Burning hickory and cedar wood entered my nose and filled my lungs, delighting me in the anticipation for the day ahead.  The crackling wood along with the clanging of metal-on-metal of large, open grills fills the air throughout the large parking lot surrounding the modern day coliseum built for the struggle of men vying for possession of an oblong-shaped mass of pig skin.  Smoke and debris swirled as the wind howled, causing flags and banners to dance wildly in the air above the several rows of cars declaring through green and black colors their allegiance.  The Maine Nor'easters, a premier team in the American Football Association, are vying for a playoff spot and we the fans have come for blood.

    It's become a tradition now for our group to flock here on the outskirts of the city of Portland to take part in the festivities of pregame and revel in the artificial universe that football provides.  My crew was decidedly blue collar.  At thirty-five, I already owned my own fishing boat with my best friend Jack.  It was customary that we bring with us the catch of the morning, and today we had lobster.  Most tourists seem to think that summer is the only time to catch these little suckers, but in truth, you can go out year-round if you have the gall.  With the crustaceans moving further off-shore during the winter months, it is certainly more difficult and dangerous, but Jack and I were both bachelors, drinkers, and thrill-seekers who had nothing to live for but the dangers we sought for ourselves out on the open sea. 

    Jack was twice divorced at thirty, first with his high school sweetheart Connie, and then Morgan, some broad he seduced at McCann's Boat House by the docks with tales of his sea-heroics that he told not quite as I remembered them.  To say that he was a king of the fish story was an understatement, and I swear with each beer he drank the halibut he caught would grow an inch.  He was irritable, easily becoming belligerent when he imbibed his booze which was the catalyst for his first failed marriage.  But he was a passionate man towards his job and was devoted to his friends even if it meant he had to give up some "fine piece of ass" as he called it.  I can't recall any time he'd ever missed a call time to shove off or was late for our car pool to the Nor'easter's stadium. 

    As for myself I never got around to marriage.  Sure, I tried on a couple of occasions.  It appears to me though that God had other plans for me, or at least finds some humor in destroying my attempts at proposals.  The highlights or lowlights depending on how you look at it, of which include gambling away a ring while in the hole at a card game, being caught drunk and making out with a college co-ed who may or may not have been legal at the time, and missing an anniversary after getting a call about a possible school of Atlantic Herring making their way up the coast.  I can't say I miss companionship.  Discovery Channel's Deadliest Catch has really helped sell the idea of fishermen being men's men and the constant state of danger and romanticized adventure of my day job apparently serves as a huge turn on for women.  Of course the drinks and flirtations don't hurt either.

    Jack was already pulling out one of the Styrofoam crates out of the back of my 1988 Ford F-150 by the time I locked the truck and took in the sights before me.  The sky was overcast with a bone-chilling wind barely kept at bay by the numerous layers of shirts and sweat shirts I wore.  I picked up one of the crates and rested in on my shoulder, using my free hand to grab a case of beer left in the back of the truck before making my way towards the rest of my tailgating crew with Jack following close behind.

    When people think of a tailgate they always assume it's gotta be filled with burgers and dogs with maybe some sausage.  If you're really lucky there's always the opportunity for chili or wings.  We were different.  Carlo, an old Italian mechanic who worked for a body shop near the marina, really instilled on me and Jack the idea that tailgates should be something a bit more special.  He did this by welding us two large steel cylinders which had bases that could hold propane tanks.  Along with these came matching cages which fit neatly within these oversized pots with which we could use to boil our catch anywhere and everywhere.  As Jack and I approached, the short, rotund man began to waddle over to us in excitement, like an oversized bobble head with legs.

    "Glad you boys could make it!  And what do we have with us today?" he asked as if we hadn't told him the week before we'd be bringing lobster. 

    "Are you ever not excited, old man?" Jack replied whilst setting down the crate he had in his hand.

    "Nonsense, boy.  There's nothing but excitement in the air with the Nor' is in town.  And by the looks of the sky, we'll be in for a wild day."

    "Good luck.  The weatherman said some passing showers.  The most we're going to get is a little wind," I said, popping open my first beer of the afternoon.

    "Oh come on Bill, you certainly don't believe those so called 'experts' do you?" he said looking me in the eyes, his expression of jubilation still not waning.  "I can feel it, smell it even in the air.  The gods of the Atlantic are brewing up something mighty fierce.  I saw them animals on the way up here, all scattering about, looking for shelter.  They know what's coming.  Those Oxen boys from Santa Fe won't know how to handle this weather.  The Nor's gonna have Mother Nature on their side."

    "The only thing I smell is other people's cooking.  So why the hell aren't we?"  Jack snapped back, grabbing one of the cages and preparing the lobsters for their scalding baths.

    We ate like royalty in a sea of commoners, gawking at the feast of lobster tails smothered in melted butter and washed down in our cheap beer and finished with cigars whilst sharing tall tales of everything from victories in sports, adventures at sea, and the conquest of women.  We were adult children, reveling in our world of make-believe which we ruled as kings amidst the harsh reality that we were becoming overweight, balding, and crusty old men.

    We finished our meal and walked into the stadium, littered with pictures of legendary players from years past, titans of the game which lived outside of reality, much as the creatures in our fishing stories did.  These were interspaced with pictures of the team mascot, a cartoon green and black storm cloud wearing a helmet, an arm protruding from the mass giving a stiff arm to some unseen opponent whilst the other cradled a football.  His narrow white eyes oozed with aggression and coaxed on the fans to cheer for carnage, even on children's merchandise and the small playground outside the stadium which boasted a ball bit and inflatable stadium mimicking the bowl-shaped coleuses that stood behind it.  I imagined this gave the children a chance to ease into learning to love a menacing nimbus on the horizon signaling a coming storm which somehow related back to football in some means that I was far too ignorant to understand.

    We sat in our seats and drank through a half of football, hugging each other and smiling as our Nor'easter brethren scored, screaming and cursing as they failed to meet up to our lofty expectation of completing 50-yard passes and intercepting every pass the Santa Fe Oxen threw.  A minute remained in the third quarter and the score remained tied at seventeen points each.  Dutch Cunningham, our star running back had already left with a twisted ankle.  Hank Schroeder, our quarterback who never lived up to our expectations, had just thrown his second interception of the day.  The mood in the stadium had dropped, and doubt filled the minds of 80,000 strong in and around Portland.  Carlo, who once was filled with glee, was now sunken in his chair on the verge of giving up all hopes for a miraculous playoff run.  Jack meanwhile continued a slew of curses while demanding that his beer refill itself.  And I stood, dumbfounded as to how our team's momentum could die in an instant.

    The fourth quarter began with a long touchdown toss by Santa Fe, putting them up by seven points.  By the ensuing kickoff I, like Carlo, had all but lost hope.  When I looked down to gaze at the cement beneath my shoes, my eyes caught the glimpse of a small splash within the plastic cup holding Jack's beer.  Soon another joined it, and then another.  When I looked back up to see the action on the field, the entire other half of the stadium was being smothered by a torrent of rain which quickly made its way to join us.  The wind gusted out of the concourse around the stadium causing food wrappers and newspaper to fly into the air.  At times the rain seemed to fall sideways as if attempting to blind us by attacking our eyes with reckless abandon like the weather that was our team's namesake. 

    The wind died down just long enough with five minutes to go in the game so I could watch as Jim Tate, our 6' 4'', 250 pound back-up running back who looked more at place as a linebacker than a runner took the football and ran through defenders.  He charged, running over defenders with the ferocity of a pit-bull on acid.  When he finally crossed the goal line the wind seemed to get even worse.  The excitement in the stadium bolstered the atmosphere to open up the heaven's reserves for more rain and wind.  Possibly fearing the high winds or having nerves of steel, the coach sent out the offense again to try for a two-point conversion to give our boys the lead.  It was risky, with the potential to either make or end our season.  The ball was snapped and Tate came through again, working his legs after being initially hit at the line of scrimmage before pushing through to the goal line.  I can't remember what was louder, the cheer or the wind, but I did know that the score was now 25-17 with less than two minutes to go in the game.

    By that time, the natural grass field has begun churned up into a slop of mud with faded out lines for yard markers.  Jerseys became almost indistinguishable between the two teams save for the few pieces of color that stood out on their helmets.  We fans had become soaked and cold, yet the elation we felt kept our spirits warm.  Carlo has resumed his bobbling and Jack was now cursing with enthusiasm rather than despair.  There was no way we could lose.

    The ensuing kickoff however brought our worst fears right back as the ball was dribbled on the ground before being recovered on Santa Fe's 45-yard-line and was then followed up by a run play which put the Oxen on our boys' 35-yard-line.  All the Oxen needed was a field goal and our playoff hopes would be dashed, a loss which would stick in our hearts throughout the offseason.  Another run led them down to the 28-yard-line, leaving twenty seconds on the game clock.  Finally, the Nor's defense held a run for no gain, leaving the Oxen to face an average field goal to win the game.  The wind calmed as the clock continued to wind down before it was stopped with three seconds left on the clock, enough time for a single play.

    I looked at Jack and Carlo, and their eyes met mine with the same anxiety I felt in my heart.  In the most violent waters I never felt as distressed as I was then.  Storms had been a welcome friend, a challenger in my life and I had always overcome them.  Now, in the middle of a freak downpour I watched as my team's season hung in the balance of a man's foot and the elements themselves.  My chest thumped in time with each droplet of rain that pattered on my shoulders that would alarm any doctor to an impending heart attack. 

    The ball was snapped.  The players pushed towards the kicker.   His foot connects.  The ball goes airborne.  I've been told that time slows down during moments like this and that throughout the stadium, a pin drop could be heard and you're suddenly aware of everything going on.   Whoever that guy was, he's full of it.  The ball went up and stayed true for a few seconds only for the storm to rage up once again.  A gust, the largest it seemed all day, blew across the field pushing the ball extremely wide of the goalposts, as if it had stopped on a dime and changed directions.  I never got to see where the ball landed as the collective built up energy of the stadium exploded.  I imagine that it could have cleared the wall into the stands on the sidelines the way it was going.

    Carlo hugged my waist.  Jack was practically on top of me.  And yet I felt a large weight coming off me and was flying high in the monsoon that had overcome Portland.  I thought I started to cry but my drenched face hid whatever tears may have betrayed my eyes and welled out.  We won, we were in.  I could smell the storm.