This is what Sundays are built for
Living the New England dream at Foxboro Sports Tavern
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Sundays, for many people, are a day of rest and relaxation, dedicated to recovering from a long and trying work week and getting in touch with their faith. For me, however, Sundays are a day of ecstatic celebration and extreme frustration, an emotional rollercoaster that I ride along with thousands of other New England Patriots fans.
When I first arrived in Naples, fresh from Boston, I was sure I’d be stuck spending Sundays alone. But then I discovered a beacon of light amid the wash of Florida license plates and “I’d rather be golfing” T-shirts: Foxboro Sports Tavern.
Foxboro is not just a place named after a place in another state. It is a big room that looks like it was caught up in a tornado and delivered to Naples directly from New England, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Inside the shining front doors that advertise “wicked food, awesome service” and “cold drinks,” the bar is full of New England paraphernalia, from Celtics banners all the way down to a green and white sign printed with the name of a street I used to work on.
On a recent Sunday, a few friends and I decided to spend the afternoon downing beers and yelling at televisions at Foxboro Sports Tavern. But when I arrive (15 minutes into the game) some evil twist of fate has filled all the nearby parking spots, and by the time I finally burst through the door (28 minutes into the game) I am well beyond fashionably late.
As my eyes adjust to the bar darkness, a roar goes up from the crowd inside. We (the Patriots and myself) have just made first down. Not a bad way to get the afternoon started.
However, finding an inch of breathing room, or more importantly beer-hoisting room, proves a little bit difficult. The bar is packed; every table, seat and square inch has been claimed by a more punctual fan. And I can barely see over their shoulders. Luckily, a friend of mine has arrived earlier and staked out a prime 2- by 6-foot rectangle of floor space one row back from the bar with an excellent view of the televisions and of Paulie, the bartender, who flips bottles during lulls in the action. In the middle of the Cocktail-esque show, Paulie decides to juggle for the crowd. The bottles go up. The bottles come down. The bottles collide into each other and ricochet right onto a customer’s beer, which spills unceremoniously all over the wooden bar. And everyone just laughs. I love this place!
The crowd on this Sunday afternoon – when season has begun to take hold of Southwest Florida and rewrite the local demographics – looks more or less like a sociology experiment. There are elderly couples sitting in groups at the tables. There are middle-aged guys happy to be drinking beer without their wives. And there are the younger folks, namely me, my two friends, the guys standing next to us and a couple wearing shiny blue Pats jerseys.
Somehow, despite the elbow-knocking and dramatic range of ages, everyone seems to be getting along, commiserating and celebrating as one large half-drunken collective. After one particularly dismal display of Patriots pass blocking, an over-dressed man to my left shouts out, “make the block boy, Jesus. Jeezus!” Despite his looking like a complete ass, I can’t help but agree.
The beauty of a bar like Foxboro is that everyone comes for the same thing. People just want to hang out with their friends and watch some football. No one is trying to have a deep conversation and no one is trying to get laid, well not trying very hard at least. At one point during the game a rather inebriated fan corners me and offers to buy the “Green Monstah” t-shirt I am wearing off my back. When I suggest that it might not fit him and could I bring him one from Fenway Park the next time I go home, he is unenthusiastic. Hmmmm…
As the fourth quarter wraps up without a display of offensive prowess by the Patriots, the energy at the bar seems sapped. Foxboro owner Thom Popoli Jr. picks up the microphone and gives voice to the thought on everyone’s mind: “Well that sucked.” But despite the drunken advances, a three-hour game spent on my feet and a truly deflating loss to the New York Jets, you can bet I’ll be back next week. It’s almost like being home.
Comments » 1
RossF writes:
Still love them Patriots. No oversized egos - just a bunch of players doin their jobs!
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