BLO' IT RIGHT BY 'EM: Foxboro Trip a History Lesson

TOSS SWEEP
Joseph L. Abel

Patriots quarterback Tom Brady turns to pitch the ball to running back Corey Dillon midway through the first quarter.

Before the game, before the tailgate, before the Budweiser Bus and free t-shirts and strains of rock music blaring over the loudspeakers, is an hour.

The hour begins as soon as you depart Boston’s South Station. It starts the second you buy your 10-dollar “special event” commuter rail ticket towards Foxboro, an otherwise invisible hamlet excised from normal subway lines and cities.

This is how you travel to a New England Patriots game: if you don’t have a car, you cram into a single, packed train festooned with Tom Brady jerseys and Red Sox caps turned backwards.

One leaves roughly two hours before game-time. One leaves 30 minutes after. That’s it.

Miss the latter, and you’ll find yourself scrambling to call a taxi that can take you to the Walpole train station. And then, if you’re lucky, Boston.

Miss the former, and you’ll probably never get there in the first place.

Multimedia

WATCH AND WAIT

WATCH AND WAIT

HEADING RIGHT FOR US

HEADING RIGHT FOR US

SACK LUNCH

SACK LUNCH

BRADY BUNCH

BRADY BUNCH

TOM CAT

TOM CAT

TD LT

TD LT

DILL PICKLE

DILL PICKLE

PITCH FORK

PITCH FORK

WATCH AND WAIT

WATCH AND WAIT

The hour to Foxboro is numbing. So much of the excited, childlike enjoyment of going to a game is progressively de-clawed. The accented chatter around you? It can only keep spirits high for so long.

Conversations about Charlie Weis, Corey Dillon, and (naturally) baseball give way to startlingly awkward periods of silence as the train lurches down the track.

The professional football game is a tornado of human sound and motion, and on the train, you sit in one place, in one seat, and stare blankly out the window at trees drifting by. Waiting.

Of course, most Harvard students—and most people in the United States, for that matter—don’t ever have to endure this process in the first place. Tickets to Patriots games, like nearly all pro football games in major cities, are impossibly tough to acquire. Many of them remain in the permanently stiff grasp of season ticket-holders from the beginning of the preseason.

But oh, how very different things once were.

On a January day in 1970, Boston Patriots owner William H. Sullivan, Jr. wanted to move the Patriots out of New England. Why? He wanted a “suitable” stadium.

The Patriots had played the 1969 season nomadically, mostly at Boston College’s Alumni Field—with all of its 26,000 seats—in addition to stints at Fenway Park and Boston University.

And because of the merger of the National Football League and American Football League, which mandated that all 26 pro teams would have stadiums that could seat 50,000 people or more by 1970, Sullivan wanted out of New England unless he got the stadium he wanted.

Vultures circled. Bidders for the Pats included Hugh Morrow III, who led an organization called “Birmingham Pro Football” to try to bring the organization to Alabama.

But Sullivan had his eye on another prize: