A Tailgater Lost

SPRINGFIELD — There’s an open field across the street from Foxborough Stadium. Right now, I’d just like to head out there and sit for a while.

On any day but football game days/nights, it’s just an empty space. No one goes there, there is no reason to. Animals who like to munch out on grass would find slim pickings here. It’s just a slice of land that serves literally no purpose at all.

Growing up out in Western Massachusetts, Foxborough wasn’t just a hop, skip and a jump from our place. I went to a high school that boasts alumni such as Bill Guerin, Mike Trombley and Kristen Mastroianni. Corporations such as Friendly’s and State Line Potato Chips call our town home. But us westerners loved the Patriots just as much as the Bahstonians, and Dad and I loved our day trips to see our favorite football team.

On game day, Dad and I headed east out of Springfield to I-495. We’d head south and get off at US 1. Just as we arrived at the stadium, we’d turn left into this open field. It was on game day that this otherwise useless field was transformed into the greatest spectacle in the NFL.

Nobody tailgates like Patriot fans do.

And nobody had a better tailgate buddy than myself.

My dad passed away on April 12, and right now I would like to head to that parking lot. I’d like to sit there, and just remember. Nothing else, just remember.

You all know that this open field (for all I know, it’s perhaps changed since the days I went there, I haven’t been there in nearly fifteen years) is not the only place to park at the stadium. Dad and I chose to park here versus the main stadium lots. We heard of all the horror stories that surrounded the first night in 1971 when it took four hours for some folks to merely leave the parking lot. Besides, this open field was convenient. To get back on to US 1, it was a mere right hand turn.

Dad and I never paid for Patriots tickets. He had lots of friends in the Boston area who were season ticket holders. At least once a fall in the 1970s, they’d call Dad up and give him two tickets. We usually sat in section 219. Didn’t matter to me.

The first game we ever went to was in 1972, a preseason game against Detroit. We got our tickets in Winchester, had a great steak dinner, then headed down to Foxborough. We followed this family to the stadium, and they parked in the main lot. The horror stories were right on. Dad and I came by ourselves in the future, and we always parked in the open field since.

In all, Dad and I paid a visit to Foxborough every fall from 1972 to about 1981 (I have never been to Foxborough Stadium, I went mostly to Schaefer Stadium). We saw some significant events, and left with some great memories.

We went later on in 1972, and saw the Miami Dolphins on their way to their 17-0 season.

We saw the Jets in 1973 and 1974, and couldn’t believe what a bland team they were. Those were the Jets of Bobby Howfield, Al Woodall and Chris Farasopoulos. Oh, yes, they had some guy named John Riggins. Joe Namath was too hurt to be in his 1968 form. Never heard of Bill Parcells at that time.

We saw the 49ers in 1975. The Patriots won that game, and would not defeat the 49ers again until the Pete Carroll era. But the game marked the first NFL start for this young buck from Kansas State. Guess Steve Grogan did pretty well in that game.

1978 was the ultimate. A December game against Buffalo. A win clinches the division title for the Pats. On a frigid day with a threat of snow, Dad and I were searched for liquor as we entered the stadium. We settled in as the good people in front of us drank peppermint schnapps like water.

You’re a true Patriot fan if you remember the name David Posey. John Smith was our kicker back then, but he was hurt early on and yielded the kicking duties to some nobody named Nick Lowery. Lowery kicked a few games for the Pats, then got hurt himself before embarking on a possible Hall of Fame career in Kansas City. Posey was picked up to replace Lowery.

His 26-yard field goal late in the game gave the Pats a 26-24 win, and their first AFC East title. Fans began to pour on to the field from all directions after the winning kick, even though there were six seconds left. I told Dad I was going down to the field. He advised me not to get myself killed. I was on the field for about two minutes, then retreated after some drunk got hit with a bottle of whiskey and suffered a deep gash in his forehead.

1981 was the last game for me for a while. It was a preseason game against Oakland. At the time, I had no idea that this would pretty much be it for my trips to Foxborough with Dad. We’ll be back next year, no big deal. Going to the Fox was a fun thing to do with my dad, it was just something that a young kid who didn’t know any better just figured it would keep going on and on. Just wait for the next game where Dad gets tickets. Easy.

The last fall I spent in Massachusetts was 1982, but a players strike cut the season down to nine games. In 1983, I moved to California.

The last time Dad and I went to Foxborough was an exhibition game against Washington in late summer 1986. Exhibition games mean nothing, just being able to go with Dad was all I cared about.

The only thing worth remembering from that game was who we sat by. It was about midway through the second quarter when I noticed this guy sitting in front of us had this huge ring on. The ring was an AFC Championship ring. I whispered into Dad’s ear, “Dad, that’s Patrick Sullivan!” Dad said “Who?”

Once during the game he turned around and looked at us, his eye still showing the remains of the right hand he got from Matt Millen at a playoff game in January (I was at that game also). He had a walkie talkie on him. I felt like asking him, “If you’ve got the guts to challenge Millen and (Howie) Long to a fight, will you come out west and be my bodyguard?”

Was Patrick such a disgrace that Billy forbade him to sit in the press box?

That was it. Dad and I never went to another Pats game again. And now, we never will.

Looking back on the games we went together, these Patriot highlights are fun to think about but really are secondary. The real fun were those tailgates we had. The times we spent together at these tailgates were classic father/son things that you simply never forget.

We’d bring along a hibachi, hot dogs and burgers, chips and drinks and so on. Out in the open space, you’d see everyone else doing much the same thing. Some guys would be throwing a football around. Radios would be on. The people you parked next to became your nextdoor neighbors.

We’d sit out there on folding chairs, toss the stuff on the grill, and just sit and talk. For a kid like me, it was the greatest. Sometimes we’d visit with the neighbors. But the atmosphere was totally fun, and the time with Dad was priceless.

We’d stuff ourselves with dogs and burgers, then go in and watch the game. After the game, we’d fight the postgame traffic, then head home. On the way, we’d stop at this great pizza joint in Sturbridge. Game days had the best of everything, the best cookout, the best football team, the best pizza, and the best tailgate buddy.

The passing years helped these days take on a more special import. Back when these days were more recent, going to these games was more of a “neat” thing. But in the long continuum of time, these games we went to turned out to be very special.

Dad and I didn’t have a lot in common. He liked model airplanes and would have gotten along great with Norm Abrams. I was a sports nut and a musician. What Dad and I did together usually revolved around sports and going to ball games.

Dad and I did Fenway a lot. But we never tailgated there. Get real. A hibachi on the Riverside train? Foxborough was our domain.

As I grew older and started to lay down roots in California, Dad and I would keep up on the Patriots over the telephone. When the 1990s hit, we began to call each other up during every game. We suffered through Rod Rust, Hugh Millen and Zeke Mowatt. We rejoiced at the arrivals of Drew Bledsoe, Parcells and Bob Kraft.

Bob Kraft, you say? To Dad and I, Kraft was, is, and always will be a hero.

In the days when the threat of James Orthwein moving the Patriots to St. Louis was very real, I was worried beyond belief. They can’t move the Patriots. The team was so important to me, and to Dad as well. We had so many memories locked up in that team, and to see them move to St. Louis would have torn my heart out.

Kraft bought the Patriots and kept them right where they belong. Yes, he was foolish to let Parcells walk. And his dalliance with the State of Connecticut was also maddening. But he kept the team here and got his new stadium anyway. I will always be thankful to Kraft for keeping the team home. This takes on even more import today now that Dad is gone.

Week One this fall will be very tough on me. There will be no halftime or postgame phone call. No betting on the game. No complaining about the lack of a running game, no celebrating over a great rally that Bledsoe pulled off. I’ve had disappointments in my life, but not very many devastating things. This will be devastating. And I don’t know yet how I will deal with it.

The Patriots meant a lot to Dad and I. The tailgates we did, the games we saw, the phone calls, the interaction between us, you just can’t go to a store and buy that stuff. Right now, his passing just plain hurts. Watching the Pats will never be the same.

All I can say is that they’d better build that new crib real quick. Anything to make sure that that team stays put.

And when they do, let’s hope that the town of Foxborough continues to allow that open field to be used for excess parking. I’ll perhaps never see it again myself since my job forbids me to be there in the fall, but at least other Dads and sons now and forever can forge strong ties and bonds between them.

And hopefully those sons will refer to their Dads as the “World’s Greatest Tailgater” like I do. As Keith Jackson might say, “Whoa Nellie, that’s a whole lotta good stuff goin’ on there!”

For all that “good stuff”, Dad, thanks.

About Bob George

Covering Boston Sports since 1997. Native of Worcester, Mass. Attended UMass and Univ of Michigan. Lives in California. Just recently retired after 40 years of public school teaching. Podcasts on YouTube at @thepic4139

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