The Gloaming

The Gloaming

By Matthew Dicks  /  Illustrated By Sean Wang 

I shouldn’t be this excited, but I am. It’s just a preseason game—a meaningless exhibition of third and fourth-string players trying to make the roster. Even though I’m required as a season ticket holder to purchase these trash tickets, I almost never attend these games. 

I love the Patriots, and I love watching them play football. I love them almost as much as I love my wife and kids because even when they lose, they don’t ask me to empty the dishwasher or drive them to their friend’s house. But watching a game where the score doesn’t matter is like playing poker for something other than money. What’s the point?

But tonight is different, because tonight, I have my daughter, Clara, alongside me. Clara isn’t much of a sports fan. She mostly reads and eats cheese, but this is different. This is her first Patriots football game. One of what will most assuredly be many. I suspect that she’ll never be equipped for a December game, when temperatures can drop below zero, the wind can exceed 198 miles per hour, and even I— a diehard fan who believes that attending a game live is the only way to go when possible—question my life choices. 

The coldest game I ever attended was the Divisional Playoff game against the Tennessee Titans on January 10, 2004. The temperature at kickoff was 4° F (with the wind chill, it felt like -10°). It was so cold that the hot dogs would freeze from the time they left the grill to the time they were placed in the bun. When my friend spilled beer on the table, it froze instantly. 

The Patriots won 17-14 that night, but I still haven’t fully thawed out more than two decades later. 

I also don’t drink, which I know doesn’t help. People with bellies full of beer seem immune to weather that could kill a moose. 

But tonight, it’s a warm August night. Perfect for Clara. And she won’t be attending a regular-season game for some time. Even though September and October games are often delightful weather-wise, this is NFL football. 

The violence on the field pales in comparison to the atrocities taking place in the stands: endless strings of foul-mouthed diatribes directed at opposing players, referees and anyone foolish enough to come to this hallowed ground wearing anything but a Patriots jersey. Some are worse than others, of course. Arizona fans, for example, are dumb for liking that team, so it’s hard to hate them. Their team has barely left a mark on the NFL landscape. We feel pity more than anything else. 

Other teams, like the Steelers and the Bills, are easier to despise. They have stood in the way of the Patriots’ success on several occasions. Their fans tend to be respectful, but I still hate them.

Even sheep-like fans, like those of the Green Bay Packers, can be annoying when they arrive in their green and yellow jerseys. My seatmate, Shep, once berated two Packers fans under the age of ten for daring to attend a game in our stadium. It was me—not their parents—who had to tell him to stop. Their parents looked terrified of my friend, who doesn’t look threatening in the least.  

Then there are Jets and Ravens fans, who, in addition to rooting for awful teams, are also terrible people in their own right: loud, obnoxious, aggressive and moronic. 

I wouldn’t want Clara to see her father threatening violence upon any of those monsters. Add to all of this the intoxicated fans, the occasional fisticuffs and this isn’t a place for a child.

Happily, pre-season games are free of all of this. Opposing fans rarely attend, and even when they do, the outcome of the game is meaningless. 

As Clara and I ascend the ramps to our seats in section 333, I tell her about some of the adventures I’ve had in this stadium over the past 25 years I’ve been a season ticket holder. The time a man brought $400 in brand new $1 bills and made it rain money each time the Patriots scored a touchdown. The time I watched a small, young woman punch an enormous man in the face after he spilled beer on her head. (The man went down like a sack of potatoes.) The time three men hugged me simultaneously after the Patriots took the opening kickoff for a touchdown. (In the words of Shep, I “disappeared in a mass of humanity.”) I nearly suffocated.

She smiles and nods. She seems nervous. The closer we get to the top, the more nervous she looks. Excitement, I think. It’s definitely excitement. When we finally reach the upper level, we walk below the stands, passing vendors shouting about pretzels, hot dogs and the names of cheap beer. 

Then she’ll emerge into the bowl of the stadium, and for the first time, she sees the glory of Gillette Field with its lighthouse, walkways, and championship banners. It never stops being breathtaking. Except when I look to Clara, I see panic. Something is wrong. I ignore it. She’ll be fine. I ask her to sit. 

“Look at Tom Brady,” I say. “He’s a superhero.”

She’s not crying but wants to. She’s holding back tears. “Can we go?” she asks.

“Go?”

We just drove two hours to get here. We spent another 45 minutes making our way to our seats. The Patriots have run exactly one play. Tom Brady has completed one pass…and we’re going to leave?

“It’s scary,” she says. “So high and so loud.”

I want to tell my daughter to suck it up, buttercup. I want to tell her to love this game as much as I do. I can’t understand why she doesn’t. But tears are forming in the corners of her eyes, so I tell her to take a photo with me before we leave.

She nods vigorously. The word “leave” very much appeals to her. 

It’s the most shameful photo I’ve ever taken. Clara is smiling and crying simultaneously. Trying to satisfy her father’s stupid request. Doing everything she can to leave. 

I look at the photo on my phone. I see myself and her. I see what I’ve done to her and become a father again. Not an NFL idiot.

We leave.

I’ll learn three years later that Clara has autism. In addition to a paralyzing fear of heights, she also has difficulty with loud sounds. They all hit her at once, and she can’t distinguish between them. An NFL stadium is one of the worst possible places for her.

As we exit the stadium and cross the empty road toward the parking lot, we enter the gloaming. The sun is on the horizon, and we watch the light transform from yellow to orange to green. Can you believe it? Green! 

“Look, Clara,” I say. “It’s the gloaming.” 

Clara smiles. “I love the gloaming, Daddy.”

I try to hold this moment. Try to forget the one before it. Hope Clara will. 

It’s her last Patriots game, probably of her life. My dreams are shattered. At least until Charlie, my son, is old enough to try again.

Clara will glance at the TV when the game is on, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t like football. She doesn’t get excited when large men collide. 

But we look for the gloaming all the time. We even manage to catch it sometimes. 

It’s not nearly as magnificent as a Patriots victory. It’s not even close. Just boring nature stuff. The Earth’s atmosphere acting like a prism, bending and separating the sunlight into its different colors. Just some green and orange light. But it ain’t half bad.

Matthew Dicks is an elementary school teacher, bestselling novelist and a record 55-time Moth Story SLAM champion. His latest books are Twenty-one Truths About Love and The Other Mother.

Sean Wang, an MIT architecture graduate, is author of the sci-fi graphic novel series, Runners. Learn more at seanwang.com.