We Don't Go Up...

As is customary for me, I have been reflecting on my recent post, "Sometimes Nothing Is The Hardest Thing To Do." In the days following that last post I looked back on my first three weeks here and tried to remember what I had done each day. The days where I was painting my dad’s office were easy to chalk up; the other days were not so quick to return to memory. The conclusion I came to is that my days have comprised sleeping soundly, exercising, reading, writing on this blog and in my own diary, eating great food that I did not have to prepare, ending my night drinking whiskey I did not buy, and watching sporting events on cable stations for which I do not pay the bill.

After further review, the call on the field is being reversed: I have improved when it comes to just accepting good things and not having ‘to do’ anything to warrant them.

And it was with this eye-opening revelation, as well as an 8:00am phone call, that I hopped out of bed and accepted yet another piece of generosity that found its way to my doorstep. There are few reasons my close friend and financial advisor would call me at 8:00am on a Sunday morning. Either tragedy had struck the family or he had an extra ticket to the Patriots game. Fortunately it was the latter.

“Mark. Bob. Did I wake you?”

“I completely slept through the first time you called. I kinda heard the second one. The third one I uttered a lot of profanity before picking up. But yes, you did wake me.”

“I’d say I’m sorry but I’m not. We have an extra ticket for the game and we are about 30 minutes away from your exit on the highway. Can you meet us?”

“Absolutely! What do I have to bring?”

“Yourself. We got everything else covered. Food, drink, everything. Meet us at the exit. See you in 30.”

An opportunity to just accept something good and take in a joyful day could not have been presented more beautifully. Actually, the abrupt awakening could have been re-scripted but I’m not about to split hairs. The fact was this: I was going to my first Patriots game at Gillette Stadium; my first Patriots game since winning their first Super Bowl. That right there was enough to make it a great day but it got so much better.

I met up with Bob and his friends and after a routine 40 minute drive to Foxboro, we were tailgating and it was only 9:45am. I have not tailgated that early since a Michigan/Northwestern football game in the fall of ’98. It rained. A lot.

On this cloudless December day, we still had three hours until game time and I figured we would spend the time with some burgers, chips and beer – the usual tailgate fare. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a fired up grill complete with pulled pork, frozen clams and stuffies. (For those of you not versed in sea food, let me drop some 'stuffie' knowledge on you.) Bob takes his cooking seriously. He also takes his tailgating seriously. Combine the two and you are in for a feast.

And there was parking lot entertainment to boot. Local cheerleading squads were canvassing the parking to raise money to help pay for their trips to competitions; causes we were only happy to support financially upon the successful completion of a well organized cheer. (Whether it is trust, stupidity or naïveté to let others throw you into the air above the cold asphalt of a parking lot is a discussion for another time)

Three hours and one feast later, we made our way to this behemoth arena which was a complete 180 degree shift from the old Foxboro; a stadium that most college football venues could have put to shame. The influx of dropped r’s (How ah ya? Where’s ya fahthuh?) was music to my ears. And the fact that we were playing the Lions meant an almost certain victory.

As we walked through the gates I stopped just to take it all in and make sense of the new digs. Bob turns to me and says, “My buddies and I had season tickets to the old Foxboro. We were about 45 rows up and those were still good seats because it wasn’t a huge stadium. Now, 45 rows up and you can’t see a damn thing. Now, as you can see, there are two options for getting to your seats. You either go up, or you go down.”

Pause.

“We don’t go up.”

Bob led me to the section where we would be spending the next three hours and sure enough, in order to get to our seats we had to walk down some stairs. A lot of them, actually. When we finally came to a stop, we were a mere 22 rows off the field and looking at the 5 yard line.

We don’t go up.

The game itself was not pretty, especially when you consider that the Patriots were being embarrassed by Lions (records of 9-3 and 2-10, respectively). We trailed for most of it and the crowd was utterly deflated. I did my part to get them fired up even resorting to a certain level of disrobing because I was breaking a sweat doing so. I’m not saying that those of us in Section 127 turned the tide of the game or anything, but we rarely sat down in the later parts of the match and as the Patriots sealed the victory we were among the rowdiest of spectators. Not too many other sections could say that.

After that, I was pretty much ready to call it a day. Throw in the obligatory gridlock of getting out of a parking lot and the experience would be a done deal. But I was wrong. Upon returning to our parking space, the grill was lit a second time, the portable fire place was soon roaring and we enjoyed some of the best marinated chicken sandwiches this writer has had in a long time.

Eventually we tore down our little oasis and made our way home. I was spent, completely drained and riding high on a great day. I hadn’t planned it, I hadn’t expected it. I did nothing to warrant it except show up.

And now if you'll excuse me, I think I need the following week to recover.