Jay Doiron's Blog

Story

Chapter One: The Road to Gillette

Maya Donovan rolled down the highway, her windshield smeared with October mist. Her father’s old flag fluttered in the backseat—scarlet, navy, white. Inside the car, the radio crackled with previews and predictions.

“Belichick’s defense—steady as ever.”

“Mac Jones—picked up steam this season, but still, they gotta beat the fierce offense of Dallas on the road.”

Maya frowned at the static-swirled voice. Dallas. It’s Dallas. A place she’d never much cared about. But today it meant something. It meant her brother Tommy, on the opposing team, was going to be out there somewhere.

Tommy wore number 82 for the Cowboys. Number 12 for the Patriots belonged to someone else now. When they used to watch the games together, back before the jerseys split, before loyalty drew a line down their blood, Maya used to shout for Brady too—but now, she screamed for the team, not for the man.

Her father cleared his throat. “You ready?”

She nodded, swallowing something tight in her throat. She was ready to be just another red, white, and blue. Yellow—Dallas—wasn’t welcome here.

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Chapter Two: Gates of Fire and Foam Paws

They reached the stadium as the gates opened. The applause of the crowd pulsed through Maya’s chest like a second heartbeat. Foam paws slapped handfuls of hands. Vendors called out “Chowder! Hot dogs!” Every voice said the same: “Let’s Go, Patriots!”

They found their seats—midfield, blue section. The turf looked like an emerald pool stretching wide and perfect. Maya felt the weight of history under her feet, like stepping into an old photograph, one she’d only seen in grainy snapshots.

Tommy appeared across the field during warmups—long strides, the white and blue of Dallas loud beneath the lights. Maya held her breath, caught between cheering and hoping. He spotted her—green eyes wide—and raised a hand. Maya raised hers back. It wavered.

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Chapter Three: First Blood

The whistle blew.

Dallas took the ball first and surged forward. Their offense—fast, sharp—cut into Patriots territory. On third down, a perfect spiral landed in Tommy’s hands, the stadium silenced as bright gold met white in his arms. Touchdown, Cowboys.

The yellow flags fell. Banners shook. Maya’s father swore under his breath. Maya stood anyway, trying to steady the storm of her voice. “Go, Patriots!” she screamed, though the edge felt hollow.

But then came the Patriots’ turn. Mac Jones spread his arms, the pocket collapsing, then—escape. A dart down the sideline; wide receiver—number 88—leaves his feet. Maya saw the arc of flight, the interception of fate. Touchdown, Patriots.

The crowd erupted—not just cheering, but roaring. Maya’s voice cracked, joined a thousand others: “Go, Pats!” The warmth came back, chasing off the ache in her chest.

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Chapter Four: Halftime Lines

In the restroom—triple sinks, broken soap dispenser—Maya leaned her forehead on the cool tile. Tommy stood behind her in line, the steam of warm air between them.

“You good?” His voice was quieter here, under the hum of fluorescent lights.

“Yeah.”

She turned. “You playing great.”

He shrugged. “You too.”

Silence. The whistle above them squeaked out its final note.

“Good game,” she offered desperately.

“You too,” he smiled, but there was something strong in his eyes—something like relief. Or regret.

In that moment, before halftime, they understood: the game was bigger than rivalry. It was blood and noise and love bound together; they were torn, but they were also woven together.

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Chapter Five: Final Quarter Fury

The fourth quarter opened with the Patriots down by six. The wind whipped colder; breath came in white wreaths.

Mac Jones called cadence, the line locked, the snap—Step-back, evade, fire. The ball spiraled—no, it looped through the air like hope.

Number 16 caught it at the two-yard line, stretched, fell across the goal.

Touchdown, Patriots.

The stadium went insane. The roar shook the steel beams. Blue foam paws flew. Maya jumped, saluted the sky. “Go, Patriots!” roared through her throat, raw and free.

Tommy stood across the field, hands on hips, chest heaving—not a roar at him, but the crowd in him. He watched her, and in the distance she saw pride—twinned with regret, but still pride.

Dallas tried again. Two-point conversion, desperation. But Belichick’s defense—stone wall, glacier of resolve—forced a turnover. Interception.

Game over.

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Epilogue: After the Storm

The stadium emptied like a spilled bucket, but the echo stayed. Maya hugged her father tight. Tommy found them in the parking lot, lights glowing yellow and red against the dark pavement.

They stood under the acetate sky.

“You beat us,” Tommy said.

She nodded, letting the truth sit there.

“You were great,” she said.

“Pats… Pats are alright,” he admitted.

She grinned, tugged her flag free from her shoulder. “Let’s go Patriots,” she said again—softer this time, so hopeful.

Tommy lifted his head.

“Go, Patriots.”

They both laughed, the sound imperfect and perfect. The crowd, the echo, the loyalty—running through their veins.

The road back home stretched ahead. Tomorrow, they would wear their colors. But tonight, they shared one victory.

Audio

Lyric

[Verse]
Friday night lights buzzin'
My heart beats like a drum machine
Yeah the air is electric
This town it goes insane
For the boys in blue and red
They're gonna make some noise

[Prechorus]
Feeling that rush
Yeah it's in my bones

[Chorus]
Let's go Patriots
Let's go
Yeah we want a touchdown
Touchdown
Hear the crowd roar
Go go go
Touchdown fever baby
Let's go

[Verse 2]
The quarterback's a rocket arm
He throws it way up high
The wide receiver's lightning fast
He's gonna catch that ball
Another first down marker
We're movin' down the field

[Bridge]
Underneath these stadium lights
Our team is a shining star
Every pass every run every tackle
We know just who you are
Winners baby winners
Yeah that's what we are

[Chorus]
Let's go Patriots
Let's go
Yeah we want a touchdown
Touchdown
Hear the crowd roar
Go go go
Touchdown fever baby
Let's go

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