I’ll Never Have to Wait For a Gillette Stadium Bathroom Again
Every football fan knows going to an NFL game isn’t exactly the best use of your finances. With improved televisions and an inability to afford some of the personal licenses required to see your favorite team in person, many have opted for the stay-at-home method of following their local team. This isn’t so easy when you don’t live in your hometown.
When you do splurge for a game, you want it to be memorable, and that means one thing: tailgating. Almost exactly a year ago, I did just that. A friend bought me a ticket to go see my beloved Bills play at Gillette Stadium. This is something we’d been doing for years, and it is one of the only times I will go see a game (see above).
With every good football game in person, there is the inevitable parking lot pregame. During a good tailgate there are a few essentials. Beer being the primary mode of imbibing, you must have lots of it, and a cooler with ice, since it’s an early autumn game. Next, you need your hamburgers and hot dogs and a grill. Possibly some other accoutrements, but the bare essentials encompass meat and beer. This is heaven for some, but a good time is had by all who participate regardless of team affiliation or NFL knowledge.
If you’re tailgating at an opposing team’s stadium, it’s also important not to booze too much. There are few things more terrifying than the possibility of being surrounded in a bathroom after you drunkenly curse out fans, and getting your ass beat. I say bathroom because you’re going to end up battered and bruised on the bathroom floor, and that’s a pretty disgusting place to be. Thankfully, this is not one of those stories.
After drinking the proper an amount of alcohol for a nice jovial buzz stunted, hopeless buzz, and ingesting as much cow and god-knows-what in the dawgs, I proceeded to the turnstile. DO NOT BRING DRUGS INTO A SPORTS STADIUM. Regardless of whether you’re a recreational user, an addict, or someone that thinks Nancy Regan was a crack whore, you’re going to get pinched and it’s not worth the hassle.
When we got into the stadium and found our seats, I looked around and took stock of the group of fans surrounding us. If I had sen a juvenile group that includes a doo-rag on a white guy with allegiances to the home team surrounded by atavistic refrigerators disguised as humans, I would have thought about just how hard I’m going to cheer. If there are small children and families present, I try and curb my endless stream of “fucks” and “shits” whenever Buffalo attempts a down-field pass. Thankfully our section was harmless, but it didn’t matter either way.
Gillette stadium has their own set of peccadilloes that can get you into massive amounts of trouble. I was exposed to Foxborough’s Finest, and spent a desultory afternoon in a locked room with rowdy and obnoxiously drunk New England fans (there was one Canadian though!). My team blew another chance to beat the Patriots on their home field, but I didn’t see it—the only upside to the whole affair.
It all started with the bathroom. As mentioned before, this can be an environment equally relieving and antagonistic because you’re in close proximity with the drunk and annoyed. The bathrooms in Gillette have their own special rules. The way into and out of the bathroom is are guarded with ruthless abandon. At some other stadiums I’ve been in, this is almost never the case (and I’m sorry to the Bills fan at FedEx Field who I bailed on in 08 when I started a fight by pissing in the corner—that’s my bad). The exit and entrance should never be confused in a Foxborough, Massachusetts stadium.
During the first quarter of action, when I had a minor buzz going, I noticed that when the exit door swung open, there was a large amount of time to grab the door, and enter through the exit, thus avoiding the countless scrums in the line at the entrance. When you’re on your last ounce of bladder space, this method of bypassing the line can be a special salvation. When you’re watching football and boozing you’re always on your last ounce of bladder space.
I did what any young upstart asshole drunk would do in my situation, and I grabbed the door before it closed. I quickly made my way inside to grab a urinal, and let fly. This went really well—in the first quarter. I got to pee, and still made it back in time to see the rare Buffalo score (I would find out later this was a day when Buffalo’s offense was especially frisky and rattled off 30 points, only to fall to the superior Patriots offense that picked apart our defense and special teams like it was a Pop Warner game).
Halftime arrived with us behind 16-14, and I made my way to the bathroom again. This time, being that it was halftime, the line to the entrance was especially long. Not wanting to waste my time in line for the bathroom, I covertly crept my way along the wall to the exit. Something to keep in mind here: I wasn’t drunk. I was merely elated that the Bills were within striking distance still, and might pull an upset. As such, the home team fans had the desultory look of those who knew this game was going to be closer than their dominance warranted. My Bills jersey did nothing to help me from being especially conspicuous on the way to the bathroom exit.
The door opened like before and rather than wait for the next time it swung open, I lunged. An arm bar came out of nowhere and knocked half my beer onto my jersey and the assailants smock. The offender turned out to be an elderly gentleman who, unbeknownst to me, had been patrolling the exit for just this sort of transgression. I came to a dead stop, and was about to exclaim loudly “you should watch where you’re going,” before realizing I was staring face to face with stadium security.
It seems that a couple of police had seen the incident and sauntered over with the lazy nonchalance only condescending men in power can achieve. They asked me how much I had been drinking. This is a catch-22 regardless of how intoxicated you are, so I calmly explained that I had been drinking in the parking lot and had a couple beers in the first half. Mid-way through my perfectly enunciated explanation for using the exit, the police asked me to turn around.
“Do you have any needles in your pockets?” they asked with the brevity of repetition.
“Of course not,” I answered, flustered and stunned that things had taken such a turn. I then secretly wished I had a needle on me and it was infected with HIV.
“Put your arms behind your back,” the aviator clad cop said.
It was at this point where most people of the drunken persuasion would put up a stink, but I was not drunk.* I have also been in handcuffs enough to know there is no point in arguing your innocence. My earlier elation at my team’s satisfactory performance quickly dissipated and I did what anyone that has spent time with police does: I shut the fuck up.
When you’re being handcuffed, just stay quiet. All you can do is augment the trouble you’ve already found for yourself. In the past, I’ve learned this the way countless drunks have: lockup. The difference this time was my sobriety.** A few more shots and beers and I would definitely voiced my ill-will at the cops and probably gotten hit a few times.
The cops quickly led me away. I got put into a small drunk cage at the back of a truck they had parked outside the stadium. I overheard one officer say “Well we got our first Bills fan!” with an exuberance that made me a bit upset. After a short while, the drunk-truck led me down a winding path into a large hanger in the bowels of Gillette stadium. They handcuffed me to a metal bench and left.
No explanation was given save the usual “you were causing a disturbance.” Since I had kept my lips sealed after being lead away, no explanation was actually offered at all. I waited. I waited some more. About 30 minutes passed, and then a disheveled man was seated beside me. I could hear the loud cheers above me as New England led another drive towards the Bills end zone. I comforted myself with the fact that I wouldn’t be seeing another abomination of a 4th quarter by my team from Buffalo.
Eventually, after 3 men and 1 woman had been seated beside me, they took my shoes, my belt, and everything in my pockets before they led me into a small labyrinthine set of hallways that came out into an opening with a block of 3 holding cells. They led 3 others and me into a 10x15 room housing another 4 guys in various stages of intoxication. I was the only Bills fan.
If you’ve ever spent time in a drunk tank, you’ll recognize that it’s not as bad as Oz or the Wire would have you believe (NOR jail is much worse). This isn’t prison, and it’s only tangentially jail, since you haven’t been booked and you’re not going to be charged with anything. Especially when you were only trying to get to the bathroom without pissing yourself. That being said, I had never spent time in an opposing teams drunk tank, and with minor trepidation, I canvassed the scene before me.
There were five men seated along the far wall of the cell, and two men standing. This would quickly balloon to another 3 people, for a grand total of 11, including me. I was the only Bills fan this entire time. I did have one thing going for me: I wasn’t drunk,*** and I was resigned to my plight. Only a couple of others within the tiny room had sobered up.
One obese man was asleep in the corner. I speculated on the amount of alcohol he must have consumed and arrived at a conservative estimate of half a handle of vodka in a couple hours or at least a quick 18-pack of Coors Light. The man next to him was rolling around in his seat, and he eventually keeled over and passed out, much to the chagrin of the guy sitting beside him. That guy seemed like he had been there before, and complacently sat in his seat and tried not to hurl. This would be a theme throughout.
Next to the alcoholic pro, there was an empty seat which I took. Next to me was an innocuous looking college-aged guy that was the only one who didn’t look that drunk (beside me), and who never said a word the entire time I was locked up. Next to him was another loony guy who looked like he might have to go to the hospital soon.
A couple of repulsive things happened over the first hour that are pretty standard fare for a drunk tank. There were a couple incidents of vomiting, and the guy that was passed out shit himself. I calmly explained the situation about the fecal matter to a cop when they were leading someone else into the tank, and he removed the offensive smelling guy. I tiptoed around all the vomit and pissed at one point, as I had forgotten I had to pee in all the confusion after being led away in handcuffs. Glad I didn’t have to shit, but obviously the one guy wasn’t so lucky.
The two guys standing, as well as another two people that joined us later were the one’s that really annoyed me. They didn’t know why they were there, and kept voicing this confusion in the shrill voice of a pleading toddler who wanted ice cream. Whining is a detestable trait, one that I’m ashamed to admit I’ve been a part of, but once you’re in the drunk tank, shut up and wait. You’re not going to be there all night; the cops want to go home too. But people panic.
After some repeated banging against the door from one of the two youths that were standing, and with absolutely no response from the police—who probably couldn’t even hear the bangs—I finally had enough.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“What?!” he answered. This is common—drunk people do not listen.
“Shut the fuck up. You haven’t been here as long as us, and you’re annoying everyone, so kindly stop shouting and wait.”
“But I’m not supposed to be here, and I have work on Monday.” He told me this in a groveling voice like I could somehow let him out if he convinced me.
“I’m from New York and also have work on Monday, as I’m sure everyone here does. So kindly shut the fuck up.”
He shut up and everyone spent the remainder of our time together in silence. I felt very tough in my XXL football jersey that made me look like I was 12.
Finally, after around 4 hours, they led us out. Some of the more loquacious drunks had an absolute hissy fit as we exited the stadium in the drunk-bus. The light from outside wasn’t very bright. Because their level of intoxication was so pronounced, they were convinced it was Monday and they had been in there all night. I calmly explained they were idiots, but this only compounded the yelling in the back.
When we finally arrived at the jail, I was relieved to be placed in my own cell. I called my panicked friends that were still boozing in the parking lot after the game and after getting them to turn the Tupac down, explained my situation and gave them the jail’s address.
I did push ups and sit-ups in my cell because I was bored, and I actually started to miss the drunks. After another hour, my shit-faced friend came in and got me.
They handed me a paper bag with my possessions and I was led out to the parking lot, where twilight was just creeping over our heads. I looked in the brown bag the police had given me containing my valuables, and saw a white sheaf of paper amongst all my other things. I pulled the paper out and my friends read that I had been permanently banned form Gillette stadium, and was never welcome back.
I couldn’t have been happier at the news.
*The term “drunk” to a drunk is never enough. Compared to some people I had probably consumed more alcohol than is necessary, but I am a lush, and this was merely “taking it easy,” at that point in my life.
**Again, I’m guessing that my BAC was over the legal limit, but when you spend 50% of your waking life above the legal limit it becomes natural. I’m not saying I was an incredible drinker, far from it, it’s just that I had been drinking so much for so long, I didn’t know what “sobriety” even felt like. The term meant something different to me.
***This time I really felt stone-cold sober. Getting put in handcuffs does that to a person. I probably would have blown something over .10, but I felt completely sober especially in comparison to the company around me.
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