When the rain comes

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Jets 6, Pats 0 (11/28/'93): I keep leaving my sneakers out on the back porch the last few days. And it's poured every evening. My sneakers get soaked to the foam. They dry in the sun. Then they get soaked again. I picked up my dripping sneakers for the third time in a week and a memory of one of my favorite tailgates came flooding back. (Bad pun intended). Yes. It all comes back to football. Sorry, Dev.

It was 1993. It was an ugly winter and the Patriots played some ugly games to match. The team was 1-9 through ten games, losing by scores of 38-14, 45-7, and 28-14 to name a few. I had given up my season tickets a few years earlier and had not regretted that decision one bit as I sat on my couch week after week watching the team get stomped. But there was a reason for hope.

The Patriots had hired Bill Parcells. The Tuna. A two-time Super Bowl champ with the Giants and one of the most entertaining SOBs to ever coach the game. As I used to say "Love him or hate him, you have to love him." The day Parcells was hired the Patriots went from bumbling franchise to a real NFL team. You could see the change almost immediately. Not in wins or loses. That would come later. But in the no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway approach. Players who had become used to losing were cut. Quickly. Veterans who had won with Parcells before were suddenly lining up to join the team. The Pats were still getting creamed week after week but there was someone in charge of my football team who knew what he was doing. Finally.

Me, Mark, Shep, Bergs, and a few of our friends decided to buy some tickets to see our saviour in person. The Pats were 1-9 but we were as psyched for the game as if it was the playoffs. It was Week 11 on the schedule and it was against the hated Jets. And Parcells was coaching. This was before Jets-Patriots became a holy war, but they were a division rival, they were a NY team, they wore green, they often sucked as much as or more than the Pats but received way more media attention. You know, New York and all. Beating them would brighten a dismal season.

As with most tailgating stories in New England, the weather would play a huge part in the fun. The guys met up in the newspaper's parking lot on a day that heavy, wind-driven rain was forecast. A forecast I had not heard. I didn't always watch the Sunday morning news in those days to see what the weather would be like. I haven't made that mistake again. I drove into the lot under a gray sky and walked over to Mark, Topher, Bergs, Brendan, Paul, and Tom Brady. Yes, Tom Brady. Not that one. This one worked at the newspaper and was the first Tom Brady I ever heard of. Of the two, he's had the second biggest impact on my life. Paul was wearing his EMT brother's rain gear. Mark had a heavy rain jacket. Shep was covered toe-to-toe in plastic. Tom Brady wore a hat and coat as if he was one of the James brothers in "The Long Riders." Everyone had boots on. I strolled up in jeans, a T-shirt and light jacket, sneakers, and a Patriots painter's cap. "Where's you rain gear?" Paul asked. "Is it going to rain?" I said. "A monsoon," Mark said. A half-hour later the monsoon had begun.

It was the first time I had been to Foxboro Stadium since I gave up my season tickets. As I stood there in the rain feeling the cardboard in the brim of my painter's cap turn to pulp, all the frustrating memories of the 1-15 season came flashing back. But so did all the fun memories. Foxboro Stadium was quite a different experience than what you have today. The stadium was located practically on Route 1 and the dirt lots spread out below it towards the woods. In the shadow of the stadium stood the old harness track Foxboro Raceway, a dirt track that opened in the '40s and was still populated by many of the people who were there for the opening.

We tailgated behind the track towards the woods, a place far from the stadium where security rarely roamed. We stood in the rain eating our wet steak sandwiches and burgers, some of us wetter than others. Tom Brady was from Jersey and this was his first Pats game. We tried to tell him what the concrete toilet bowl was like but we knew he really had to see it to believe it. As we were getting ready to go into the game, Tom took off his jacket and handed it to me. "This might help a little. I've got another coat," he said. Tom's about 6'4'', I'm 5'11''. It was a little big. But drier than what I had on. "But you can't have my hat," he laughed as he looked at my shrinking cap.

The Jets were 6-4 coming into the game so a Pats upset would be sweet. We figured a monsoon might give us a chance. We made our way through the rain and squeezed most of our group onto the bench in Section 309. We had the four seats on the aisle of Row 26. But we often fit five, six, seven guys into those four spots. That's one of the many differences between Gillette and the old stadium. Seats. That's right. Seats. My ticket now entitles me to an actual seat with arms on each side and a back. Made of plastic. Foxboro Stadium had benches. Long, cold aluminum benches with 38 numbers on them to mark your spot. There were about six inches on each side of the number. That was enough room for me but not for some of the larger Pats fans. Since there were no arms dividing the spaces people would crowd in with their buddies even if they didn't have a number on that row. We did it too. It could get pretty jammed. But not as jammed as the concourse below heading for the beers or the bathrooms.

The rain didn't let up as the game started. And the wind began to pick up. It rained in such thick sheets that some times it was hard to see the action on the field. The Patriots would make a play and the crowd would cheer. The rain would get heavier and the crowd would cheer more. Both teams struggled to pass, run, catch, block, and tackle on the wet carpet. The Jets hit a field goal in the second quarter to take a 6-0 lead. The rain got heavier. "It can't rain any harder,'' I said to Brendan. "It just can't." It did. I looked down at my beer and it was almost full. I was certain that five minutes before it was half empty. Brendan looked at his cup. It was overflowing. "Time for new beers," he said as we dumped out our cups of rainwater. Brendan headed down to battle the beer lines.

A long time later I saw him making his way back up the stairs as the wind whipped the rain horizontally. Brendan was wearing a plastic bag to stay dry. He put his head down, struggling against the wind and rain, gently balancing the two beers so as not to spill a drop. He got about five rows from the seats when the wind lifted the plastic bag up and over his head, covering his face. Brendan wrestled with the plastic -- while not spilling a drop -- and pushed it up and off his head. The bag flew in the wind till it hit another guy carrying up some beers about 10 steps below Brendan. The wind pulled the bag tight against the guy's face, so tight you could see the terror in his expression as he lost his balance and dropped his beers. Brendan got back to the seats, partly out of breath. "Didn't spill a drop,'' he said as he handed me my cup.

The Jets clung to their 6-0 lead late as Drew Bledsoe lead the Pats on one last drive to win the game. Of the fans who came to the game -- and there were a lot for a 1-9 team playing in a monsoon -- many of them were still there. Soaked, but there. Bledsoe move the offense down to the Jets' 30. He then hit receiver Michael Timpson cutting across the middle for a first down inside the Jets' 10 as the clock neared a minute left to play. Timpson tried to get a few more yards in the mud and got hit, losing the ball for a game-ending fumble. Parcells was 1-10. We were soaked to the bone.

We made our way down the stairs as the rain continued and began walking along the main aisle to get out of the stadium. As we walked along the aisle rained poured out of holes that were cut in the concrete. I never knew the real reason why there were holes in the concrete, but my guess was and still is that after the stadium was built someone realized that they had not designed a way for the water to drain out of the upper sections. So someone -- Chuck Sullivan maybe? -- decided they should cut holes in the concrete to let the water drain out. Right about head level for those walking in the aisle. As Tom Brady made his way through each fountain that hit him right in the face, he would turn and look at me. Finally, at the last gushing hole of water, he stopped and said "Nice stadium you got here, Tim. If I knew they had built-in showers I would have brought a bar of soap."

The Patriots went on to win their last four games that season. The foundation was being built for a new approach to football in New England. One where the team stopped beating itself. One where players stepped up and made big plays. And most importantly one where the head coach was really in charge. Just three years later we would be getting ready to go to Foxboro for the AFC championship game.

A few nights later me, Mark, and Shep sat in a bar talking about the game and our new coach. Parcells came on TV talking about the game too. He was saying things like he saw progress being made and that the young players were starting to "get it." And then he added: "One thing I want to say, to those fans who stayed for that whole game in the rain, they are my kind of football fans. We're gonna continue to get better for them."

Mark got a look in his eye. "If I go to the stadium tomorrow to buy four season tickets will you each buy one?" Shep and I said sure, but I don't think either of us thought he was serious. Several glasses of Dewar's can blur one's judgment. The next morning I woke up, still blurred, and another storm was raging, this one with a few inches of wet snow. I looked out the window and the ground was white. No way Mark waited outside to get tickets in weather like this, I thought. No way.

That afternoon I was at my desk in the newsroom. I saw Mark walk in the door, looking kind of wet again. He came over and put a stack of Patriots tickets down in front of me. "You owe me $350 for a season ticket," he said. I sure have gotten my money's worth. And then some.