When the Gods Walk Among Us

On Saturday evening, the great Lionel Messi visited Gillette Stadium with Inter Miami to face off against the New England Revolution. We have been Revs season ticket holders for a few years now. The Patriots’ game day experience is a nightmare—parking costs a limb even two miles from the stadium, everyone is drunk, and traffic is a total nightmare. The Revs bring in half the fans, so traffic isn’t bad, we get to park in decent places, and it’s a bit more family friendly overall.

Messi coming changes the equation. More than sixty thousand fans showed, and if you weren’t parked two hours before the game, you would be parking miles away. But when the gods walk among the mortals, this is the price you pay. Yes, we probably could have sold our tickets for a mint. No, you can’t carry that money to the grave.

So Graham and I reached Gillette three hours early. We had both had Chick-Fil-A, so we stopped at Cupcake Charlie’s to pregame. Graham wanted a shake.

“Why don’t we try a Whirlie?” I said. “They spin a cupcake into soft serve.”

“Daaaad! That’s diabetes in a cup!”

“Let me get this right. You just ate a Chick Fil A deluxe, a medium Mac n cheese, AND a large fry. You want to add on a shake, but the Whirlie is where you are drawing the line?”

“Yeah.”

“But if it were a Dairy Queen blizzard, that would be okay?”

“Daaaad! It’s a whole cupcake and a whole ice cream.”

“Like how an Oreo shake is loaded with cookies?”

Well, we got one, and Graham will start Wegovy next week to help his blood sugar recover.

We entered the stadium when the gates opened, and the Revs presented us with an amazing free gift. Peep this stylin scarf! So many possible uses for it! Like when I found a shoe print on my seat, I used the scarf to brush it off!

I don’t know about you, but I really hate food envy—where you sit down with a decent hot dog and the dude next to you drops in with a gourmet pizza and you think, Where tf did he get that? So Graham and I circled the whole stadium and evaluated every food vendor, and look what we found.

We took a photo and sent it to the Goons so that Lucia could exclaim, “Dad did a back flip!” (Remember, there’s a false mythology that I love honey more than life.) But consider this: pepperoni hot honey pizza? I think the hot honey trend might have jumped way over the shark.

Ninety minutes before game time, we found our seats. The rabid supporters group known as the Fort was already pounding the drum and yelling. Suddenly, a voice on a mic bellowed from the Fort, “You’re an Inter fan! What did you think was gonna happen?” The cops and security came flying over. I repeat, NINETY MINUTES BEFORE GAME TIME.

When it was time for pregame entrees, Graham insisted on trying the hot honey pizza. Good thing we got it when we did—it was the last serving.

I asked Graham his evaluation of hot honey pepperoni, and as you can tell by his face, his review of “It’s okay” was loaded with enthusiasm and gastric pleasure. Observing that the pizza was thin crust and I would have to toss more into the Pit of Sarlacc to appease it, I sprang for chicken tenders and fries as well. Me? With all these gourmet options, I went to the sausage vendor, asked for a bratwurst, and received an Italian sausage with peppers and onions because in Boston, there are only two types of sausage: Italian and Irish.

As we feasted on our pregame food, the Revs entered the pitch to tepid applause and began to warm up. Twenty minutes later, Soccer Jesus descended with Inter Miami onto the pitch, and the place went ape——. The poor hometown heroes, losers of six out of their first eight, have no home field advantage.

Yes, folks, that is a standing ovation for a player warming up. The dude behind us exclaimed, “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING.” Here in the house that Tom Brady built, it was happening.

Once the game started, Graham, a Messi fan and aficionado, became rabidly anti-Messi. On our left and in front of us were Inter Miami fans. No matter. Graham ran his mouth non-stop. In the first forty-five seconds, Revolution star Carles Gil, who like Messi wears number 10, intercepted a pass and served a perfect ball to the Revs’ Argentine striker who slotted it home. Graham then declared Messi “the second best Argentine on the pitch” and “the second best number 10 on the field.”

In the thirtieth minute, though, Messi did Messi things, slipped behind our defense, and tallied for Inter Miami. Graham declared the score “lucky.” The guy in front of us was with his son in Inter gear. The following happened, over the last fifteen minutes of the first half.

Graham: I heard Carles Gil took a paternity test last night and it turns out Messi is his son!

Guy in front of us (Inter fan) doubles over laughing

Graham: Messi has a poster of Gil in his room!

Guy in front of us has tears in his eyes.

Mercifully, the guy was a good sport. At the half, Graham went to get a water. Guy in front of me: This kid’s jokes are the best! This trash talk is sooo good!

We opened the second half with Graham on a pro-Gil tear. “Gil is so much better than Messi. Messi wouldn’t look so good if his teammates were a bunch of burger flippers like Gil’s.”

Again, guy in front broke up again.

Despite his effort, Graham was unable to will Messi to failure—Messi scored in the second half to help put the game away. Graham declared him offside and the paymaster of the video review officials, which meant nothing on the pitch.

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