Deadspin "correspondent" AJ Daulerio is filing dispatches from the Super Bowl all week. Last night, he hit the motherlode. This is the final of his three tales from a crazed night.

Bears defensive end Alex Brown looked like he was having the time of his life last night. The former Gator enjoyed well-wishers from both Bears fans and Gator fans alike. He's affable, he smiles a lot, and he was never without a vodka cranberry. The first part of the night, he was hanging with Michael Strahan at the front of the Clevelander. Strahan, even though he's post-divorce, still looks like a guy that's getting the shit kicked out of him by a woman.

Before the Super Bowl, Brown was probably best remembered for his part in the Sugar Brawl. Lt. Winslow, Canes fan ("I FUCKING BLEED ORANGE AND GREEN") remembers it vividly. Lt. Winslow had to get to the bottom of what happened. He advised me, as my attorney, that he wouldn't do anything that would result in a beating by a gigantic black man. The mustache can only protect so many.

After the jump, read Winslow's full transcript with Alex Brown in front of the velvet ropes, as we waited to get into Irvin's Lair about the Sugar Brawl. Oh, and there's some Stuart Scott fun down there too.

Lt. Winslow: Yo Alex can i get a pic?
Alex Brown: Sorry man, no pics.
LW: I understand, I understand. Well then let me ask you this. Off the record ... what really happened that night on Bourbon Street?
AB: What night you talking about?
LW: Come on man. I'm a Cane; you know what night I am talking about.
AB: Ohhhhhh THAT night. Man, what you know about that?
LW: Dude... I fucking bleed orange & green. I mean, i know what I've HEARD happened, but I want to hear it from the source.
AB: What you heard happened?
LW: Well... I heard that my boys started that shit, that Al Blades poured a drink over Reche's(Caldwell's) head and that's how it started.
AB: (laughs) You are 1/2 right.
LW: Thats what I heard. That Al Blades started it.
AB: Yeah, and he was the first motherfucker to get knocked out too.

(The bouncer at The Clevelander calls his roommate and puts roommate on the phone)

AB: (Into phone): Well yeah man, I would be jealous if I was you too. I got to go now — I got to go take care of business with these 3 ho's upstairs.

However, as soon as he went upstairs, said ho's were already talking to Sean Salisbury. (That'll happen!) On the stairwell, we noticed Stuart Scott leaning up against the railing, talking on his cell phone. The conversation overheard was about "getting together later on" and he was obviously disappointed that someone wasn't meeting up with him. But who?

Later, inside, as I approached Stuart Scott to get a picture taken with him ("No thanks, dude" is what he said), I leaned over his shoulder and caught him text messaging and the name of the person he was sending the message to:

"Lemme know."

Now, obviously, "Lemme know" is pretty non-descript. But at 12: 30 a.m., in Miami, well, it means "Are you coming out tonight to fuck me or what?" Especially given who Scott was texting (I literally read the name right off his phone):

Her name is Michelle Beisner, former Denver Broncos cheerleader and aspiring D-list Hollywood actress-type. Blonde. White Woman. Hey, nobody likes to start rumors about Stuart Fucking Scott, but if Michelle Beisner is his booty call, well, BooYa, my friend. Boo Fucking Ya.

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.