Every year, the National Football League produces t-shirts and hats to commemorate the winning team in the Super Bowl. These items are, of course, passed out on the field immediately after the game finishes - leaving one to wonder what happens to the products that were made for the team that didn’t win. It seems they are distributed via charitable organizations to poor people in far-off rural communities, never to be seen again in the United States.
That means that somewhere on planet Earth are t-shirts made to commemorate the New England Patriots’ Super Bowl championship and perfect 19-0 season from a year ago. That title, as every fan knows (and as it pains me to write even now), slipped away with less than a minute to go in the champiosnship game when the New York Giants mounted a startling comeback on the game’s final drive. But Aaron Kaplowitz wanted to know where those Patriots t-shirts were, so he and a friend set off on an improbable quest to find them. And find them they did - in rural Nicaragua. Kaplowitz then penned an amusing article about the quest.
So when the 18-1 Patriots failed to live up to Reebok’s prophecy, World Vision, a Christian humanitarian organization, arranged to ship the memorabilia to people in need in nearly inaccessible places, ensuring that these treasured items would not see the light of day back in the States.
But with a trip to Panama and Costa Rica already in the offing, Ilan, my roommate at Boston University, and I, both lifelong Giants fans, decided that dipping into Nicaragua for a few days to try and get our hands on the rare collectors’ items was a necessary addition to our itinerary.
They found what they were looking for in the tiny town of San Gregorio.
…soon we were accosting villager after villager, receiving new information and hot leads each time. We snaked our way through the back roads and happened upon a young woman sitting at a rectangular entry carved into a chicken-wire fortress. Hannibal spoke to her, then waved Ilan and me inside, where I saw people standing around a circular pavilion, looking into a dirt pit enclosed by long wooden boards, and I heard a frantic cacophony of clawing, clucking, and banging. Only then did I realize that I was standing among roosters being trained for cockfights.
Walking past the furious birds, we made our way to a counter where a teenage girl was selling beer. Jessica told Hannibal she used to have a Patriots shirt but didn’t know where she had put it. Besides, she said, why would we want it? The XXL-sized shirts were too big for humans.
I glanced at my watch. It was 4:30 p.m. Hannibal told me the final bus out of San Gregorio left at 5.
Hannibal quickly led us to a row of one-room hovels, where we met a wrinkled woman sitting outside in a mint-green dress and a white apron. Her warm smile revealed a mouth lacking teeth. Hannibal and the woman talked for a few minutes. I reminded Hannibal that we were willing to pay money for a hat or shirt. The woman entered her shack and returned with a black plastic bag.
My fingers curled with anticipation as Ilan removed a fresh, clean shirt and a never-worn hat. This could have been Brady’s. This should have been Brady’s.
The woman couldn’t believe we were willing to pay money for these things. We gave her $5, a sizable amount in the area, and handed Hannibal an equal finder’s fee before sprinting down the road as the bus began to gain speed out of town. The driver slowed to let us on.


