Halftime has just ended and I’m standing in line for concessions, sipping a coffee (ah, hot coffee and sports, you go together brilliantly) and waiting for my order. I hear a roar. I realize we’ve scored. I cheer and laugh and slap a high five or two with my fellow linesmen.

When I’m back, I ask my father who scored. He points to the back of a jersey two rows ahead.

“WELKER?!?!?! COME ON!” Of course I’d miss Wes scoring a touchdown on what everyone will come to point out is the Seminal Play of the Game. Insert your given expletive here and laugh with me on this one.

Everyone spent half to two-thirds of the game on their feet. Cheering, clapping, stomping, beating together gloved hands and yelling anything that they could think of. Half the time it wasn’t even a phrase or sentence that escaped the lips: just a roar for the sake of making sound and showing support. The other half, at least in my section, involved shouts to kill the Jags or vulgarity. Or both.

It was the loudest sporting event I’ve attended. 61,000 people refusing to keep their voices down kind of loud. Amazing.

I didn’t feel the relative cold for most of the game. I was focused and excited and contributing to the noise and slapping high-fives with my father whenever the Pats came up big. Which was often. Since the Jags (who played brilliantly) shut down Moss, it was fascinating to see who Brady turned to. As my brother commented during a casual family gathering today, “This whole ‘Moss is favored’ thing isn’t true. Brady’s favorite receiver is the open receiver.”

Amen to that. And here’s to next week with the Chargers (CHARGERS! Take care, Peyton).

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