misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

The drive up to Foxboro, Massachusetts from the East Village of New York is simple and direct on a Sunday morning in January. For a city thick with people, it's odd to ever see desolate city roads, as they were that morning. It seemed every single New Yorker packed a bag and left the city in the middle of the night. More likely, everyone was hungover.

After crossing the Triboro bridge and settling on a series of connected interstates all numbered somewhere in the 80s or 90s, we passed little except for trees barren of leaves, scratching at the sky. This continued uninterrupted for four hours, punctuated only by iPod music and Rhode Island.

After a few dented road signs directed us towards Foxboro, we found ourselves on a two-lane road lined by convenience stores and oil change shops. Next, up and over a tiny hill, and there it was. An open-air football stadium cusped like a giant open hand, built in the middle of nowhere, on a Midwest-sized plain.

Several armies of Patriots soldiers were camped around the stadium, perhaps a million of them, perhaps more. Battalions of red, squads of blue, companies of white. Each of the tens of thousands of encampments were built around a roaring fire, raw meats of every animal cooking on top. Patriot flags cracked against the wind, giant balloons were tethered to the asphalt, thousands of smoke stacks raised and joined the clouds. Everyone wore identical jerseys, walking on the street sides, clogging the parking lots of every auto-body shop, spa salesroom, and empty dirt field. And we were still a mile away from the stadium. I zippped up tan parka all the way, covering the visible remnants of my Chargers jersey.

Neal and I parked our Ford Focus at the far back of parking lot 16B. We walked around to the trunk, where we had a 12-pack of Bud Lite cans, chilled by winter, waiting next to a bag of Tostito Dippers. It was a fairly pathetic Tailgate spread, missing, among other things, a tailgate. We talked quietly, trying not to giveaway our affiliation. Bundled in five layers of clothing, the fans around us simply assumed we were Patriots fans, as the inverse was an impossibility.

The fans were very relaxed. They go to an AFC Championship every year. They win it every year. There was no threat. They might as well been in the parking lot of a Chili's, about to head in for an early dinner before driving home for the night. Chargers fans? We'll, we hadn't been here since 1993. Patriot fans have that dismissive attitude that comes from dominance, and the forgetfulness that comes from success. As if because their team is dominant in the sport of football, their state is dominant in the nation, and they are dominant as people, worth more than Californians. I'm not even convinced they knew what team they were playing.

Three beers, a sip of scotch from my silver flask (etched with words reminding me I was a groomsman in Lee/Sy's wedding), and we heaved towards the stadium with masses of drunk, screaming New Englanders who had difficulty pronouncing o's and a's.

Emboldened by the beers, I unzipped my jacket to display my Chargers jersey. The fans that saw displayed amusement. I was the small lamb approaching sacrifice at the altar of the gods. They provided advice regarding suggested behavior once in the stadium, wished me luck (knowing they'd win regardless of their wishes), and walked on.

The stadium was cold. Very cold. The plastic bottles of Coors Lites I bought at the concession stand had frozen within seconds. The only way to drink beer from the bottle was to keep your finger in the neck when not drinking. And even then the beer was half-frozen. Everyone was a walking bundle of jackets, standing, and the stadium was filled with the collective fog of tens of thousands of little breaths.

Their confidence eroded quickly when they found the Chargers weren't going to be dominated. They literally were surprised it wasn't 109 - 0 by the end of the first quarter. The cold helped us out. People could never tell if I was clapping for the Chargers, or simply clapping my hands together for warmth, as others were. The cold and electricity seared every play into my memory. Every Chargers interception, every pass to Vincent Jackson, every punt. Not only were they not getting dominated, but it seemed evident they might even win. The Pats fans were baffled. How could God not be winning?

With the labia of Norv Turner's pussy taking control in the final quarter, the Chargers eventually lost. But it was four quarters of old-school playoff awesomeness. We headed off into the black snow for the drive to a very generic Holiday Inn. It may be the only Championship game the Chargers will be in for years, and probably the only one I'll ever get to go to. But that's fine. Unlike the Pats fans, I'll actually remember this game.