In the days when the New England Patriots were an awful football team — kind of like they are right now — my father was a season ticket holder. We lived in Mansfield, the next town over from Foxboro, where the Patriots still play. People didn’t want to go to the games back then, given that the team was, at best, an also-ran, and at worst, a punchline.
My father died in his early fifties after Bill Belichick’s inglorious first season with the team, which produced a 5-11 record. No one could have seen — though perhaps Belichick and one Mr.