What about Bob?

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
New York Jets 24, Patriots 17 (11/15/'99): The original reason I started this blog was to have a place to write down memories of all the great (and not-so-great) games that I've been to over the years. I thought it would be good to read as I get older and the memories become a little fuzzier. It happens to us all eventually. Some days it feels like it's already happening.

I've been titling those memories Tales from the Tailgate. There's one about the Snow Bowl. The Fog Bowl. The night they raised the first championship banner. The night the old stadium almost washed away. There's one about Drew Bledsoe's greatest game. Even a few from the strike year of '87.

It's been nothing but fun. Even on days the Pats lose. Well, except that playoff game against the Ravens two seasons ago. That wasn't much fun at all.

The thing that makes football different from all the other sports is tailgating. It's a party unlike anything else. OK, except maybe a Dead show in the '70s. Or a Buffett concert. Whether a sunny and warm day in September or a snowy and frigid day in January, it is always a memorable time. The game has a lot to do with it of course. As does the food. And, yes, the beverages. But the best part is the company. Tailgating is as much about spending time with friends who you might not otherwise see all that much as it is about touchdowns and sacks.

GILLETTE: If you build it ...

Sundays at Gillette (and before that Sullivan/Foxboro Stadium) have kept alive longtime friendships with Shep (and his sons), Mark, Bergs, and Billy and introduced all of them to my brothers and nephews (cue "Circle of Life" music). When the warm months arrive we might see each other once or twice a summer. But from September through (hopefully) February, we get to spend several Sundays hanging out talking family, politics, work, and the thing that distracts us from all that -- football.

As with any group that's been tailgating for years and years, there are always going to be some characters who make the memories just a tad more colorful.

There's Billy, whose fondness for fire, things wrapped in bacon, and great stories make him a guy you always enjoy spending seven hours with in the parking lot. There's Cousin Benny, who may or may not have been Billy's cousin. He was a Raider fan who came with Billy to the Snow Bowl. It was his first time in Foxborough and he got separated from us in the celebration after the game. He wandered down Route 1 in the snow looking for our car in one of the south lots. Problem was he was walking north. For about two miles. By the time some stranger finally figured out he was heading in the wrong direction we were all long gone. I haven't seen him since. Whenever I'm driving near the stadium I still keep an eye out for Cousin Benny.

Another guy I haven't seen in quite a few years is Bob Lee. He was a town reporter at the newspaper and a true one-of-a-kind friend. His full name is Robert E. Lee. It was fitting. He's quite the historical figure among those that have stood on the pavement and dirt along the side of Route 1. There are many great Bob Lee tales from the tailgate. But as I get ready for another clash with the Jets -- as well as lots of  food and laughs -- one tale stands out as my favorite.

FOXBORO RACEWAY: Park here.

During the '99 season and into the next year construction began on what is now Gillette Stadium and Patriot Place. When you are erecting a giant new building right next to the old stadium something has to give. In this case, it was parking spaces. Several lots were swallowed up by the construction. When the stadium plan was first outlined we all asked the same question. Where the heck are we going to park?

One answer turned out to be on the dirt surface of the harness racetrack that sat in the shadow of the old stadium. Foxboro Raceway was built in 1947 and on the visits I made to it during the '80s and '90s to lose some money it seemed that the place was still populated by the guys who were there when it opened. It was like walking onto the set of the "Sting." I can still smell the cigars.

By '99 the horses -- and the gents with the cigars -- were just a memory. The clubhouse was being torn down and on game days cars were directed to parking spots on and around the dirt track. On a mild mid-November afternoon our carpool came to a stop right at the first corner. We set up and enjoyed a great tailgate, grilling, drinking, and playing football on the dirt. At some point Bob -- as he sometimes did -- disappeared. Mark and I sat in our chairs listening to music and talking about the 6-2 Patriots vs. the 2-6 Jets. Even though we were not Pete Carroll fans, we were feeling good about our team.

"Where's Bob?" I asked Mark. "He's been gone for a while and I have his ticket. We should start heading to our seats soon." (It was '99. We didn't have iPhones.) Mark just shrugged. I shrugged back. Then in the distance I saw Bob walking around the bend. He was dragging something.

"Oh, no," I said. "Bob's up to something. Again."

A buzz arose through all the tailgaters around us as Bob approached, dragging a long black-and-white checkered pole beside him. It was made of metal so it clanked and clattered as it scraped along the ground.

"What you got there, Bob?" I asked.

"It's the quarter pole from the race track," he said in his best Kramer voice. "I was gonna take it home."

That was not good news for me since Bob came in my car.

"I don't think that's going to fit," I said. "It's about 10 feet long."

"And you're getting the attention of the man," Mark said, as police and security began taking notice of Bob's unusual game souvenir. "We don't want that."

Bob took the pole and propped it up against a tree in the track's infield as the police watched, not quite sure if what he was doing was illegal or not.
We got Bob safely to our seats where we watched our high hopes for the Pats crushed. The Jets -- with Ray Lucas as their QB -- jumped all over the Patriots for a 24-3 lead. We were really starting to get down on coach Carroll. Drew Bledsoe tossed two late touchdowns to cut the lead to 24-17 but he also threw three picks. The last one to seal the disappointing defeat. It was not a fun game.

We walked back to the dirt track in the dark. No one had thought to put lights in the new parking lot. We hung around rehashing the mistakes of the team and hoping it was not a sign of things to come. (Turns out it was, as Carroll's Pats won only two more games to finish 8-8 and out of the playoffs). I had to cut the post-game tailgate short in order to drive several people home. Me, Mark, my brother Jim, and Bob piled into my green Taurus wagon. Much like today, traffic getting out of the lot was inching along. And then it was stopped.

"I'll be right back," Bob said and he jumped out of the car and ran back to Bergs, Billy, and the others who were still grilling.

"I'm leaving you here if the traffic starts moving," I yelled out the window. We sat there for another 15 minutes before the traffic starting flowing. I drove through the parking lot with one eye in the rear view looking for Bob.

Suddenly he appeared in the mirror, running at full speed, his hands full of something. The traffic moved faster. I moved faster. Bob ran faster. Just before we got to Route 1 we slowed a bit and Bob caught us. He tumbled into the car, spilling burgers and beers everywhere.

"I forgot I left our burgers on the grill," Bob said as we all laughed. "I figured we needed something for the ride home."

It was a great ride home as I ate my half-cooked burger and retold the story of how I would have left him in the parking lot over and over.

There have been so many great times over the 15-plus years of going to Pats games. Today's Pats-Jets clash should be another one. The victories are certainly the sweetest. But as great as the memories from the Snow Bowl or the 16-0 season are, the memory of Bob dragging the quarter pole towards me is as entertaining a memory as any. Even after a dissapointing loss.