Feb. 3, 2002 — I trudged into the Boston afternoon, which was cold as it always is at the apex of the merciless Northeast winter. Destination: my buddy Jesse Smithnosky’s frat house, its 61-inch TV and Super Bowl XXXVI (that’s 36 for the non-Roman among us.)

It had been a gut-wrenching set of months since I had returned to school. From 9/11 and Afghanistan on the national front, to the late-season collapses of Mariner baseball and Michigan football, to the gloriously satisfying meltdown of the Yankees in the World Series (since eclipsed by New York’s three-up, four-down tilt against the Red Sox last season).

Blowhards in the press said this game was a lock. There was no way the Pats would be able to steal one from the mighty Rams and their track-team offense. A plodding, low-scoring team against Super Bowl veteran quarterback Kurt Warner, one of the great comeback stories of our time. It was to be the closest we could come to a public execution.

But I knew better. I believed.

OK, so maybe that’s a lie. I knew the 17-point spread was for good reason. I wasn’t guaranteeing a New England win or anything. I will say this — I knew that they were very capable of winning.

After all, this is the NFL. It can happen any given Sunday, even if that given Sunday is the Super Bowl.

Departing from tradition, the game was spectacular in the literal sense of the word. Turnovers and effective offense led to a 14-point Pats lead. Warner looked human, and New England wasn’t fazed by his able receiving corps.

We were all going nuts. In another exhibition of my trademark enthusiasm, I developed a habit of throwing my hat at the TV, over three rows of people, whenever I got excited.

What happened next was sort of a blur. To make a long story short, the lead evaporated, and with John Madden second-guessing, Patriots kicker Adam Vinatieri fought off the din to boot the game-winning points on the final play. I threw my hat again.

The city didn’t seem to know what to do with itself. Major streets had not been closed off. People were climbing on top of buses and honking car horns into the night. I grabbed some Dunkin’ Donuts and watched as students flipped over a car (alcohol may have been involved). “Imagine what it will be like if the Sox win the World Series,” I thought to myself.

Of course, the joke — as the Patriots prepare to play for their third trophy in four years — is that people are STILL complaining that “the best team didn’t win” and carping that the Pats shouldn’t have beaten the Raiders in a snow-soaked divisional playoff.

In that famous game, an apparent Tom Brady fumble was ruled an incomplete pass on review, based upon an obscure and subtle ordinance known as the “tuck rule.” New England then kicked a game-tying field goal and won in overtime. Raider Nation flooded the radio with Al Davis wannabes claiming that the NFL has been out to get Oakland’s band of corsairs since — well, since before Davis began to turn into a raisin.

(Maybe it was a stupid rule after all. But we don’t rewrite the book in the middle of the game because a situation comes up where we think the rule shouldn’t apply.)

Anyway, the roles reversed two years later, with upstart Carolina (alas, with no tuck rule controversy) challenging 14-2 New England. Perhaps the most interesting trivia in the leadup was Panthers kick returner Rod Smart — the man who put “He Hate Me” on the back of his jersey when he was in the XFL.

To make a long, stressful story short, the same damn thing happened again — New England’s lead disappeared, and it had to pull another late drive to win.

And in an unholy alliance that is a testament to the unifying power of Boston sports, I sat with my Michigan hat next to a Buckeye girl from Columbus, Ohio, holding hands in tension as the Pats lined up for the game-winning points.

The city erupted almost instantaneously. This time Boylston Street was shut down, free of cars for the masses of people. T-shirts were burned in Kenmore Square outside of Fenway Park. The cops, though mindful of streakers and other such ribaldry, seemed ready to let everyone have a good time.

The sweetness of victory is best enjoyed with 150,000 of your best friends.

Note to Philadelphia Mayor John Street: Forget the spread. Forget the favorite. If the Iggles win, 45 years of gridiron frustration will pour into the streets like the eruption of Vesuvius. You better be ready for it.

Christopher Anderson is a first-year graduate student in electrical engineering. E-mail him your favorite Super Bowl memories at cpanders@stanford.edu.