By Kitty
I consider myself a person with pretty varied interests, but organized sports isn’t one of them. Football, in particular, is extremely low on the list. In October, my husband Nick thought it would be fun to see a Patriots game, and I figured it was my time to be a team player. We live fairly close to Gillette Stadium, so we waited until the morning of the event to try and score decent seats.
When I say I don’t like football, I mean I have absolutely zero interest in learning the ins and outs. I spent four years cheering for my high school’s team and never quite figured out what “first and ten” meant. My eyes sort of glaze over when I’m gazing out onto the field—the lights are on, but no one's home, and they're definitely not paying for NFL network. I went into this outing mostly looking forward to sitting in the sunshine and diving deep into concessions.
We sat in a couple miles of traffic approaching the stadium. As we inched up Route 1 North, the potential to enjoy a sit-down lunch before kickoff quickly faded. I was amazed by the sheer mass of people. Crowds donning red, white, and blue jerseys shuffled down the sidewalk amidst intermittent clouds of smoke coming from tailgate grills. Imagine if this many people cared about…literally anything else.
When we made it past security and into the dome, I expected my olfactory sensors to buzz with notes of freshly buttered popcorn and charred hot dogs. Instead, it smelled eerily similar to the bar we used to visit for last call during college—stale beer, ripe armpits, and cigarettes. I could feel my attitude shifting, but thought maybe I was just hangry. We jumped in line at a vendor stand closest to our section so that Nick wouldn’t miss any of the action. We ordered a hot dog, soft salted pretzel, and a slice of cheese pizza. I sent him packing and told him I’d fetch drinks and meet him back at our seats.
What I found out too late from other patrons of Gillette is that the only satisfactory libations available are beer or sweet-ass margaritas. A hopeful newcomer, I visited a cart pedaling pre-made bourbon lemonades, and upon first sip wondered how they accidentally diverted gasoline into the tap. It was back at our seats where I opened the pizza box that I went full sourpuss. It revealed one of the worst slices I’d ever had. Bland, bready crust, a pasty sauce made probably of sugar and red dye 40, and a meld of greasy cheese that slid off in a fucking sheet.
The hot dog was far from grilled. Its flaccid body sat sans condiment in a traditional split-top bun. Once I noticed there was no mustard I don’t think I even took a bite. All yours, babe. The pretzel was the most passable of the three items. Familiar chunks of opaque salt that burned your tongue if they didn’t manage to fall into your lap first. I finished half to tide me over until dinner.
Not wanting to ruin Nick’s time with my rage, I tried to reframe the experience in a way I could enjoy—as a recital. I mean there was a certain production value and razzle-dazzle to the whole thing—a bunch of teammates in coordinating looks hitting the turf to perform a loosely choreographed routine in front of a giant crowd. I imagined them in the locker room, deciding which costume they were going to wear that day, and chanting something like “H-O-T-T-O-G-O” on the count of three.
This attempted fantasy came to a screeching halt during halftime when I Googled to find that most NFL cheerleaders are barely paid a liveable wage. However, we were losing, and I was the one infringing on the fandom, so I thought it best to save my dissertation for the car ride home.
I thanked Nick for taking me to the game but told him I’d prefer not to be invited back. To think I may have had an entirely different experience had I just found the vendor with the crispy chicken fingers and honey mustard to spare.
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator Kefan Shi1. See more of his work here.