Whatever the outcome, this will be a great day for the Silva family. We grew up diehard Giants fans, attended a countless number of games at old Giants Stadium and had our share of interaction with former Giants’ Super Bowl greats, guys like Stephen Baker The Touchdown Maker, Dave Meggett, Otis Anderson, Pepper Johnson, Mark Ingram and Jumbo Elliott.

I have very vivid Super Bowl memories. Here’s a few, written from my stream-of-conscious:

• Nine-years-old when the Giants won the Super Bowl in 1990. Wide right. Fuck the Bills. I remember watching the game at a family friend’s house. When the Giants won, I ran rampant screaming my lungs out, surely pissing off someone.

• I’ll always remember the Whitney Houston national anthem, and not just because it still gives me goose bumps to this day whenever I see a clip on TV, but for what my drunk father prefaced it with: “Oh, don’t fuck this up, Whitney!”

• Super Bowl XXXI. Sophomore year in high school. About five friends came over and my mom ordered some amazing local greasy New York pizza to go with an endless amount of buffalo wings and jalapeno poppers, the latter of which I soon swore off after my friend Jeremy drank so much vodka he vomited jalapeno poppers….Oh, and James Brown – get down. Because my mother loves being the center of attention, she obnoxiously grooved to every song he played. Because James Brown was my mother’s first concert, at the Apollo no less, I couldn’t blame her.

• Janet Jackson nip slip. 2004. I don’t remember this. Blacked out. Checked the replay the next day. Not impressed.

• Super Bowl XXXIV. Rams vs. Titans. I’m in Philly, watching the game from the apartment of my older girlfriend. I was in college, she was in graduate school to become a psychologist. She was a real catch. Brunette and beautiful. Didn’t deserve her. She baked a Super Bowl cake and fed me well. God bless her.

• I don’t remember any Super Bowl that included the Cowboys. Not because I was drunk – I was hardly a teenager – but because I have so much hatred for the Cowboys I never paid that much attention.

• Super Bowl XXXIX: Pats vs. Eagles. Spent this one at my friend Joe’s house in South Philly. Brought my then-girlfriend, Nina. Eagles lost, everyone was in a shitty mood, it was snowing and Nina went ape shit on me for bringing attention to the fact that the palms of her hands were sweaty (her palms always sweat when she’s nervous, and this was a close game). On the way home, our taxi driver was drinking a beer, blew through a few lights and no one seemed to care because Philly cops were on every corner in riot gear. Gotta love Philly.

• Super Bowl XL. I was there, sitting in the Steelers’ end zone, working like a mad man. As a sports writer for the Detroit Free Press, I got to cover some pretty cool events. Covering my first Super Bowl was among the highlights. The whole week was a trip, really, from celebrity encounters and media hordes to the actual Xs and Os of each team’s game plan. Going into the loser’s locker room and talking to the losing team was one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve ever done as a reporter. These guys worked so hard for that moment. Plus, they were 10 times my size. They didn’t know me from Adam. I remember it being completely silent in the Seahawks’ locker room. I’ll never forget that moment.

• Super  Bowl XLVI. Spent the night at my friend Bert’s back when I was living in metro Detroit. Just me, him and his wife. One of the best  games I’ve ever seen. Giants upset the Pats. My roommate and good friend, Brian, never made it. He got locked up for a DUI for rolling through a stop sign while trying to follow home a booty call. He was never much of a football fan, and spent the next three days in jail instead of posting bail. Said they fed him well.

• Super Bowls XLIII and XLIV were spent at my friend George’s apartment when we were still living in Oklahoma City. Memorable games. One year we decided to be unique by over-nighting a deep dish pizza from Lou Malnatis. The Saints-Colts game was also the day that I tried to justify to my now fiancee that it’s okay for me to start drinking with friends at 11 a.m.

• Super Bowl XLV: My first Super Bowl sans intoxicants, spent at my fiancee’s parents’ place just outside of OKC. Another solid game, great company and conversation. I love watching any sport with Christina’s dad, an all-around great guy.

• Super Bowl XLVI. These things I know will happen: I will root for the Giants. I won’t lose my shit if they flounder. My father’s incessant, over-the-top rooting and feet-stomping will cause my mother to yell and my dogs to shake in fear. My fiancee will watch maybe five plays total, and I’ll have to remind her to watch the funny commercials. She’ll watch Madonna, though. I will silently hope for Madonna to sing “Lucky Star” because it’s my favorite song of hers, and because whenever I hear it I can’t help but think of that scene in the movie Snatch. I will cling to every play on the field and every syllable uttered by the commentators. I won’t talk much, or really acknowledge anyone around me, because I like to get in the zone. I will appreciate this game for what it is: the end of the season, the beginning of a seven-month stretch without pigskin. It is important to me. I will stuff my face with my mother’s homemade Puerto Rican food and will monitor how much food Christina eats because all she keeps talking about is the damn Super Bowl food. If the Giants are as hungry for this win as she is for the Super Bowl food, it will be a good night for the Giants…and a rough morning for Christina. And if the Giants win, I will think about all my good friends back home, most of who are Giants’ fans, too, because only they, only true New Jersey guys, will be able to relate to my joy.

Since then, New Year’s Eves for me have typically been spent in NBA arenas or at house parties. During my three years in Detroit, I did manage to make it out to a jazz club and martini lounge but neither were my scene. I just can’t tolerate the amateurs, college kids and stinky drunk crowds.

Not to get on a high horse, but I try to live every day in gratitude, so I feel no reason to have some massive celebration for the calendar changing months.

With that said, I had a relatively peaceful New Year’s Eve, my first in Chicago, where my fiancee and I didn’t even watch the damn ball drop.

In short, a list of things I did on New Year’s Eve:

1. Went to Whole Foods to splurge on a massive salad from the salad bar and pick up some sugar-free, vegetarian desserts. I’ve been eating relatively healthy and exercising for the last two years, so this wasn’t some pre- New Year’s resolution.

2. Watched Breakfast at Tiffanys for the first time ever. Have to say, it might rank as one of my all-time favorite movies. I could relate to Paul, or Fred that is, in that he’s a handsome, dapper writer. And I fell in love with Audrey Hepburn. That voice, those eyes – she makes me want to live in a different era. And the party she throws – that’s the type of party I enjoy.

3. Played three games of Scrabble. I know, I know. If anyone’s reading this, you’re probably thinking I’m incredibly lame and boring. Scrabble on New Year’s Eve? Yeah, I’m that guy. And I loved every second of it. Not just because I won the best 2 out of 3 games, but because I’m competitive as fuck. I can really get lost in that board and I want to destroy my fiancee every time we play. There is no mercy on our Scrabble board. I love her, but I hate her as a Scrabble opponent. We’ve really bonded – and feuded – over Scrabble throughout the years. Hell, Christina almost got us thrown out of a charity Scrabble tournament for going ape shit on some elderly women over a rules violation that ended up not being a rules violation. I will play Scrabble until my fingers are of no use. I love words.

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For some inexplicable reason, I decided to click on the link and watch the video. I knew what I was getting myself into: a tear-jerker, for sure, of nine Beagles who spent their lives in a lab and were finally getting their first sniff of grass and breath of fresh air after being rescued.

Why do I openly allow myself to cry? I must admit, it feels good sometimes to drain myself emotionally. They’re either tears of sadness or joy, or both. It just dawned on me, though, that I do not cry out of fear. When I watch a video like this one while at work, of course I’m careful to keep it inside, lest anyone here at Playboy strolls by my cubicle to see me bawling to a video of cute puppies. That could be awkward.

Other thing that I will willingly watch/listen to just to make myself cry:

1. Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.” This is going to sound sick, but whenever I listen to this I picture it playing at the funeral of a loved one who’s still alive.

2. The Notebook. I finally saw this movie for the first time last month with my fiancee and my future mother-in-law, who was in town for a catering tasting. I’ve always felt comfortable around my fiancee’s mother – we have many things in common – but even if I didn’t I’m not sure I would have been able to control myself.I don’t think I’ve ever bawled like a baby quite like I did during The Notebook. The dementia scenes really got to me, especially because my grandpa died of Alzheimer’s and it crushed my grandmother, who considered leaving him just before he fell ill. This film also cut right to my core because as I lay there watching it, holding my future wife, I couldn’t help but picture us as that old couple. I want to build her a house. I want to love her madly. And I want to die in her arms….And now I’m about to cry at my cubicle. Fuck.

3. September 11. The mere thought of it gets me choked up. An uncle (not blood-related, but might as well had been) died in the World Trade Center. He survived the bombing years earlier. He wasn’t as fortunate in 2001. My father was the last person to talk to him, and I can only imagine the pain he’s living with. My father used to work in the Twin Towers – I remember visiting there as a kid – so he lost many, many former co-workers and friends in the attacks. Again, for reasons incomprehensible to me, from time to time I’ve willingly Youtubed the 911 calls from that day, from the helpless people stuck in the Windows of the World restaurant, to the calls made from people totally unaware of what was happening. I’m not sure if this behavior can be classified as sick, or odd, or simply as human, but sometimes I’m drawn to such tragedy and pain. Because that day was very real for me, and because I was at school in Philadelphia, I can’t help but relive some of those moments. I’m not sure if it helps in the mourning process, but once I’ve cried myself calm, I do start to feel better.

I would call it the Soundtrack to My Life, and I want it played during my funeral service. Of course, whoever gathers to mourn my death probably wouldn’t want to stick around to hear the soundtrack in its entirety, because I suppose it will be very, very long, but again that’s why it’s called the Soundtrack to My Life: it’s a collection of my all-time favorite songs that were with me during the most prevalent moments of my life, from turning points to hardships to my pinnacle.

Certain songs make me strut differently. Some make me emotional, almost on cue. There are songs that make me think of death, oftentimes my own, and others that make me think of the greatest things life has to offer. I pretend I’m more badass than I actually am depending on the song. I feel sexier when certain songs are playing. Certain songs take me back to a specific moment in life. For me, music is an emotional seesaw, a mood setter, a thought provoker. You catch my drift. And these are all reasons why I’ve always been passionate about music.

Enough backstory. The Soundtrack to My Life will be a reoccurring series. Here is the first installment.

1. “From the Hills” by Raekwon

I am Wu Tang when I listen to this song. I am cruising the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx, passing by Yankee Stadium, filming the music video to this song, except I’m not rapping. I’m just part of the Clan. Maybe I’m a hype man. I’m in a puffy jet black coat, a black hoodie underneath and with a scruffy face. You can see me in the background of the video with the rest of the Clan, and I’m jive talkin’, only you can’t hear what I’m saying because we’re not supposed to be heard. But it’s cold outside so you can see the cold air coming from my mouth each it opens. I am pure gangster.

2. “The Only Living Boy in New York” by Simon and Garfunkel

I’m a sentimental fool for any type of music about or from New York. Whenever I listen to this song, I picture myself walking the streets of Manhattan, head down, during the winter. I feel like I’m the only person on these streets, even though I’m not. “Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where, we don’t know where.” When they sing that chorus, I hear uncertainty and pain.

3. “Make My” by The Roots

Lately, this has been the first song I play every morning out the door of my apartment building. I’m so obsessive that I literally press ‘play’ the moment the door opens and I greet the world for the first time that day. For me, it’s been the perfect song to start the day, as it’s neither too aggressive nor too soft. When I hear the soft keyboard that begins the song, I picture a newborn baby opening his eyes for the first time, a warm welcome to the world. I have a tremendous amount of respect for The Roots. They’ve stayed true to themselves and have done their own thing throughout all these years, creating music that doesn’t reek of the fantasy or thuggery that’s so typical of the hip hop genre (not to say I have anything against that, but it’s just nice to have music as refreshing as what The Roots are making).

4. “Separator” by Radiohead

This song is what I picture the afterlife to be like. I am not in my body when I listen to this. I would place this song at the end credits of my biopic. It begins as they throw dirt on my casket. The screen fades to black, the credits roll, the theater empties, the song continues and I take it with me to the afterlife, wherever that is.

For example, I cannot recall learning how to fly a kite with my father. We never had a talk about the birds and the bees, either, but that’s another subject. I never helped my mom bake a cake because, well, she was never good at baking, so I never got to lick the frosting from the cake batter. I think we carved pumpkins once or twice, same goes for painting Easter eggs, but I really don’t have any vivid memories of those things either. My parents never took me to Disney World; the first and only time I visited Mickey and Minny was for my high school senior class trip.

Today, at the age of 30, I cannot say I feel slighted or unfulfilled by missing out on those things, if anything because I live with a fiancee who’s all about tradition; what I missed out on during childhood I’m now getting to experience with her, which I love. They’re memories I’ll have with me forever. It’s funny to see her response whenever I mention that, ‘no, I never did that as a kid.’ For a while, it was books; she introduced me to J.D. Salinger and “Catcher in the Rye” at the age of 29. Just recently it was how to cook and eat an artichoke. And for the last few months, she’s focused on catching me up to speed with movies I missed out on as a kid.

I still have not seen Top Gun in its entirety. (Same goes for A Christmas Story, but I’m not sure if she knows that.) Thank goodness for Netflix. When we first signed up for Netflix last year, we spent the ensuing months ordering episodes of Glee and an assortment of foreign films both new and old. I love foreign films. The last month has been about Netflixing what she considers classics: Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club, The Notebook, Sixteen Candles, Breakfast at Tiffanys, Trainspotting.

I find it funny, and sometimes sad, that I’m just getting around to these things at the age of 30. Sometimes, I wish I got to experience them as a kid, with my parents and brother, like most other children I know. But then I remember that the present really is a gift. There’s nothing to gain from getting down in the dumps about the woulda, couldas of my past….

Since I just caught myself rambling, it’s time for an aside: This blog post was supposed to be about those aforementioned movies and what it’s like to see them for the first time as a 30 year old, with some light commentary on each film, but right now my concentration is shattered because I’m somehow both over-caffeinated and tired. I had to write, though, even if for a few paragraphs, even if it makes no sense at all.

As I was saying…

As I continue to experience things that are new to me and old to others, I consider myself a lucky man to have a woman in my life who’s willing to go along for the ride. If I’m ever fortunate enough to have children of my own, I don’t want to deprive them of the things I missed out on during childhood.

And no, I’m not just saying all that sentimental shit because my fiancee will read this and get all warm and fuzzy inside. Most of the time, she’s not that kind of person. Plus, I think she forgot I even have a blog, so there’s a chance she’ll never read any of this.