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The night before the game, we dined at Morton’s steakhouse in North Miami. We loaded up on Midwestern beef and eschewed the local seafood offerings. We loaded ourselves into my rented black Escalade and set the GPS for the party at South Beach. Three hours later, we were still trying to make the 20-mile trip. Turns out we were riding in a black Cadillac Glacier. It would have been faster to walk to South Beach.
We made it to South Beach but were denied entrance to the party. Apparently the SoBe fire marshal is a stickler for legal occupancy limits. Things started to get ugly. Snoop Dogg-meets-South Beach is not somewhere you want to be when hundreds of wasted partygoers are being turned away. I promised the boys I would take them to a gentlemen’s club if they got back in the car. Instead I took them home to their mother.

See the full article from “Chicago Tribune”