Vicki Doudera - Realtor, Author, Mainer

Can being a Patriots fan change your life? Absolutely.

I was a ten-year-old in the sleepy town of Norfolk, Massachusetts, in 1971, the year Schaeffer Stadium was constructed and the Pats came into my world.

We lived in a mustard yellow split-level in Lafayette Estates, one of the first subdivisions in that then bucolic area. Although we were on a modest one-acre lot, the woods behind us stretched for miles, eventually meeting up with Route 1 in the adjacent town of Foxboro. The woods held deer, fox, moss-covered stone walls, Indian arrowheads, and old carriage trails which my friends and I could follow all the way to the brand new stadium.

And follow them we did.  Going to the see the Patriots play football was pretty exciting, especially since no money was required.  The team was less than stellar (okay, pretty terrible) back then, and no one on those sunny Sundays cared whether you had a ticket or not.  In later years, we had to wait until half-time, but even then it was worth it.  We’d sit on the cold metal benches, watch some fans drink too much beer, and yell our heads off. There were some surprise upsets and many devastating losses, but we always hoped our day would come.

While we traveled to their home turf at Schaeffer, the Patriots ventured onto ours as well, buying homes in our towns, enrolling kids in the schools, and shopping for groceries like everyone else.  Guard John Hannah (now a Hall-of-Famer) sat in the stands to see our high school basketball games. He had the hugest neck I will probably ever see.  Kicker John Smith amused us with his British accent and his efforts to start a soccer program.  Andre Tippett handed out candy on Halloween. These genial athletes were merely going about the business of living their lives, but their very presence added an aura of specialness to our part of the state, a place that, in pre-Patriot days, was known for notorious Walpole prison and not much else.

Personally, I benefited from the team’s omnipresence. I babysat for a few of the Patriot offspring, in particular, the little tykes of Tight End Bob Windsor, our neighbor one house away.  One of the Pats’ all time leading receivers, Windsor played from 1972 to 75, making 74 receptions for a total of 915 yards.  I recall that his wife was pretty, his kids reasonably well-behaved, and the wad of cash he’d give me when I left their identical split-level was slightly more than the going $1 per hour babysitting rate.

I was friends with Susie Schirmer, whose father was one of the Pats’ coordinators, and she and I ran track together.  I’m not sure if it was his influence or not, but our football team played at least once at Schaeffer Stadium — quite the thrill!

Time has passed and both the stadium and the players of my teen years have come and gone. Even the team logo has morphed into what some refer to as the “flying Elvis.” But as the Patriots finish a phenomenal season and head once more to the Superbowl, I’m reminded that the feelings of hometown pride stay just the same.