It wasn't easy shaking off my Red Sox depression yesterday; I'll admit I was still pouting right up until Steve and I pulled in to the parking lot at Gillette Stadium, rolled down the window to pay, and the first whiff of charcoal, propane and grilling meat of not only the afternoon but the year hit my nostrils.
The wonderful thing about being a fan of both football and baseball is that there are virtually no similarities between either the sports or their attached subcultures--and so each one is an effective palette-cleanser for the other. Yesterday, I marveled at just how diametrically opposite everything about the Pats preseason game is from the Red Sox Experience--from the drive in over a particularly desolate strip of Rte 1 as opposed to through the maniacal traffic jams of Kenmore Square, Comm. Ave and Beacon St, to the elaborate camps maintaining self-sufficiency with their own supplies of food and drink, as opposed to the only options being an overpriced hot dog from inside the ballpark or an equally overpriced meal at one of the surrounding restaurants. There are no restaurants in the vicinity of Gillette Stadium, unless you count the End Zone Motel or perhaps the Burger King about a half mile up the highway.