I was on a second date. I made it past round one. Although I felt like Manny Pacquiao in his prime, no one was throwing any jabs that night because the date was going well. Who knows what would have happened if things went south? I always bring an ice pack and my personal trainer just in case I take an unexpected right hook after the second round of drinks. A margarita can only do so much to reduce inflammation.

Going well. Smiles. Laughter. Slight, but playful touching. I was already thinking about a third interlude. Then it was time to leave the bar. Oh wait, we made friends. A couple of travelers from the midwest started chatting us up about how they were expecting Matt Damon to drop by. “It’s Boston, right? ‘How do you like dem apples,’ right?” If I could fake laughter any harder, my ribs would have broken and my teeth eject.

Football season was also just around the corner. What better way to befriend Bostonians than bring up Tom Brady and DeflateGate? NONE. WE’RE NOT MAD AT ALL. ALL SMILES. SUNSHINE. RAINBOWS. BUTTERFLIES.

After a few (20) forced smiles pointed at our new friends, we were able to get the check. I swear bartenders know when a date is on its last hurrah. They disappear into the abyss to build exotic drinks and retrieve beer deliveries from those Coors Light guys. You know, the ones with the icy beards and mountain gear. They’re real.

Okay, it was time to go. My date offered to give me a ride home. In all fairness, UberPool wasn’t even an option yet in Boston.

I took her up on the ride unaware that country music was the only option in her Hyundai. I’ve never heard so much Taylor Swift. I was forced to hide my deep down, secret, but beautiful love for Taylor. It was almost as painful as telling the foreigners that Matt Damon doesn’t do impromptu Boston bar visits. Poor midwesterners.

You know how Derek Zoolander could never turn left? He wasn’t an “ambiturner.” My date couldn’t turn right. She whipped the Hyundai eastward just a little too hard on a curb next to my apartment. And pop went the front right tire. Out goes the call to the tow company. And boom goes the chance for a third date.

I’m starting to think I’m a bad luck charm for dates. I’ve yet to hurdle over a string of successful dates. And I’m 6-foot-6 so hurdles aren’t that challenging.

The flat tire, to me, was a sign that things, other than air pressure, were on the decline with this particular girl. I could be wrong. After all, I’m no mechanic. On the next date, I’ll be sure to bring my car jack and put Jiffy Lube on speed dial. Fool proof. We’ll see if that lessens my chances of breaking this poor girl’s transmission on the third date.

After all this, at least I know how Tom Brady feels about deflated rubber. I still blame Goodell.