The last time the Patriots won the Super Bowl, I feared for my life. The second the game ended people started running out their doors, beers in hand, screaming obscenities in Boston accents. They seemed unclear what to do with all their energy. Neighbors who had never even spoken to one another, clashed their beer cans together, and became brothers. Their arguments about who shoveled out which parking spot and who was responsible for the abandoned mattress on the sidewalk were long forgotten. The Patriots has just won the Superbowl. Everything was forgiven.

Together they would attempt to tip over every single car in Boston together, as one.

We watched the whole thing from our seemingly safe second floor window. Together our drunken neighbors chanted the cars description i.e. “Green car Green car, “ Then ten of them would drunkenly attempt to tip over the green vehicle, unsuccessfully. They moved onto to their next target “Gold sedan Gold sedan,” again with no luck. The whole debacle continued for close to a half hour. It climaxed as they approached a white 15-passenger van. My roommates and I grabbed another drink and marveled as they chanted “Big Van Big van.” They gave up and headed down to Fenway at this point, where people were actually trying to kill one another.

I spent Sunday evening, driving from Boston to New York. I listened to the game on the radio. At that 2-minute mark, part of me wished I had stayed to witness what mayhem it seemed was about to ensue. When that game ended, I will say I was glad I wasn’t there.

I certainly hope Tom Brady’s car was not parked on the street