By Clinton PawlickClinton Pawlick, 44, of North Seattle and wife Jen are going to the Super Bowl with wife Jen and writing about his experience as a Seahawks fan. Here is his latest post:
Beautiful morning breaks over Hell’s Kitchen, New York City. It’s game day. Super Bowl XLVIII. Blue sky and sun grace the day. At 10 o’clock, it’s 43 degrees. Snow is supposed to delay its arrival until Monday.
All forecasts today call for pleasant weather. Mild, dry, comfortable.
Jen and I are ebullient. Already in our “day of” jerseys, Thomas and Bryant, we walk from our hotel to my favorite bakery in New York, Sullivan Street, on West 47th. They have such delicate pastries. I like the Cannotto, tasty pillows of brioche dough, which today come in a selection of sweet and savory. I go for the Dolce (seasonal fruit, Mascarpone, and toasted pecans), and Jen picks the Salato (prosciutto and Gruyere cheese).
A steady stream of New Yorkers enter the small space to see what’s behind the glass. We sit at a counter lining the shop window and watch the city. Crumbs grease the postcards I’m writing. As I take my last bite, a fire truck pulls in diagonally. The red engine blocks most of the street, and firemen unfold themselves one after another from the truck. I count seven of them. All here for what I describe to Jen as a bread emergency.
One of them, a tall man with a buzz cut, wears shorts, a walkie-talkie clipped to his waist. He sees our colors.
“You guys from Seattle?” His voice is gruff and his accent heavy.
“You going to the game?”
“We are.” It’s hard to contain our pique.
He’s amused and won’t commit when I inquire about his prediction. “I just want a good game.”
Me, too. And I think it will be.
We leave Sullivan with a smile and some impending tasks. There’ll be a stop at Duane Reade, New York City’s Bartell’s. Jen, who could play MacGyver if they ever reinstate the show, needs to pick up some items to reinforce my Skittles necklace. Then we need to do some face-painting.
It’s just hours now.
And we’ll love every minute.