Back in July, before I left the safe-haven of Boston for the ferocious, vicious wild lands of the west (it smells like cow farts where I live. I consider that wild, okay?) I decided that to counteract inevitable homesickness, I had to have a ticket for when the Patriots came to Denver, just to be by some of my own people and be able to viably cheer against the home team, instead of just being That Silly Kid In A Shirt That Is Irrelevant. (see: wearing a Bruins jersey to the Avalanche home opener against the Sharks. Um, yeah.)
So October 11th came, it was 25 degrees at game time, here I am bundled up in my underarmor and my sweatshirt and my white Wes Welker and no gloves, and it was glorious (Mile-High sells this strange concoction of hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps – kept my hands warm as well as my insides!) The first thing I did was some people watching in the lower bowl. Pats fans, be proud – you represented New England as one of the highest ratios of away fans to home fans that I’ve ever seen outside of a Sox-Orioles or a Sox-Yankees series.