When the rain comes

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Jets 6, Pats 0 (11/28/'93): It was a dry pre-game tailgate for the home opener yesterday. That was good because Mark and I arrived at the Enchanted Forest parking lot around 2 p.m. Surprisingly, none of the lots were open yet for the 8:30 kickoff. So we did a little shopping at KraftWorld and waited for another hour before we could fire up the first tailgate of the season. A great first tailgate was followed by a less-than great first half. Which was followed by a raucous Tedy Bruschi halftime tribute (the third for #54 so far I think). Just as Tedy finished leading his last "Ooooooh yeaaahhhh!!", the sky opened and within ten minutes I was drenched. Bad weather games are always fun. Well, snow games are fun. Rain? Not so much. Rain makes for the worst conditions for tailgating and football watching. Especially if you wear glasses. And if you aren't prepared. Like I was not, almost 20 years ago.

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.

Home cooking

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Patriots 28, Steelers 3 (1/5/'97): Me and my fellow tailgaters have been planning our playoff menu for a few weeks now. Grilled lamb. Strip steaks with roasted potatoes. Homemade mac and cheese. And an array of things wrapped in bacon courtesy of Billy. Nothing like a home playoff game.

Today's game against the Texans will be the 16th home playoff game since we first bought our season tickets in old Foxboro Stadium in 1995. The day we bought our tickets the Patriots had played one home playoff game in about 30 years (they lost). Since then the team has played 15 home playoff games and has won thirteen of them. Of all the great things about having season tickets, the best part is going to playoff games. I never imagined it would become a yearly event. But it has. All 15 of them have been memorable, but it was the first one on a day similar to today in the winter of 1997 that will always be one of my favorites.

Known as "The Fog Game." This was the first home playoff game with Bill Parcells as coach. The Pats had never won a home playoff game. Never. The franchise was created in 1960 as the Boston Patriots and 37 years later Pats fans had still not witnessed a home playoff win. There were some great playoff victories up to that point (at NY Jets, at Oakland, and at Miami in three consecutive, amazing weeks in '86 for instance), but none at home. For me, Mark, Shep, Toph, Bergs, and Billy the whole week leading up to the game was like Christmas Eve.

The Pats were far from a sure thing to make the playoffs that year so having a home playoff game was almost a shock. And to make it better, or worse, the Pats were playing the Steelers. The Steelers had lots of home playoff victories. And road playoff victories. And Super Bowl victories. One of the all-time great franchises against one of the all-time saddest. Even better was the fact that the Jaguars had gone into No. 1 seed Denver the day before and done what very few teams had done. Beat the Broncos in the playoffs in Denver. (Like the Ravens did yesterday) As I sat on my couch watching the Broncos lose, Mark called. "If we win this game tomorrow we would host the AFC Championship game. The AFC Championship game!"

I woke up early that morning, or maybe I never got to sleep. I don't remember. The car was packed the night before and we all met up at the Bickford's... One of the big differences between tailgating now and then is cellphones. Now you can all get to the lot at different times and just call or text each other to meet up. Then you had to gather at a parking lot somewhere outside the stadium lots and form a caravan. If you went in separately you might never find each other... The morning had started under a heavy blanket of fog and by the time we pulled into the lot the old stadium, which sat up on the top of a hill, was barely visible. It looked like a giant freighter on the ocean horizon on a foggy morning. It was a cool sight.

But it was a problem because with Drew Bledsoe having a break-out year the Pats were a passing offense. It went against Parcell's every instinct but that's what they were. Curtis Martin was a hell of a back. Hall of Fame level. But Bledsoe and the Pats were a passing team when it counted. But we weren't worried about that at the moment. We tailgated in the drizzle and fog. Security was strict about throwing footballs in the lot before and after games ("Hey! You behind the guys smoking the weed. Stop throwing that football around!") but since you couldn't see more than 10 feet we were able to throw the ball without getting harassed. And without being able to see the ball. "I hope the visibility is better inside the stadium," Toph said as we dropped pass after pass. It wasn't. As we came up the stairs and into the stadium the fog was pretty bad. When we reached our seats all the way up in Section 311 about 10 rows from the top of the stadium, the field was a grey ghost. "Holy shit," I said. "Let's get that running game going." As the National Anthem ended fireworks burst in the sky. Or at least it sounded like fireworks. You really couldn't see them. Seems that the Pats were celebrating their first home playoff game in many years with fireworks. Fireworks make smoke. Lots of smoke. Due to the thick fog the smoke couldn't rise and instead mixed with the fog to make something thicker than smoke and thicker than fog. Smog? Shep started laughing. It was typical Patriots. Aren't fireworks for after you win the game?

The crowd roared as the Pats defense stopped the Steelers. But people were nervous. We had never won a home playoff game. You can't see the ball if it's 10 feet in the air. We had already shot off fireworks. Nervous. The Pats got the punt and started at about their 45-yard line. The offense came out and lined up for their first play. Bledsoe dropped back to pass. I looked left and saw rookie receiver Terry Glenn (who had a huge regular season despite, or because of, the fact that Parcells hated him) take off at the snap and race down the far sideline towards the Steelers end zone. I looked right and saw Bledsoe rear back and toss a bomb high and deep... and into the fog. The ball disappeared. Completely. I looked left again and saw Glenn burn past the cornerback by three strides and turn and look up over his left shoulder. He waited. And waited. We all waited. And then the ball dropped out of the fog and fell right into his arms. Glenn cradled the ball and cut through the fog till he was tackled at about the five-yard line. A 52-yard bomb on their first play of the game!

In all the games I've been to over the years I've never heard a crowd explode like that. All those years of disappointment seemed to be released in the fog with that one pass. We high-fived and screamed and then future hall of fame running back Curtis Martin crashed the ball in for a score on the next play and the Pats never looked back. Martin broke a long touchdown run later in the game as they Pats rolled 28-3. A romp. A home playoff victory. Finally!

After the game we celebrated in the parking lot, grilling, drinking, and listening to the post-game radio show. The Tuna came to the podium. There were a lot of great things about Parcells. One of the best was his press conferences. He alternated between being the funniest wise-ass around to talking about what the defense did to stuff the other team on third-downs in a way only a great football mind can. After answering all the questions Parcells ended with a message for the fans going to the AFC Championship game the following Sunday. "I want to thank the fans for the way they were behind us today," he said. "We've got another game next week. And there's even more on the line. Tell them to be ready to go again and be in their seats a little earlier." Yes sir, Bill. Thanks for that first home playoff win.

Miami ... nice

The Patriots head down to South Beach this Sunday with a chance to clinch another AFC East title. Miami is -- a little surprisingly -- the second toughest team in the division this year. Although it won't be an easy game, most Pats' fans go into contests against the team from the Sunshine State with an outlook to match. Since Tom Brady stepped on the field, the Patriots have been far superior to the Dolphins and the results have almost always reflected that.

Brady lost two of his first three starts against the Dolphins. Since then the Pats have gone 14-5 against their division rival from the land of Shaq and JLo. Sure, there was the brief period when the Miami Wildcats gave the Pats trouble and there was that late season comeback in 2004 where Brady threw two bad fourth quarter picks in a little bump in the road to the Super Bowl. But for Pats fans who have grown up with the team over the last 10 or even 20 years, the Patriots have usually gotten the best of the Dolphins. So a trip to South Beach is not something to worry about.

That was not always the case.

When I was a kid growing up in the '70s the team I hated the most was the Miami Dolphins. Not the Steelers. Not the Jets. Not the Cowboys. Not even the evil Raiders. It was the Dolphins. Why? Two words ... Don Shula. The NFL in the '70s had several legendary coaches. Landry. Noll. Grant. Coryell. Madden. I didn't have a problem with any of them. All great head coaches (and even some of the crap ones) have egos and think they are smarter than everyone else. It comes with the job. But Shula ... there was something about the way he kept reminding everyone that he thought he was the smartest guy on the field that really bothered me. It was arrogance. With a capital A. Shula -- who was also a leader on the NFL rules commission -- felt that he alone was upholding the integrity of the game. (See Snow Plow Game). It was like he invented the game. He seemed to think that his team's wins were more honorable. More special. It was like he felt his team's greatness was ordained. Let's just say he bugged me.

Which made it that much more enjoyable when his team lost. Which didn't happen that often. Miami put up the only perfect season, going 17-0 in 1972 to win the franchise's first Super Bowl. (Among all the great reasons 19-0 would have been sweet, knocking Shula and his band of egotists out of the record books was pretty high on the list.) The Dolphins beat the Patriots often during those years -- and often beat them badly. For nearly 20 years the Patriots didn't win a game at the Orange Bowl in Miami. Eighteen trips down south. Eighteen straight losses. Every year Pats fans would gather around their Zeniths and watch the Pats lose to the Dolphins in some painful, humiliating way under the Florida sun. And each time Shula would walk off the field with that smug grin.

I hated the Dolphins.

And then came the 1985 playoffs. The Patriots were trying to emerge from the slime left on them from the Ron Meyer years. I didn't think Meyer was a bad coach but it was like having a car salesman running the team. Meyer was replaced by NFL legend and true gentleman Raymond Berry and the veteran Pats responded by going 11-5 and making the playoffs. It was one of the most entertaining Pats teams ever. The team was anchored by Hall of Famer John "Hog" Hannah and veteran quarterback Steve Grogan. The team had a great running game with Craig James and Tony Collins and a veteran, opportunistic defense with guys like Steve Nelson and the other Hall of Famer Andre Tippett.

The Pats -- behind Tony Eason who had replaced an injured Grogan -- went into New York and knocked off the Jets in the first round and then flew out to Oakland and upset the Raiders in a game that ended with GM Pat Sullivan (who sits near us at Gillette these days) and linebacker Matt Millen from the Raiders getting into a fight on the field after the game. I can still remember watching the games at my brother Richie's house with my other brother and my cousins. Two victories on the road against two teams you love to beat made for two of the best Sundays we had ever enjoyed as Pats fans.

They were just a prelude to the greatest game in Pats' history -- up to that point.

The back-to-back road playoff wins earned the Pats another trip to the Orange Bowl and their first trip ever to the AFC Championship game. It was a great time to be a Patriots' fan, which was a much rarer feeling than it is these days. The Pats were the Cinderella team. The Dolphins were the evil stepmother ... and the defending AFC champs. And they had beaten the Patriots eighteen straight times at home. As we sat in my brother's den drinking cans of Busch and bottles of Heineken we knew there was a good chance it could be another painful day as a Pats' fan. You could see on Shula's face that he thought his team would demolish the  Pats. But there was something about this Cinderella team that made you believe in magic.

And magic it was. In a tropical rainstorm the Pats offense held the ball for 40 minutes, rushing for 255 yards. The defense held young phenom Dan Marino to less than 250 yards and intercepted him twice. The Pats' got to the AFC title game by forcing turnovers and they came away with six more against the almighty Dolphins. I can still remember the sight of coach Berry being hoisted up on the shoulders of his players as the clock counted down to the team's first ever AFC title. And I can still remember the moment the players let him down at midfield so he could shake Shula's hand. Shula was soaked and crushed. The underdog Pats were headed to the Super Bowl and Shula was headed to the twilight of his career. It's one of my favorite football memories.

From that moment on the rivalry that had once been dominated by the team in turquoise and orange belonged to the team in red, white, and blue. Sure, the Dolphins had a resurgence in the '90s with Jimmy Johnson and the two teams had some great battles in those years. Especially the Bledsoe vs. Marino games. But the Dolphins were no longer the dominant force in the division and haven't been that since.

That spot has belonged to the Patriots. Much to the dismay of Don Shula, I'm sure.

The rain came down

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Jets 6, Pats 0 (11/28/'93): To quote Christopher Robin ... Tut, tut. It looks like rain.

Forecasts for this afternoon -- right about the time Tom Brady and the Pats square off against Peyton Manning and the Broncos -- is for some pretty steady rain. Rain. The worst conditions for tailgating and football watching. Especially if you wear glasses. And if you aren't prepared. Like I was almost 20 years ago.

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.

Horsing around

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Broncos 34, Patriots 8 (11/17/'96): The Denver Broncos come to Gillette tomorrow for a big AFC game. It's always a big game when the Pats and Broncos play. And now that Peyton Manning is Denver's QB the game is even bigger.

It's always better when the Broncos have to come here instead of the Patriots going to mile high Denver. It very rarely goes well out there. Actually, it doesn't go too well wherever the Pats play the Broncos. Denver is 25-18 all-time against the Pats. Tom Brady is 3-6 against the team from Colorado. There have been some ugly losses in those games for the Pats. Ugly.

I've been to a lot of great games over the past 20-plus years. They are the games that all Pats fans remember fondly. But I've seen some heartbreaking losses and been to some blowouts that had me daydreaming of the post-game hamburgers by halftime.

There was the game in '98 against Atlanta when the line getting into the old concrete toilet bowl was so long we missed the first ten minutes. By the time we got to our seats the score was already 21-3 Falcons. It was one of the rare games that our co-worker Ken came with us. Sorry Ken. There was the '95 game against the Saints that ended with me slouched up against my car in the parking lot after the Pats surrendered two touchdowns (69-yard pass, 66-yard run) late in the game for a 31-17 loss and an official end to that season's playoff hopes.

The Super Bowl Patriots had their moments too. In '05 the defending champs were in a great battle with the Chargers on a beautiful October day. The score was tied 17-17 at the half and Paul and I said something like "This team is just so much fun to watch." ... The Chargers outscored the Pats 24-0 in the second half. The lasting memory of the day -- other than the post-game burgers -- is Antonio Gates making catch after catch as he brushed of would be tacklers like flies at a tailgate. It was ugly.

But not as ugly as the ugliest game I have ever had the bad luck of witnessing. And of course, it was against the Denver Broncos.

The Broncos came into Foxborough with a 9-1 record against the Parcells' Pats and their 7-3 record. It was a statement game. The Broncos made the statement. By the end of the first half it was 24-0. Denver out rushed the Pats 198 yards to 17. The Denver D stuffed Drew Bledsoe, holding him to just over 200 yards passing and a pick. It was one of those games where the loudest sound of the day -- other than Denver running backs smashing into and over Pats defenders -- were the groans from the stands after almost every play.

We sat on the visitors side in the old stadium. Though we were pretty far up we could see that the Denver players -- especially Shannon Sharpe -- were mocking Pats fans as the score got higher and higher. The stadium emptied out after the score hit 34-8. At one point Sharpe picked up one of the sideline phones and got into an animated conversation. We thought maybe he was ordering pizza since the game was all but over.

It wasn't till I got home and turned on SportsCenter that I saw what Sharpe was saying on the phone. "Mr. President! Call the National Guard... Send help! ... We are killing the Patriots!"

There'll be no Shannon Sharpe making calls to the president today. But there will be Peyton Manning. There's always drama when the Pats play the Broncos.

My favorite Martin

The NFL is handing out a few more yellow Hall of Fame jackets this weekend. Some greats of the game will be entering Canton. Willie Roaf. Chris Doleman. Cortez Kennedy. Dermontti Dawson. I'm not convinced Dawson is a hall of famer but the NFL has always inducted more players than the other pro sports halls. That should mean a few guys from the Pats dynasty get in. At least they better.

One guy going in the hall this year was not a part of the dynasty but is one of the all-time great Patriots. Curtis Martin. The greatest runner the team has ever had. If only for a few years. There aren't too many warm memories from tailgating in the '90s, but what few there are mostly involve Curtis Martin. No. 28.

Martin was drafted by Bill Parcells and the Pats in the third round of the 1995 draft. Martin would have been a sure top five pick but after putting up 250 yards against Texas in the opening game of his senior year at Pitt, he sprained his ankle and missed the rest of the season. His draft stock plummeted. And he fell right into the waiting arms of Parcells. It's not Brady in the sixth round, but it's close.

I remember going to the first game of Martin's rookie year at the old Foxboro Stadium against the Browns. Expectations for the team were high after making the playoffs in Parcell's second year as coach. A real running game was the biggest need. A few minutes into the season Martin showed that need had been filled. Martin took the hand off and cut to his left. The outside was closed off so he cut back against the grain -- the move that would become his trademark -- and raced 30 yards on his first carry. Then, with time running out, he took the ball at the Cleveland one-yard line and soared over the pile for the game winner. It was a beautiful late summer day in the mid 60s and I remember the post-game tailgate as being one of the best ever. We had Parcells. Bledsoe. And now Curtis Martin. There were a lot of smiles that day.

Of course Parcells, Bledsoe, and Martin proceeded to lose six of the next seven games and the smiles were gone. In fact there was a moment in the parking lot after a tough loss to New Orleans late in the year where I stood slumped against my red Chrysler Reliant wagon (Yes. I was one of the guys who believed in Lee Iacocca). Mark still calls it my low point of nearly 30 years of tailgating. But Martin was not the reason. He broke 100 yards nine times in his rookie year and led the AFC in rushing yards with nearly 1,500. Rookie of the year. Pro bowler. Future of the franchise.

Things got even better in Martin's second year. Although not right away. The Pats lost their first two games to division rivals Miami and Buffalo (turning the ball over six times) and suddenly the great Bill Parcells wasn't looking so great. And then Martin took over. He scored three touchdowns (one rushing, two receiving) to spark the team to a 31-0 win over Arizona. The Pats would only lose three more times that year as Martin rolled up 17 touchdowns and the Pats made the playoffs at 11-5. Then they had their first ever home playoff game. The Fog Game. One of the greatest days of football in the town that Kraft built. There were a lot of moments in the team's 28-3 domination of the hated Steelers. But none bigger than Martin's 78-yard touchdown dash through the fog. He added a 23-yarder to seal the game away in the fourth quarter and finished with 166 yards on the ground. A team record. The Pats looked unstoppable.

A few weeks later they would lose a heartbreaking Super Bowl to Favre and the Packers and a few days after that Parcells was on his way to coach the Jets. Martin stayed another year with the Pats but as soon as his contract was up he joined the Tuna in New York. Martin and I have one thing in common ... that I know of -- a love of Bill Parcells. Martin says the coach is his mentor and one of the biggest influences in his life. When Parcells left the Pats after the Super Bowl loss, it was only a matter of time till Martin followed.

Martin continued to build a hall of fame resume playing for the Jets. But Parcells, as he does, bailed on Gang Green after a few seasons and Martin spent the rest of his career playing for mediocre teams in the Meadowlands. But he never quit no matter how bad the Jets got. That's what made him a hall of famer. It wasn't his speed or shiftiness. It was his toughness, dedication, class, determination. Losing Martin to New York hurt much less after Belichick bolted the Jets and came to Foxborough to build a dynasty. But it's hard not to wonder what Martin could have done with the Pats.

Check out the highlights below. They are all from just one game in 1995 against the Steelers, the best defense in the league that year. The Steelers won the game, but the Pats' rookie put on a show rushing for 120 yards on 20 carries and catching eight passes from Bledsoe for another 62 yards and a touchdown. It was a hall of fame performance. One of many.

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.

Ten years after

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Patriots 16, Raiders 13 OT (1/19/'02): Today is the tenth anniversary of the greatest day in the history of Foxborough, Massachusetts -- a.k.a. KraftWorld.

The tenth anniversary of the greatest event I was fortunate enough to have a ticket for. (Sorry Bono. Sorry Bruce).

No chronicle of the past 25 years of tailgating would be complete without the last game ever played at Foxboro Stadium. Pats' fans know it as "The Snow Bowl." Most other football fans know it as "The Tuck Rule Game.'' Raiders' fans know it as the "Game We Got Screwed!" This was the start of an incredible change in the team's fortunes and when Mark and I arrived in the lot that day ten years ago we had no idea how different being a Patriots fan was about to become.

The team, in its second year with Bill Belichick as head coach, had won eight of their last nine games of the regular season -- often in fantastical fashion -- to unexpectedly win their division and qualify for the playoffs. And with sixth-round draft pick Tom Brady leading the way. You don't get more famous than Brady is right now. GQ cover boy. Gisele. Hair. But back in the winter of '02 he was just some little-known skinny guy from Michigan who came off the bench for an injured Bledsoe in Week 2. And he hasn't left the field since. I can still hear my friend Shep yelling "Tom Bra-dy! Yes! Tom Bra-dy!" with a mix of delight and disbelief game after glorious game.

The Raiders -- among the teams Pats fans love to hate the most -- won their wild-card game, sending the silver and black to Foxborough. The two teams had staged some memorable playoff games before. The forecast leading up to the division-round playoff clash was for snow. Possibly heavy. And the game was pushed back to 8 p.m. for television -- when the storm was supposed to be at its height. I remember as a kid sitting on my couch under a pile of blankets drinking hot chocolate watching playoff games from Baltimore, Cleveland, or Green Bay in driving snowstorms and thinking how great it would be to go to one of those games.

It lived up to my imagination.

Mark and I arrived at the lot around 4 p.m. under a gray but snowless sky. You could feel the anticipation for the game -- and the storm. We kicked into set-up mode with the tables, chairs, coolers, and grills and were sitting there with our first drink in hand as Shep joined us. "Maybe the snow's gonna miss us," Shep said. No sooner had those words left his mouth than the first flakes started falling. And they kept falling. Within a half hour everything was coated in snow and shortly after that we were pretty much in white-out conditions. It could not have been more fun.

There were large mounds of dirt in the parking lot from the nearby construction of the new stadium. Soon those mounds were covered in snow and men and women were sledding down them (without sleds) like school kids on a snow day. After a while the snow became worn down and it was more dirt than snow ... but that didn't stop the sledding. And the laughing. It was a great atmosphere. Billy and Bergs got stuck in the traffic caused by the storm and arrived later than their usual six hours before the game. But it did not take them long to catch up in the celebrating. Billy in particular made quick work of his Raspberry-flavored Stolis (some tailgates would ban a guy for bringing fruit-flavored booze but we're a tolerant crowd). Maybe too quick. By the time we were getting ready to make our way through the snow to the stadium he was more unsteady than usual. But there was a big playoff game to see so why worry about that? As we walked away from our parking space I made my usual mental note of landmarks and rows to remember where the car was.

We got to our seats and I turned and looked at the field. For some reason I was expecting to see a mostly plowed field with some light snow cover. It was my first snow game so what did I know? Not much. The field was covered in three inches of snow with the only spots of green being long squiggly lines where the grounds crew had used leaf blowers to clear away the yard lines. "This is gonna be great!" Mark said as we cleared the snow off our aluminum bench. And great it was.

The game was close the whole way with both teams struggling to make any plays in the snow. Brady was getting knocked around and the offense couldn't get going. The Raiders took a 7-0 lead into halftime. The crowd was covered in snow and quietly concerned. We loaded up on beers for the second half and stood there in the cold and snow drinking and talking about what the Pats should do to get on the scoreboard. It's too hard to pass. Brady is getting killed. They should run more. That was the conclusion we came to. It seems that in the Pats' locker room they came to a different conclusion (maybe because they weren't drinking). Brady and the Pats came out throwing. Brady ended up throwing 52 times in the game. 52! That's a lot for a dry, sunny day. It's crazy for a blizzard.

The Pats trailed 13-3 entering the fourth quarter but they were moving the ball. Brady completed nine straight passes to lead them inside the 10-yard line. He dropped back to pass but there were no open receivers. So, just like he had all year, he found a way to make a play. He took off for the end zone, putting a move on a Raider defender who slipped in the snow, and dived across the goal line. Touchdown! Pats are back in it! Brady staggered to his feet and slammed the ball to the ground and he followed it, tumbling head-over-heels into the snow. All I remember is jumping out into the aisle, slipping, and sliding down about five steps. Laughing all the way. Just like Brady.

The Pats got the ball back trailing by three with just a few minutes left in the game. One more score and they would go to the AFC title game. "We're winning this game," Bergs said. Of course he always says that but this time I totally agreed with him. The Pats were winning this game. They moved across midfield with just under two minutes to go. Brady dropped back one more time to pass. He raised his arm. Raider cornerback Charles Woodson came out of the snow and nailed him. The ball fell out of Brady's hand and for a few eternal seconds bobbled along the frosty turf. A Raider fell on it and the whistle blew. Raiders' ball. Brady got up and looked dazed. We were all dazed. A Raider took the ball and kicked it high into the air to punctuate the moment. What just happened? Fumble? The Raiders began celebrating in the snow. The fans stood there in silence, all thinking the same thing. "We lost? How could that happen? Not this time. Not with Brady."

And then the replay flashed on the not-so-big scoreboard screen. "Hold on!" Bergs said. "That could be an incomplete pass." Notice that he didn't say "That was an incomplete pass!" He said it could be. That's the beauty of replay. Anything is possible. By the 10th replay the crowd was convinced it was an incomplete pass. Just as Brady was hit his arm was moving forward to pass and then he started to "tuck" the ball back into his body. A tuck looks just like the motion of a forward pass. Although it clearly isn't. But rules are rules. As the crowd waited nervously to hear if the play would be reversed, "In the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins played over the loudspeakers. It was the perfect soundtrack. The ref walked to the middle of the field and began " After reviewing the play, the quarterback's arm was going forward..." I couldn't hear the rest above the roar of the crowd. I'm not sure if he explained the "tuck rule" or not. I didn't care.


The old stadium shook as the fans began stomping on the aluminum benches. The Pats were alive again. "We're winning this game!" Bergs yelled. Now I was sure of it. The Pats drove the ball into field goal position, with Brady and the receivers making a few more great plays. Adam Vinatieri walked calmly onto the field with 27 seconds left. Everything seemed peaceful in the swirling snow. A 45-yard field goal in horrible conditions. Is it possible? We all looked around at each other nervously. Will this surprisingly fantastic season come to an end right here?

The ball was snapped. Vinatieri swung his leg and as the ball passed over the line of scrimmage it began wobbling. It looked bad. I dropped my head thinking it was going to be short. The next thing I remember I was at the bottom of a pile of Mark, Bergs, Toph, Shep, and what seemed like the entire 309 section. Maybe it was good? It was! The kick (as I saw on the replay) just made its way over the crossbar and the game was tied. It's the greatest kick in NFL history. Period. Vinatieri would make his second memorable kick not too long after that. This one a 23-yarder with eight minutes to go in overtime. The last game at the stadium that saw so many heartbreaks ended with one of the most memorable games in NFL history. And this time my team won. I stood there as the stands emptied out and took one last look at the place where I had made a lot of lifelong friends and memories. Like the old Garden, the place was a pit and sometimes I miss it.

Heading into the parking lot I remembered that it had been snowing hard the last four hours. Every car looked the same. Every row looked the same. Everything looked the same. So much for my mental notes. Where the hell are we parked? "I think we're over by that dirt pile," Mark said. "Or maybe that one. Or that one?" Me, Mark, and thousands of lost souls wandered around the lot looking for our cars. Billy had brought a guy he called Cousin Benny with him. Cousin Benny was a huge Raiders fan. I'm not sure if Cousin Benny was actually Billy's cousin. Cousin Benny was among those lost souls. It was his first time at a Patriots game. He got separated from us in the post-game celebration and started wandering down Route 1 looking for the south lot we were in. Trouble was... he was walking north. For about two miles. By the time some stranger finally helped Benny figure out he was going 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.

Mark and I finally found where we parked. Bergs was already there when we arrived. And Shep. But no Billy. Where was Billy? "You'll never believe it," Bergs said. Turns out Billy felt sick in the first quarter and walked outside the stadium to get some air. At an outdoor stadium. And he couldn't get back in. So he went back to his car and turned the game on the radio and "fell asleep." That's passed out to you and me. "When I finally found the car," Bergs said. "It was locked. I scraped away the snow and could see Billy sleeping in there." Bergs knocked and knocked and finally woke Billy up. He opened his eyes and rolled down the window. "What happened?'' he asked. "Did they win? Was it a good game?" Yes, Billy. It was a really good game.

The first in what would be a decade of really good games.

I came across this video from the tuck rule moment... it is just like I remember it.


     

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.

The forgotten man

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Pats 26, Dolphins 23 (11/23/'98): You can chart the ups and downs of NFL franchises since 1970 by looking at the schedule of each season's Monday Night Football games.

The Steelers and the Cowboys have rarely disappeared from the Monday night roster for more than a season, a testament to just how few bad stretches both franchises have had. Teams such as the Lions and the Seahawks, on the other hand, have had long periods out of view of the MNF cameras. Check out the early '70s and you'll see the Len Dawson-led Kansas City Chiefs played on Monday night ten times in the first seven years of MNF. In this decade the Chiefs players haven't had to get off their couch on a Monday night in five years. The Patriots, in their early years of bumbling, stumbling franchise, only made a few MNF visits but this decade it seems a month doesn't go by without Brady and the Pats stepping into the Monday night spotlight. I'm sure fans around the rest of the NFL feel the Pats are playing almost every Monday night.

This week's battle against the Saints is the latest in a decade of big Monday night games the team has played. Like the game in New Orleans, most of them have been on the road. The Patriots are 3-1 at home on Monday nights this decade. Not a lot of tailgating memories to go along with those games. But as we get ready for a match-up of two great quarterbacks -- Brady vs. Brees on Monday night -- it reminds me of my favorite MNF tailgating memory. Involving another great quarterback who is now the forgotten man.

Drew Bledsoe.

The Pats #1 draft pick in 1993 is one of the players most instrumental in turning the franchise around. Like Tom Brady. Ty Law. Tedy Bruschi. Bledsoe deserves as much credit as anyone. He didn't win a Super Bowl as a starter but he jump-started a franchise with some of the most amazing passing performances of the past two decades. He was that good. And he was that tough. I was a Brady guy early on. Mostly because you could tell he had that undefinable quality that all great players have. His abilities have improved each year, but from the beginning you could see he was hard to rattle and had the knack for making the big play. Just like the quarterback who came before him. Bledsoe hard to rattle? Tough? As tough as they come. It may be hard to remember now after the way his Pats career ended, but on back-to-back weekends in November '98 he led the team to two miraculous victories. In the second of those games (against the Bills) he did it while playing with a broken finger on his passing hand.

The first of those games was a Monday nighter against Miami at Foxboro Stadium. Pete Carroll was in his second (and thankfully next-to-last) season as head coach. The Pats started off 4-1 but limped into the game against the Dolphins at 5-5. We could see the foundation that Bill Parcells had built slowly being eroded like a beach cliff under a Cape home. But for two nights Bledsoe almost single-handedly put the team back on solid ground.

We tailgated on a crisp winter night, eating, drinking, and mocking Carroll's "pumped and jacked" mentality to coaching. All rah-rah. Perfect for college. But it very rarely works in the NFL. You either have a dour tactician (Landry, Noll, Belichick) or an in-your-face motivator (Lombardi, Parcells, Cowher) at the helm of the best teams. Cheerleaders as coaches don't usually work out. And when a cheerleader replaces a motivator it usually spells disaster because the players are so glad the guy yelling at them is gone that they ease up and lose their edge. That was the '98 Patriots.

Besides our coach, the other topic of conversation that night was the announcement earlier that month that Robert Kraft had a tentative deal to move the team to Hartford. Hartford! In Connecticut! There was even talk they would change their team colors to match that of the NHL's Hartford Whalers. Green and white. Uh, those are Jets colors. Our team was sliding back into irrelevance and our franchise was moving to Connecticut. We were not in a very good mood as Brendan grilled up some tuna steaks in honor of the Dolphins. (You can't legally buy dolphin.)

Miami was 7-3 and led by Dan Marino nearing the end of his career and coached by Jimmy Johnson who spent most of the game pleading with the refs for penalties. It was a back-and-forth affair. Bledsoe connected with tight end Ben Coates for a touchdown early in the game. In my book, the Bledsoe-to-Coates connection is still the all-time best passing tandem in the team's history. Coates would pull in nine passes for nearly 80 yards. But it was Bledsoe that was the story of this game. Hell, he was the story of that whole year. In the midst of a season where the team was disintegrating, Bledsoe held things together by throwing for more than 3,600 yards, 20 TDs, and an 80.0 passer rating. Of course he threw many killer picks, but that was Drew. I've wondered how Tom Brady would do playing on a team like the '98 Pats. Someday I might find out. If he plays like Bledsoe did that year then that's a hell of an effort.

Miami took a 23-19 lead with just over three minutes to go in the game. Bledsoe led the Pats from deep in their own end to almost midfield at the two minute warning. On a second-down play Bledsoe dropped back to throw and on his follow through hit his passing hand on a defender's helmet. The Pats took a timeout and he came over to the sideline holding his hand and started to make some practice tosses to test it out. At the same time backup QB Scott Zolak (yes, that one) started warming up. "Zolak's coming in," Mark said. "We're moving to Hartford and Zolak's coming in. The Parcells magic is officially gone."

But Zolak did not come in. Bledsoe, even though he would later be diagnosed with a broken finger, came back onto the field. And then took another timeout. He burned two timeouts without ever taking a snap with 1:42 to go in the game. He came over to the sideline and took some more practice tosses. He returned to the field, with only one more timeout to waste, and on 2nd-and-10 airmailed a pass over Terry Glenn's head. He shook his hand some more and started to walk off the field as if he was coming out of the game. But again he stayed in and threw a pass to Coates for a short gain. Fourth-and-six and the Pats have to go for it. Carroll started signalling vehemently for a timeout. The players clearly saw him but ignored him and lined up to run a play. (Yes, Carroll was toast as the coach right then and there.) Bledsoe hit Shawn Jefferson on a curl for a first down with 34 seconds to play. On the next play, in the face of a corner blitz, Bledsoe let one rip into the left corner of the end zone that landed right in Jefferson's hands for a touchdown with 30 seconds left for the amazing victory. The crowd went nuts. Moving to Hartford? Not tonight!

Bledsoe, broken finger and all, led the Pats on a 26-play, 84-yard game winning drive. He finished with 423 yards passing. And as the game ended he ran around the field, responding to the roar of the crowd, pumping his fists and soaking in the moment. The next week, also at home, he played the entire game against the Bills with his broken finger taped to his other fingers, and again led the team to a last-second come from behind win, this time hitting Coates for a touchdown with no time left on the clock. He had many, many great moments as the Pats QB. The record-setter against the Vikings that turned their '96 season around. The AFC championship later that year. The AFC title game in '01 where he came in for an injured Brady and put one final shining moment on a great career with the team. But those two games in '98 were the two most amazing back-to-back victories that old Foxboro Stadium ever saw.

Bledsoe's career, and the team's fortunes, began to slide from that point as the Pats finished 9-7 that year and then 8-8 the next. Among all the sins of Carroll's years here, the biggest one is his ruining of Bledsoe. Parcells was tough on Bledsoe and that's what he needed. It motivated him. Carroll coddled him and his skills eroded. He was never Baryshnikov, but his footwork just got worse and worse until he become the most stationary target in the game. And then he took a hit by Mo Lewis that changed his -- and once again the team's -- fortunes. He left the field and Brady came on ... and hasn't left since.

That's the other thing that Drew Bledsoe had. Class. When he was getting the crap kicked out of him playing for a mediocre team he took his lumps, kept his mouth shut, and kept coming out every Sunday battling his hardest. When he lost his job to a young QB who would soon prove to be among the best, Bledsoe kept his mouth shut, helped Brady get better, and by not stirring up a controversy played a key role in the first Super Bowl run.

I have a bulletin board in the basement with lots of ticket stubs, pins, stickers, etc. from all the Pats games. In the middle is the cover of the 1994 Globe's NFL preview with a photo of Bledsoe under the headline "A new era is dawning." A lot of things have come and gone from that bulletin board, but the faded picture of No. 11 still hangs right where I put it 15 years ago.

The fog lifted

TALES FROM THE TAILGATE
Pats 28, Steelers 3 (1/5/'97): Known as "The Fog Game." This was the first home playoff game during Part II of being a season-ticket holder and the first home playoff game with Bill Parcells as coach. The Pats had never won a home playoff game. Never. The franchise was created in 1960 as the Boston Patriots and 37 years later Pats fans had still not witnessed a home playoff win. There were some great playoff victories up to that point (at NY Jets, at Oakland, and at Miami in three consecutive, amazing weeks in '86 for instance), but none at home. For me, Mark, Shep, Toph, Bergs, and Billy the whole week leading up to the game was like Christmas Eve.

The Pats were far from a sure thing to make the playoffs that year so having a home playoff game was almost a shock. And to make it better, or worse, the Pats were playing the Steelers. The Steelers had lots of home playoff victories. And road playoff victories. And Super Bowl victories. One of the all-time great franchises against one of the all-time saddest. Even better was the fact that the Jaguars had gone into No. 1 seed Denver the day before and done what very few teams had done. Beat the Broncos in the playoffs in Denver. As I sat on my couch watching the Broncos lose, Mark called. "If we win this game tomorrow we would host the AFC Championship game. The AFC Championship game!"

I woke up early that morning, or maybe I never got to sleep. I don't remember. The car was packed the night before and we all met up at the Bickford's... One of the big differences between tailgating now and then is cell phones. Now you can all get to the lot at different times and just call or text each other to meet up. Then you had to gather at a parking lot somewhere outside the stadium lots. If you went in separately you might never find each other... The morning had started under a heavy blanket of fog and by the time we pulled into the lot the old stadium, which sat up on the top of a hill, was barely visible. It looked like a giant freighter on the ocean horizon on a foggy morning. It was a cool sight.

But it was a problem because with Drew Bledsoe having a break-out year the Pats were a passing offense. It went against Parcell's every instinct but that's what they were. Curtis Martin was a hell of a back. Hall of Fame level. But Bledsoe and the Pats were a passing team when it counted. But we weren't worried about that at the moment. We tailgated in the drizzle and fog. Security was strict about throwing footballs in the lot before and after games ("Hey! You behind the guys smoking the weed. Stop throwing that football around!") but since you couldn't see more than 10 feet we were able to throw the ball without getting harassed. And without being able to see the ball. "I hope the visibility is better inside the stadium," Toph said as we dropped pass after pass.

It wasn't. As we came up the stairs and into the stadium the fog was pretty bad. When we reached our seats all the way up in Section 311 about 10 rows from the top of the stadium, the field was a grey ghost. "Holy shit," I said. "Let's get that running game going." As the National Anthem ended fireworks burst in the sky. Or at least it sounded like fireworks. You really couldn't see them. Seems that the Pats were celebrating their first home playoff game in many years with fireworks. Fireworks make smoke. Lots of smoke. Due to the thick fog the smoke couldn't rise and instead mixed with the fog to make something thicker than smoke and thicker than fog. Smog? Shep started laughing. It was typical Patriots. Aren't fireworks for after you win the game?

The crowd roared as the Pats defense stopped the Steelers. But people were nervous. We had never won a home playoff game. You can't see the ball if it's 10 feet in the air. We had already shot off fireworks. Nervous. The Pats got the punt and the ball at about their 45-yard line. The offense came out and lined up for their first play. Bledsoe dropped back to pass. I looked left and saw rookie receiver Terry Glenn (who had a huge regular season despite, or because of, the fact that Parcells rode him like a Derby also-ran) take off at the snap and race down the far sideline towards the Steelers end zone. I looked right and saw Bledsoe rear back and toss a bomb high and deep... and into the fog. The ball disappeared. Completely. I looked left again and saw Glenn burn past the cornerback by three strides and turn and look up over his left shoulder. He waited. And waited. We all waited. And then the ball dropped out of the fog and fell right into his arms. Glenn cradled the ball and cut through the fog till he was tackled at about the five yard line. A 52-yard bomb on their first play of the game.

In all the games I've been to over the years I've never heard the crowd explode like that. All those years of disappointment seemed to be released in the fog with that one pass. We high-fived and screamed and then Martin crashed the ball in for a score on the next play and the Pats never looked back. A romp. A home playoff victory. Finally.

After the game we celebrated in the parking lot, grilling, drinking, and listening to the post-game radio show. The Tuna came to the podium. There were a lot of great things about Parcells. One of the best was his press conferences. He alternated between being the funniest wise-ass around to talking about what the defense did to stuff the other team on third-downs in a way only a great coach can. After answering all the questions Parcells ended with a message for the fans going to the AFC Championship game the following Sunday. "I want to thank the fans for the way they were behind us today," he said. "We've got another game next week. And there's even more on the line. Tell them to be ready to go again and be in their seats a little earlier."

Yes sir, Bill. Thanks for that first home playoff win.