For the most part, I was feeling lucky. Almost entirely so, in fact, except for
the matter of one giant booger. It sat there staring at me, daring me to turn
to the left, calling me to check every now and again to see if it was still
there. It always was. And after a while it got to be much too late to tell the
guy whose nose it was hanging out of (if indeed there was ever a good time).
But I'm getting to the booger too soon. Better to back up a little bit, and
start somewhere near the beginning.
It was an odd day, different in virtually every way from what I'd imagined. To
begin with, I ended up in Gillette Stadium, which was not at all what I'd
expected.
I'd driven out to Foxborough after my original plans for the Patriots-Bills
game fell through at the last minute. I figured I'd walk the parking lots and
see what I could see. I thought I might run into some tailgaters somewhere who
didn't have tickets and who were planning to stay outside and watch the game in
their RV. I figured maybe I could talk them into taking me in.
I was having no luck with that, and beginning to think I should have just
parked myself at a nice cozy sports bar somewhere, when I stumbled into one of
the fundraising stations that Children's Hospital had set up along Route 1. A
guy in there was looking for face value, $75, for a ticket that had been
donated. The money would go to the hospital. I gave him $100, thinking my good
luck and his good cause had to be worth at least a 33 percent mark-up. I
brushed off the thank-yous (feeling like it's not really charity if you get
something in return) and headed for Gillette.
I wondered as I hurried up Route 1, pushing my way into the increasingly dense
pedestrian traffic, whether the seat I'd bought really was the good one the
Children's Hospital guy had promised. I wasn't really thinking about seating
charts when I was buying the ticket (I was getting into a football game
and giving money to help sick kids, which is plenty all by itself), but
now I couldn't help but think about where section 240 might be.
I left off pondering my seat for a while as I stood in a thick crowd of people
waiting to cross the highway. At that point it was more interesting to
eavesdrop on conversations about Drew Bledsoe, who was back in town with the
Bills; the Tennessee Titans, the dangerous, streaking AFC South team the Pats
will face next week; and Miami Dolphins quarterback Jay Fiedler, who might be a
"fag" or might be a "pussy" (the guy doing the talking apparently was having a
hard time choosing between homophobia and misogyny -- admittedly a tough
call).
For a few seconds, I contemplated giving even more money to Children's
Hospital. A quiet little girl, maybe nine years old, who was working the crowd
as it waited to cross Route 1 was having a tough time getting people's
attention. Plus, she was working a tough spot, the last of several places where
the hospital was asking for donations. Many had already given along the way.
Then I watched in amusement as a state trooper called her over to where a
40-ish-looking guy stood with an open wallet and a sheepish look on his face.
He'd been caught with an open container of alcohol and given the opportunity to
atone with an act of charity.
"Keep in mind, sir, that's a $40 fine -- when you make your donation," the
trooper prodded. I joined a crowd of people chuckling over the scene as other
troopers stopped traffic and waved us across the street.
My seat turned out to be near the top of the uppermost section in the end zone
nearest Route 1. It wasn't the best seat in the house, but I've sat in worse.
And, again, it was in the stadium; I was on hand for a game that was destined
to sell out the minute Bledsoe was traded to Buffalo at the end of last season.
I was in for about a third of what I would have had to pay a scalper.
Then there's the fact that it was warmer than it had any business being, far
warmer than I would have thought possible when I left home at 10 a.m.,
shivering as I drove down the street waiting for my car's heater to kick in.
The air in Foxborough was un-frigid and, best of all, almost perfectly still.
The sun was bright in the afternoon sky. I was dressed in layers, sure, but I
was comfortable.
The Patriots played well. It's the first time I can say that since
. . . well, probably since their last game with Buffalo five weeks
ago. The defense intercepted Bledsoe left and right. The offense moved the ball
fairly effectively. They didn't play perfect football by any means (they
committed far too many expensive penalties on offense, for example), but they
did more than just scrape by. This is a major improvement over recent games in
which they made weak opponents such as Minnesota and Detroit look like playoff
contenders, doing just enough to win and needing a good bit of luck even
then.
And the crowd around me up in the back rows of section 240 was both
entertaining and energetic. A group of young cops from Worcester, seated just
behind me in row 27, were fun just to listen to. They argued about everything
from whether Notre Dame's football team is overrated to whether the
attention-loving woman in row 19 was good-looking (they tell me her suggestive
dancing and other antics are a regular thing -- they're season-ticket holders
and so is she -- they call her "dirty girl"). They discussed their various bets
on the game. They poked fun relentlessly at passers-by, players on the field,
and one another.
The guy to my left, Russ, was a major Pats fan. He was covered in Pats gear --
a cap that lit up, a jacket with his name embroidered on the breast, a pair of
blue-and-red warm-up pants, a Ty Law game jersey that he unzipped his jacket to
show off when Law made a big play. He was friendly. He was positive. He was
charged up, looking for high-fives after every big Pats play. And he had a
great big piece of yellow snot hanging from a tuft of hair at the tip of his
right nostril. That was a problem.
I NOTICED the booger almost as soon as I sat down. I'd made it into the stadium
just slightly later than I would have liked and missed the coin toss while I
was searching for section 240. When I found my seat, I turned to ask Russ who
had won the toss (it was the Pats), and it was then that I took note of the
snot.
For a while, I just sort of sat there, eyes focused on the field, doing
everything in my power not to glance over at it. Not knowing what to do. You
can't just tell some guy you don't know that he's got a booger hanging out of
his nose. I can't, anyhow. All you can do is hope he notices it on his own. Or
just blows his nose or something.
But he didn't notice, and he didn't blow his nose. So it just continued to be
there. And I started to think maybe I should say something after all. The guy
would be embarrassed, probably, but I'd ultimately be doing him a favor. Plus,
maybe I was already making him uncomfortable by sitting there refusing to look
at him when he made comments about the game. There was also this: what if
something really exciting happened on the field and he snorted or something? I
could end up wearing the thing.
I kept thinking of the filthy, smelly guy my friend Tom ended up sitting next
to the day the Pats lost to Denver; and the drunk who threw up on another
friend, Ken, years ago at a playoff game in Buffalo's Rich Stadium. I kept
thinking maybe I didn't have it so bad. I also kept thinking maybe it was just
my turn.
Meanwhile, the Pats kept playing well. They scored four times (two touchdowns
and two field goals) and picked off two of Bledsoe's passes in the first half.
That led to a lot of high-fiving with Russ and the cops in row 27. And it was
always there.
At halftime, Russ left to get a beer. And as soon as he was out of earshot, the
guys in 27 started talking about the booger. I turned and told them it was
scaring me. Assuming Russ and I had come to the game together, they asked me
why I hadn't said something to my buddy.
"I don't know the guy," I told them. "What the hell do you say? Hey, buddy,
nice to meet you. Do you know you've got a great big piece of snot hanging out
of your nose?"
One of the cops, Gary, resolved to take one for the team and say something to
Russ on his return. But he chickened out. And as the third quarter progressed,
I could only be thankful that the Bills were creeping back into the game. It
made for less celebrating, which allowed me to keep my eyes focused forward.
Meanwhile the guys in 27 turned sort of mean. "My daughter is terrified of the
boogeyman," Gary announced loudly at one point. "She thinks the
boogeyman is under her bed."
And every time Buffalo did something well, the lot of them would break into a
chorus of, "That's snot fair."
It was mean, childish, churlish behavior. And it was unavoidably funny. I
laughed at their inane, mean-spirited jokes even as I felt horrible for doing
it. And I realized there was now no telling Russ about his situation.
At the two-minute warning, with the Pats leading 27-10, the guys in row 27 got
up to leave. I waited a few seconds, then moved back a row. I watched Buffalo
score a meaningless touchdown, stayed to see the Pats recover an on-side kick
with 1:05 left in the game, then headed for the parking lot, feeling like an
asshole.
It was a good day, mostly. I enjoyed a pleasant December afternoon watching a
game I should never have gotten into. I saw a team that looked like it may yet
be up for winning its division. And I gave some money to a worthy cause.
But come 4:30 p.m., all I could think about was how I hadn't done the
decent, if difficult, thing at 1:15 p.m. After all, we're supposed to be
some kind of community, right? Fans cheering together, celebrating together,
maybe looking out for one another. For the first time in weeks, the team hadn't
disappointed its fans, so some of us just went ahead and disappointed
ourselves.
Sean Glennon can be reached at sean@thispatsyear.com.
Issue Date: December 13 - 19, 2002