Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the second of his three tales from a crazed night.
When we first arrived at The Clevelander, we were told by the helpful bartender that Michael Irvin was upstairs. He said we could go right on up, plenty of people up there, you should have no problem. My attorney's face lit up. Cane lovers, you know? But as we came to the upstairs portion we were greeted by the same velvet rope New York City night club agenda:
"Private party, guys."
Not surprising. With the mustache, sweat shirt jacket, $4 H & M polo and my attorney Lt. Winslow in a BoSox hat, we weren't going to get into a Fat Tuesday's Happy Hour, let alone a Private Party with Michael Irvin. Winslow was crestfallen. This was, according to him, the man who got him into Miami Hurricanes football. "He's the PLAYMAKER", he screamed. He clutched two hands over his hat and wore an expression like he'd just found out one of his friends got murdered. I felt that I had failed him and all of humanity at that point. My lawyer should meet his idol.
Fortunately, colleagues were abound. Colleagues who knew the bouncers from San Diego. Colleagues who love Deadspin. One conversation and a handshake later, we were past the velvet rope, and headed upstairs to the Clevelander. Lt. Winslow was about to meet his idol.
(more after the jump)
The above picture shows what the downstairs Clevelander dance floor looked like. So, our attire was plenty reasonable, and somewhat classy, comparatively speaking. But now were headed upstairs. To Irvin's lair. As soon as we got in there, Winslow spotted Irvin huddling in the corner, his gynormous bodyguard keeping a close eye on those who tried to approach him. Winslow, bursting, walks over to him.
He shakes his hand and tells him " I FUCKING BLEED ORANGE & GREEN!! WHEN ARE YOU COMING BACK TO CORAL GABLES TO HELP GET THIS OFFENSE BACK ON TRACK?" Winslow said Irvin was polite enough, but clearly wanted "no fucking part of him." Nevertheless, Winslow assures me that he's content. He buys shots for anyone in the general vicinity: " I JUST MET THE FUCKINGPLAYMAKER HIMSELF!!!!!!". After a few more shots, Winslow heads back over to Irvin and tells him "YOU ARE THE REASON I BECAME A CANES FAN IN THE FIRST PLACE."
We leave The Clevelander, Winslow is still spinning, and as we are walking down the sidewalk, we just happen to be right behind Irvin and his bodyguard, and two other guys— both about 5'3 Italian guys — walking with him. The one little guy says to Irvin. "We really have to get some pussy." Irvin starts to strut, pops open his cellphone and says "I'm about to get me some right now." The entourage high fives.
As Irvin is strutting ahead of them on the phone, a hot ass girl is walking towards us. Irvin stops, in the middle of the sidewalk, to ogle her the way every other black guy does when a marginally hot female comes within three feet of them. Irvin purses his lips: "Woooooooooooooo!"
She blows right by him. She doesn't recognize him. Winslow is stunned. "SHE JUST BLEW OFF THE PLAYMAKER!"
But Winslow spent the rest of the night in a daze, floating, not even thinking about his 8 a.m. court date.
The last installment: Stuart Scott, Alex Brown and one hot text message.