Phase 4: Intoxication (a/k/a the period when everyone wants to talk), noon–1:30 p.m.

It’s at this point in the day that tailgaters will indubitably pose for pictures making stupid faces, waggling their tongues, and opening their mouths so wide that you can see their tonsils. It’s also the point when the male tailgaters talk as if they’re underwater, while their female counterparts start screaming, "Woo hoo!" All morning, the public drinking has been so conspicuous it’s almost unbelievable, especially given how strict most Boston-area events are about open containers of alcohol. Red Sox fans slurp down watery beer after watery beer before baseball games, but they usually imbibe indoors. When the Tweeter Center was still Great Woods, you could drink in the parking lots before concerts, provided you were discreet; ever since it became Tweeter, you can’t drink without fear of confiscation.

There is no discretion about public tippling today. Most people I encounter have drinks in their hands. One guy in the Freestar lot swigs from a champagne bottle as he cooks. I see at least three people funneling beer out in the open. Bill Naylor, who’s hanging with LeAnn’s crew in the woods, passes around Courvoisier. A college student in a baseball hat sees me taking notes and comes over. "Steve Ciosek is my name," he mumbles. He’s an Arizona State University student, he manages to spit out. He’s originally from Cumberland, Rhode Island, and with the help of the amphetamine Adderall, prescribed for ADD, he’s been up for more than 48 hours since New Year’s Eve — which is why he claims he’s so wasted. "When will I be in the paper?" he asks.

The Gillette Stadium staff doesn’t interfere with people drinking beer. They let people carry around open containers of alcohol, asking ticket holders only to dispose of their bottles and cans about 20 feet from the gate. As people discard their empties into an overflowing trash can and on the top of a wall, the ramp to the uBid.com entrance starts to look like a recycling center.

But tolerance has its limits, even here. As I’m wandering the ramp, I pass two sloppy college-age kids playfully wrestling in the grass. Earlier, I’d seen the taller of the two — a freckled kid with a Willie McGinest team jersey, stubbly head, and reddish-blond goatee — screaming in people’s faces for no particular reason. Now, he and his comrade, a pale blond guy carrying a bag of Funyons like a potato sack, are tumbling around the lawn, leaving a trail of onion rings, a wallet, and a cell phone behind them.

A few minutes later at the stadium’s entrance, a bicycle policeman is interrogating Funyon Boy. His goateed friend watches from 10 feet away, beside the beer-can bin. As the cop has the kid search his pockets for identification, his friend decides to dig into his own pocket, pulling out an unopened Coors Light. Looking at the preoccupied cop, he clumsily tears at the tab and tries unsuccessfully to crack open the beer. When it won’t open, he bangs the can against the plastic dumpster. Beer sprays everywhere, like an incontrollable fire hose. "Get over here!" yells the policeman.

Within 10 minutes, both kids are handcuffed, escorted to paddy wagons, and taken away.

Phase 5: Post-game malaise (a/k/a the period when no one wants to talk), 1:30 p.m.–sundown

During the game’s first half, the parking lot is quiet. The only noises are the muffled words of the announcer inside the stadium, and the song snippets interspersed with the action on the field.

After halftime, people begin wandering out to the parking lots. I ask them why they’re leaving early, and everyone offers a similar answer: "This is a meaningless game"; "I have booze and sausage back at the car." Over at Lot 11, people start returning to their sites just as the game is ending. The absence of portable toilets in the lot turns the woods into a communal urinal. Everywhere I turn, a baseball-hatted fan is digging into his pants. Two men from LeAnn’s crew spot a guy with a target shaved into his head; he was apparently shown on the JumboTron during the game. Relieving himself beside a tree, Targethead sees the pointing. "I’ll be available for autographs in 10 minutes!" he yells, waving his free hand.

After wending my way through the man-peeing minefield, I head back to LeAnn’s campsite. Hanz, someone says, almost got into a fight inside the stadium. Bill complains that the game totally killed his buzz and now he’s exhausted. Everyone else seems to have gotten sober, which has made them tired and quiet. Tom, a teetotaler and designated driver from Cambridge, offers me a Diet Coke and explains one of his incentives for coming to the football games even if he’s not drinking. "I never went to football games or was a Patriots fan," he says. "But that game when Bledsoe got hurt in the snow — I was so impressed by Tom Brady. He’s a great ambassador for the sport. Especially in a sport that’s so commercial, superficial, and driven by money-making, [Brady] seems like a genuine, humble guy."

LeAnn sees me, and smiles sheepishly. At this point, she doesn’t have much to say. I hang around for a while, but no one’s very sociable anymore. Before I take off, Hanz promises to e-mail me photos of the infamous meat tree. Two days later, he does, signing off:

please email me a link to your article when it comes out! we can’t wait!!!

GO PATS!!!!

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