, charming and interesting woman who appeared out of nowhere. It all seemed too good to be true, and there was no surprise when she left without a trace of truth or closure.

I watched through droopy, bloodshot eyes as a truly unique, independent, and respectable woman walked away from our unlikely crossing of paths, hopefully, to cross again someday. I was grateful as I helped her into her cab but far from satisfied, I wanted to know more about her, I wanted to spend more time with her, but in that moment I realized it could very well be the last time I would see her. I pretended to be indifferent as I sat back at the bar contemplating what had just transpired, but the paranoia that whatever we had could not be kept leaked into the hopeful attitude she had single-handedly instilled in me in less than 24 hours.

I drank a few more for good measure, stumbled outside, and sucked in a deep breath of thick Houston downtown air. To my left a man in a Texans jersey and a trademark Trump hat was violently puking off the curb as traffic sped by not a foot from his face, many of us overdo it, but you should only do so if you can handle yourself. It was late, and only the tough and hard-up remained on the streets. I spit on the sidewalk then hailed an Uber to a barcade further into downtown, nothing settles anxiety quite like vintage video games, more booze, and people who enjoy the same.

I walked into Neihls Bar long after my tipping point, found a seat next to another lone soul in the heart of the city, took up an N64 controller and started talking to anybody that would listen. The fear was setting in. Anxiety ran my brain and paranoia dictated my actions. Was I being naive? Would I ever see her again? Would it be the same if I did? I was thinking out loud and nobody had any answers.

For the first time since I had arrived at the bar, I had stopped talking to the tune of a bouncer yelling in my face to get off the couch before he threw me out – last call was thirty minutes prior. I called his bluff and lost. A decent girl who had been involved in the conversation followed us out, laughing hysterically, almost maniacally. I don’t remember anything else from the encounter except being confused by this new character being pushed out the door alongside me.

As I stood on the curb, leaning against a light pole and looking around my eyes fixed on something unexpected, but after the day I had experienced it hardly seemed noteworthy. Standing a ways down the sidewalk was the puker from earlier. Seeing him was almost as surprising as what he was doing. A poorly disguised female undercover cop dressed as a prostitute was taking money from his shaking hand and seductively directing his unmistakable Texans jersey-Trump hat toting figure out of sight. I stood there, wanting to help him but deciding against it, I couldn’t help but discriminate against his politics. Inhaling more smelly Houston air helped me contemplate my next move. I wasn’t ready for sleep yet, plus the wicked creatures of the city came alive at this time of night, and they have never disappointed. If I could fall in and out of love on a Super Bowl Sunday then I could take on the city after hours.

"So you believe in Love?" the girl from inside with crazy eyes startled me as she asked me through her unkempt, greasy bangs. It was the same girl who shared my run-in with the bouncer. She stood there, pigeon-toed with a slightly tilted head with a curious look on her face. I will admit I was a little freaked. Before I could answer she started laughing hysterically again. Clearly crazier than the Montrose Rollerblader, she managed to snort down her laugh and asked me to sit with her for a while. I had nowhere to be and plenty on my mind so I obliged.

I can't much remember past this point, I began to lose my ability to articulate, and all I could fumble out of my mouth was spit and accusations of dementia toward this new character. She said something about a 'real' adventure, poking fun at the shotgun romance she'd been listening to since I sat down on that sticky downtown bar couch hours earlier.

"We gotta go pick up Jerry first," she said as I struggled to stand straight enough to light my cigarette. She helped me spark my hand rolled and I blindly followed her deeper into the city. Danger seemed unlikely and judgment always seems sound after bar close regardless of the truth.

Apparently, Jerry was our driver. He was drunker than me and oddly composed for how much he was slurring his words. He had the hardened, leathery old face of a lifelong drinker and wore a torn Texans jersey. His hair was matted down like he was wearing a hat that was no longer there. I shrugged, flicked the cig into the street and hopped in the car, a 2001 Silver Mercury Sable with out-of-state tags. It had cracked leather interior similar to Jerry’s face and a musty smell that greeted me in what would be a risk well worth it I reasoned. He was clearly too inebriated to drive and swerved and cussed from the beginning, being so close to danger made harm seem improbable.

He kept me on the edge of my seat all the way across the inner loop, while a completely composed girl from the bar interrogated me in the backseat about my rambling story from earlier in the night, only stopping to gasp when Jerry came close to jeopardy, then continuing as if nothing happened. I gave short answers and mostly ignored her, it seemed like as much as I tried, nothing would ever be in my control, even my new crush was an accident, so I found a sort of peace with my fate in Jerry's hands for a little while, even if it was completely irresponsible and fully insane. As the death ride raged on her questions became more animated, but it all abruptly stopped when we witnessed a drunk driver slam head on into an elevated freeway median right in front of us. It was a freeway overpass exit and had the car popped up with any more force it would have tumbled over the edge, at least three stories up. Our car went silent, I asked if we should stop to help but was answered by a forced, sarcastic laugh from the girl and I instantly agreed, none of us were in any shape to deal with police. Jerry was adamant on this.

After several close calls of our own, Jerry dropped us off. He said something about a job he had to do, his story was laced with unnecessary and corny innuendos. There was an aura of déjà vu that visited me at this point, yet I was in too unfamiliar a situation to pinpoint it.

The girl and I walked for long enough - in what many would dub the wrong part of town - for me to feel sleep become a bodily response rather than a choice. Bail bond shops, fortified gas stations, liquor stores, and run-down housing surrounded us. I knew my body was running out of gas; another Uber. I began to get cranky, why did we ride with Jerry if we could've just got into another Uber? Hindsight I suppose.

The weirdo’s place was closer so we went there. She screamed Bloody Mary at random intervals throughout the ride, only looking back on it now do I see she was kindly keeping me awake, I was in no position to fall asleep. The driver became very uncomfortable and agitated. All I could think to do at 5 A.M. with slight paralysis was to regurgitate some of Jerry's jokes to lighten the mood. The Uber guy slammed on the gas and got us to our destination faster than I thought possible, he wanted nothing to do with a couple deranged city dwellers yelling about various confusing and downright nonsensical subjects. The Uber driver suddenly flipped. He threatened to get out and “beat my ass” if I didn’t stop creeping him out and get out of his car. I couldn't remember what I had said to set him off and at this point, I didn't care, so I pressed on. Several times he threatened to "beat my ass."

"WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?" the girl was repeatedly screaming and it was making me into more of a villain in the Uber drivers eyes. I was trying to get away but she insisted on forced conversation with the driver, refusing to get out of the car. I waited silently for her to reach her own conclusion, standing on the curb in another sketchy part of town.

All I remember was hitting the floor once inside, a couch or a bed wouldn’t have made a difference to the quality of my sleep.

I woke up on her dirty wooden floor in a deep city apartment with steel window frames shining the harsh morning sun down on my hopeless, exhausted, and motionless figure.

“There is no hope, and there is no love in this city,” I remember thinking to myself as my head throbbed and my body ached.

A polite and friendly girl made tea as I wondered what happened to the lunatic from the night before. She explained she left her phone in the Uber, I put my head back on the floor and slept for another 30 minutes. After awakening, I agreed to help her. That poor young man got more than he bargained for, getting it back wasn't difficult, only I couldn't remember or understand why he was so unhappy to see us again. The girl's name was Libby, she thanked me for dealing with her insanity and returned the appreciation.

On the way to my own bed, I stopped to gather myself at a hole-in-the-wall diner. While eating breakfast with my sunglasses on and barely able to hold my head upright I opened the Houston Chronicle on my phone. There. Looking back through the mugshot, his leathery drunken face was Jerry; with his ripped Texans Jersey and trademarked “Make America Great Again” hat staring at me under a headline that boasted of the successes of a nationwide sex trafficking operation that netted a significant number of Super Bowl arrests. It all hit me at once. Jerry was the puking man outside the bar I watched the game at, the man I saw disappear with the undercover prostitute, and also, coincidentally, the hat-haired driver who had come so close to killing us on our trek across the city the night before. All of his stupid sex jokes made sense now. Coincidence either doesn’t exist or all of it fell on me the night between February 5^th and 6^th.

I threw my phone down, with the article still open on the screen and I suddenly lost my appetite. The waitress looked at me with a concerned look on her face as my shaky hands massaged my temples. The phone vibrated, it was Melany. She wanted to know if I would accompany her to the Space Center, it looked as though there was to be a 'next time' but this time would certainly be the last. Maybe I had misinterpreted which girl was the crazy one, eh? I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Stinky, hungover and honestly a little apprehensive I headed to the Johnson Space Center in southeast Houston wearing the same outfit from the day before.

Robert Kraft’s team is where it is today because he took a risk against all advice and hired Bill Belichick. His decision has yielded one of the most dominant teams in modern NFL history and it was accomplished by being uncommon. An epitome of anti-establishment and unorthodoxy in the NFL, the Patriots have given Tom Brady his 5^th Super Bowl win and it all happened because Robert Kraft trusted his instinct instead of listening to others. One memory that stuck with me from the fuzzy experience after the game was the irony of Roger Goodell having to hand Tom Brady an MVP trophy after the Deflategate fiasco that stunk of a bureaucratic low-blow yet did nothing to stop a man that pressed forward despite the unexpected setback and persevered through his own will. If there was anything to this girl I would have to ignore the unlikelihood of our romance, try to put the wretched night behind me and go chasing the wind.

Dreams come true and so do nightmares, but you’ll never know the difference unless you chase them all to the edge, the only place where you can corner a moment of clarity. If you don’t find what you want within yourself then nobody else will either, and in order to do that we have to stay hooked on the things that make us crazy, chasing experiences that, according to conventional wisdom are insane. Sometimes we’re wrong, but the hopeful, weird, wicked, and curious all reside in the unknown and unless we fearlessly dive in what can we expect except the usual. The players in the Super Bowl didn't get there by maintaining the ordinary.

Get lost, enjoy things that can never be while they last, and never fear, your life is only significant to the people you connect with. Comfort is the harbinger of complacency and farthest from truth. Dreams and nightmares also come and go, just like the people in our life, but both leave only a faint and foggy memory and unless you let yourself get carried away at every possible opportunity the dreams will stay in your sleep. Tom Brady didn't stumble upon 5 Super Bowl wins, he pursued them through all the doubt and absurdity. Happiness is knowing the difference between your dreams and nightmares but enjoying and appreciating both; because they both shape you. I may never see the hopeful girl from Ottawa again but that’s ok because experiencing living proof of another dreamer in Dean Martin's city of nameless faces is enough, and I would never have found hope in her if I didn’t possess it myself. There are many things I wish to tell her now, and I may never get the opportunity but that’s ok too, some things are better left unsaid anyway. Instead, I’ll have to find peace in the fact that she was a beautiful person, not because of her looks or anything else superficial but because of her attitude. There are people who give you hope in this world and I met two of the craziest examples thus far in my life at Super Bowl 51. Good people can be found everywhere, all you have to do is look and not be afraid of what you might see.