We landed in Newark Airport around 9:45 Sunday night. (Does anyone other than a politician actually call it “Newark Liberty”?) By 10, we were massed around a TV in the airport, watching Lawrence Tynes shank his would-be winning kick. Jersey let out a collective groan.

By 10:05, I was on the shuttle bus for Grand Central, weary from a weekend in Vegas, shivering from the 14 degree local temps. I’d thought about a cab, but the schlep from Jersey to Westchester probably would’ve swung into the three-figures, so I was hoping for a little luck and a train leaving for Hawthorne in the not so distant future.

By 10:10, Tynes had hit the winning kick, and we were off.

I suppose if you’re playing your iPod all the time, it’s not surprising that what you’re hearing in your ear buds sometimes jibes with what you’re seeing around you in some ironic/coincidental/fitting way–as has been chronicled in these cyberpages before. So it wasn’t a total shock when U2’s “City of Blinding Lights”–Neon heart day-glow eyes/A city lit by fireflies–came on just as the Manhattan skyline came into view. But it was still kind of cool.

By 10:35, we were at Port Authority; I started wondering about train times, hoping I didn’t get stuck in that long gap between that late Hawthorne train and that later Hawthorne train. On a whim I took out the Blackberry, punched up Google, and searched “Metro-North big board.” The Blackberry chewed on the request for a bit, then spit out a link to our very own Trainjotting–the one where guest editor Gorgeous Francis offered up the little-known link to Grand Central’s real-time departures board. The next train was 11:06.

By 10:45, we pulled in front of Grand Central.  I buttoned my too-light jacket against the frigid air and stepped off the bus. With 20 minutes to kill, I had time for a Bass from the deli, a cheeseburger from Mickey D’s, a Daily News whose pre-game hype was mostly meaningless with the Giants having dispatched Favre and the lads in green and gold moments before.

But there was enough in there to kill 42 minutes on the train. In between Grand Central and 125th, a drunk guy in a Brandon Jacobs jersey stumbled into our three-quarters empty car, hoping simply wearing a Giants jersey would elicit peels of mirth and the easily-won bonhomie of his fellow riders. Alas, we were too sparse, too indifferent, too tired.

I forgot about the guy for the next minute or so, until he entered the next car and got his eagerly-awaited applause.

Mercifully, the cabs at Hawthorne were still running a little before midnight, and better yet, I didn’t have to share one. The cabbie was from Bedford Hills; he told me he was moonlighting to make a better life for the wife and kid. To make a better life for my own wife and kid, I had him stop a block away so we wouldn’t wake anyone, then snuck in, fell into my Archie Bunker Lazy-Boy, and wondered just how the hell Eli and the boys pulled it off.