The Boz [antikvár]

?Miami. The Orange Bowl. New Year's Night, 1986. And I'm standing on the field between plays, peeling a huge chunk of skin out of my hand and grinning. I'm not talking about a little skin. I'm talking about layers of skin, a big gouge of skin the size of a big broken rubber band. And it feels good. It hurts like hell, but it feels good. In fact, it feels great. The more skin, the better.I guess some people think that I'd be a good subject for Halloween 4 or something, but I've always liked pain that way. Pain and blood let you know you're playing serious football. Let you know you're not dogging it, that you're into the game. Whenever I'm playing really well, I'm bashing people with my fists, cutting my hands up on their helmetsa badass Cuisinart pureeing people into vegetables. If I'm really into it, I can't even feel the gash until I look down at my hands later and notice that half of them are gone. Those are the best kindwhen you cut the skin so deep it doesn't even bleed.Right thenstanding there, holding a big wad of skin in my handwas the first time it hit me that we were national champions. And that night, in front of my favorite people in the world, the good and upstanding citizens of Miami, Florida (those that aren't