My Super Bowl is over. In fact, you can cancel Christmas, too.
Three days before the Super Bowl, I got to see Beyonce up close. She was on stage at the Convention Center here in New Orleans and I was in the fifth row from the front. Only those who had reserved seats had better seats than mine. Of course, I had arrived about an hour and 15 minutes early. And when the time finally arrived, when she strolled out on the stage, I melted.
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My new nickname is Butter.
I just stared and gawked. Then she asked everyone to stand up and she sang the national anthem. It was awesome, and it was her way of telling those who criticized her for lip-synching at the Presidential inauguration to shut up.
That's my girl.
I've been to about 20 Super Bowls, but never has a game caught my attention like Beyonce. She had on a short, tight beige dress and, and, and ... damn, I'm lost for words.
You know what I mean. Forget Doug Williams. Forget John Elway and Johnny Unitas.
I was in a trance.
As she walked off the stage after answering about 10 questions, I didn't care about who would win the coming Super Bowl because I was already the big winner.
With that being said, I'd like to thank Steve Bisciotti, John Harbaugh, Joe Flacco, Ray Rice, my longtime best friend Ed Reed and Tito (everybody always thanks Tito Jackson).
And most of all, I'd like to thank Beyonce, the modern-day version of Tina Turner. I can't wait until the halftime show. If she looks as good as she did Thursday, our newspaper could be in trouble. I'll have to call and tell my editors that I will miss deadline.