"Jack Daniels."

"And in the Jack."

The big debate in Baltimore every spring isn't over the Orioles' starting lineup or even the Ravens' starting QB. Instead, the locals like to holler back and forth about how, exactly, to steam their crabs.

This particular impromptu discussion inside a seafood market went on for several minutes. Poor Jermaine Lewis. He just wanted to pick up some Maryland blues for dinner.

It is offseason moments like this when you truly get an idea of the impact of the Super Bowl and it's massive, 10-figure audience. After answering Ron Dixon's 97-yard kickoff return for a TD with an 84-yarder of his own (captured in Matrix technology no less) to close the Giants out in Super Bowl XXXV, Lewis can no longer run errands in the suburbs of Baltimore without getting noticed.

At a convenience store, several fans stopped him to ask for autographs. "How about five touchdown returns next year," said one man. "Yeah, sure," answered Lewis who has seven in his five-year career, "I could use five TDs next year for sure."

A soft-spoken, bright, down-to-earth guy, Lewis didn't seem to mind the raging, animated, prideful debate over how to cook the dozen crabs we picked up for dinner. He wasn't pained at all by the attention. But I sure was.

Being the curious (read: stupid) reporter that I am, while the guy behind the counter (Mr. Beer), the portly retired man (Mr. Jack) and Lewis (Mr. H20) conducted their culinary caucus, I reached into the giant paper bag to pick up some crabs.

(Please, insert your own sophomoric punch line here: _____.)

Big mistake.

The giant crab on top of the bag with the bad 'tude, who had, after all, been napping in the Chesapeake Bay just a few hours earlier, clamped onto my right index finger so hard that, out of instinct, the first thing I did was look on the shop's floor for the tip of my digit.

After that I coolly played down the whole scene by running around the shop as if my pants were ablaze, wildly shaking Mr. Happy Pinchers off my finger while screeching something like, "Mother-scratchin'-freakin-frabble-sammy-dammy-mammy ..."

Perhaps that crab was a Charlotte Hornets fan. When the deadly decapod finally fell off, Lewis and his newfound buddies busted out in a fit of laughter.

Midwesterner, I think I heard one of them mumble.

Although the feeling has yet to return to my finger, and my dog Scoop must now help me type my H's, my moment of buffoonery seemed to break the ice with Lewis -- who turned out to be very candid and open as I talked with him for an upcoming feature story in The Mag.

We paid for the crustaceans and then I carried them to Lewis' Lexus. Now, normally I'm not a very vindictive person, but on the way home, while no one was looking, I whispered to Mr. Happy Pinchers that he would be the first one into the pot.

I dropped him in myself, using giant salad tongs. And steamed to perfection by Lewis in a mixture of beer and water, I would describe him as quite delicious. (Throbbing) finger-lickin' good, even.

David Fleming is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail flemfile@aol.com.