E-Mail This Article to a Friend Red meat and rednecks (continued)

LeAnn explains that they’ve been here since 7:30 a.m. Her boyfriend, Matt, got up at quarter to five so he could arrive 30 minutes before Lot 11 opened. They drove down from Lowell, but the rest of the gang’s mostly from Concord, Littleton, and Acton. Lot 11 doesn’t open until 8 a.m., but they came early, parking on the side of Route 1 and sending Matt in on foot so he could stake out territory for the 25-person group.

LeAnn, who’s getting increasingly louder as we talk, says some of the men here have been tailgating at Patriots games for 30 years. She and Matt have been coming for the past 12; they keep coming back because, she says, "Why do you think? It’s fun!" LeAnn’s been to every home game this season. I ask which was her favorite. "They all kind of blur together," she laughs. "Maybe the one where it rained. There was a river running through here, and we didn’t even care!"

Lot 11 hasn’t always been the group’s home. For years, they hung out in another lot down the road. But three years ago, Patriots owner Bob Kraft bought it, paved it, and refused to let tailgaters save spots for one another.

"Everyone’s very territorial here," LeAnn whispers. "Before, in the other lot, we weren’t friendly to strangers. See that guy over there with the glasses? He would not even look at you if he didn’t know you. You had to become part of the gang." But the relocation humbled them. "We got taken off our pedestal," she says. "Now, we’re like nomads."

But they may have to move again: there are rumors that Lot 11 has been sold and that the new owner wants to turn it into a racetrack. "Money, money, money," LeAnn scoffs. "It makes me sick."

A guy with a goatee comes over. He’s introduced as Hanz. "Nice pussy," he smirks, pointing to a bronze cat brooch on LeAnn’s coat. "Want a Jell-O shot?" They bring 250 Jell-O shots to every game, Hanz says. Today’s are cherry.

LeAnn demonstrates the correct way to attack a Jell-O shot. "First, you lick it," she says, sticking her tongue into the gelatin and lapping the outside of the cup as she rotates it. "Lick it. And then suck it!" she orders, slurping out the middle. "Suck it!"

"You should have been here last home game," says Hanz. "We had our meat tree. Every year, we hang meat and empty beer bottles on a tree. And then we have a Yankee Swap."

In addition to the Jell-O shots, the group also brought three different kinds of pork, ostrich meat, ham, prime rib, teriyaki beef, nacho chips, Pringles, grilled asparagus stalks (which Hanz keeps calling "pee-pee stinkers"), whiskey, and cognac. LeAnn made seven-layer dip; after introducing me to men named Hog, Emo, Wally, and Mo, she drags me over to try her dish. I hate chunky onions and green peppers, and they’re both in there. I take only a small bite, hoping LeAnn won’t notice.

"What, you don’t like it?"

I fib and tell her I’m allergic to onions.

LeAnn isn’t having any of it. "Shut up and eat it!" she demands.

"Okay," I squeak. When she’s not looking, I throw the nacho chip behind a tree.

Phase 3: Fandom freak shows, 11 a.m.–noon

Lot 11 even has its own celebrities. One is a ruddy-faced security guard who shows up at your driver’s-side window and kindly, albeit forcefully, demands two twenties when you try to sneak past the collector’s booth without paying the $40 parking fee. There’s the vehicle with an airbrushed portrait of Adam Vinatieri, another with an airbrushed rendering of Vinatieri’s famous 2001 Snow Bowl field goal. There’s a "Men Behaving Badly" crew — two loads of men traveling in vehicles painted with that id-fulfilling phrase and a Budman-like superhero — who seem to be behaving relatively well every time I see them. There are the people driving in the OFFICIAL TAILGATERS FOR THE NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS VAN, an old ice-cream truck emblazoned with more than 40 Flying Elvis heads — "Flying Elvis" is the nickname of the more recent Patriots logo — that’s the envy of other tailgaters because it’s so large.

Then there’s the Touchdown Lounge, a 21-foot carpenter’s van that’s been converted into a roving rec room, with Pats logos painted on the outside, retractable goalposts attached to the roof, and a blue football at the end of a flagpole beside the posts. The Touchdown Lounge also has a small kitchen area inside, along with wood-paneled walls, blue carpeting, a portable bathroom, a color television and VCR, and a red-and-blue vinyl seating booth. On the wall across from the TV is Patriots paraphernalia: a Bill Belichick autograph; a photo of the Coors Light twins posing with a few of the 10 friends who are Touchdown Lounge regulars; "the Rock," a piece of granite that was deemed a good-luck charm after it was picked out of a Touchdown Lounge tire the day the Patriots won the AFC championship last year.

But perhaps the best-known regular in Lot 11 is Artie, a man with thick eyebrows, a bald head, and a performance-art approach to tailgating. Every week, he dons the opposing team’s jersey and marches around the sandlot screaming for the Patriots’ adversaries, thereby antagonizing the bellicose hordes of drunken sausage-eaters. If playing a role in the action means being the resident antagonist — well, somebody has to be the asshole. For today’s game, he’s outfitted in 49ers running back Kevan Barlow’s jersey and a yellow Pittsburgh Pirates batting helmet — which only makes sense later, when I find out that Barlow hails from Pittsburgh.

Artie is a recurring conversation piece between Lot 11 regulars and newcomers. All morning long, tailgaters keep coming up to me, asking if I’ve seen Artie yet. The first time he comes by, I chase after him. He pumps his fists in the air, clomping heavily in the dirt. "Niiiiiinnnners!" he screams at rows of cars. "Remember Monday night!" he howls, referring to the Patriots’ one-point loss against the Miami Dolphins two weeks ago. "I know you do!"

"The 49ers suck, come on," yells back a voice from a cluster of cars. "Shut up!"

"Why do you do this?" I ask Artie.

"I like football."

"Do you enjoy pissing people off?"

"No," he answers firmly.

"Nice jersey, asshole!" someone yells. Two men tossing a football boo loudly.

Artie looks me in the eyes. "I don’t swear, I love kids, and that’s it." Then he turns away and raises his arms high: "Niiiiinnnnners!"