Minnesota Masterpiece

 

Pregame in the Minnesota Masterpiece

        For my 29th birthday, Sam got me tickets to see the Minnesota Vikings play the Philadelphia Eagles at US Bank Stadium in Minneapolis on my birthday. It was my second ever pro football game, the other being a very memorable visit to Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Massachusetts for the Patriots vs the Vikings in the 8th grade. That is a story unto itself for another time. 

For the sake of brevity, I am going to skip over the lead up, that included crossing the Dakotas in a white knuckle October blizzard that dumped forty four inches of snow and made both states nigh impassable for days. Needless to say, it was stressful. Not the driving in the snow so much as the potential that we may not be able to make it to the game, even with two days head start. 

But we made it. We wove into the busy, yet pleasant traffic of the Twin Cities. Maybe it is because I am such a fan of the sports teams, but it seems like I don’t mind Minneapolis traffic all that much. It is just as busy as Portland or Salt Lake or Cleveland, but when I am crawling along in bumper to bumper traffic on the 695 bypass, I am heartened by the fact that most of my fellow compatriots are probably Vikings fans. My road rage doesn’t exist in the Great White North. 

As we walk the six or seven blocks towards the stadium, it feels like a giant family reunion. Purple clad people of all shapes and colors are walking with us, like some gigantic dance number from a movie musical. Pre-game in the late morning, everyone is boisterous. People are pushing and shoving in the way friends mess with each other. Horned helmets and face paint intermingle with player jerseys older than me, all converging on the plaza beneath US Bank Stadium.

The stadium itself is a masterpiece of design and engineering. It is a triumph for all architects of public spaces and a wonder to behold. Angular like the prow of a great viking warship or the traditional Norse architecture, the stadium towers hundreds of feet above us. Glass doors, eighty or more feet in height swing open and closed based on the weather like giant sails. One of the original modern gray buildings, with a texture like armor, the giant stadium pulses with energy. 

We walk through the great gathering of Vikings fans in awe. It is like realizing that you have sixty thousand best friends, all dressed in their favorite jersey. I take pride in knowing even the most obscure players from the early days. Joey Browner, Chris Doleman, Ahmad Rashad, Tommy Kramer, Jim Marshall. I am sporting my Daunte Culpepper jersey, worn for the past twenty years. Everyone is filing towards the great gates, through standard ticket booths and then approaching the great glass doors, which are open this afternoon to my delight. 

Inside, I am speechless. I stand at the railing of the main level and look out in wonder. The stadium floor is sunk several floors below ground level. Purple seats cascading to a luscious artificial turf painted with giant Vikings logos. Everything is crisp and sharp, obviously it is professional, but it feels different in person. The scale is so different than it is on TV.

I look up at the gigantic trusses that support the roof of the mighty palace. The whole south side of the ceiling is transparent and the October sky shines through. The engineering for such a place is outrageous; it is a testament to the incredible ability we have as a species to create. As we start our traverse to the middle of the stadium, I keep bumping into people, looking up in awe. 

We climb higher and higher, past the box seats and into the upper deck. The higher we go, the steeper the seats get. Sam has gotten us tickets on the 50 yard line in the highest realm of the stadium. I feel like I am on a mountain top. Fellow fans trickle in, turning the stadium purple, rippling like a field in the wind. I am downright giddy with excitement. 

I feel a chill ripple through the stadium as the lights flicker and thunder rolls. A godlike voice introduces us to “The Men of the North.” The great drum, twelve feet around, played by a large man with hammer mallets gongs. Frigid air flies out of the ceiling with artificial snow. Smoke erupts in the storm and my anticipation goes through the roof. The SKOL chant begins. Sixty thousand people in unison, clapping their hands over their heads and screaming, faster and faster in a frenzy as the team runs out of the locker room. It is deafening. I have chills. 

The game could not go better. The Vikings have come to play and make short work of the Eagles. While it is close in the third quarter, the outcome is not in doubt. I am pleased with the performance on the field. My voice is gone by the end of the first quarter as I personally try to distract the Eagles from hundreds of feet away. It seems impossible, but with sixty thousand new best friends, we get the decibel meter to hit 115 on nearly every third down play. When the final whistle goes, the Vikings are victorious. I hoarsely scream the SKOL chant once more, then sing the Vikings fight song. I will be humming “Go Vikings” for the remainder of the weekend incessantly. 

As one, the purple army trails out of the stadium like ants, high fiving strangers, singing the fight song and slurping down the last of their thirteen dollar beers. The feeling of camaraderie will stay with me for weeks, replacing my usual distrust of strangers and dislike of city folk. We pour out into the streets, bringing traffic to a halt for blocks all around. Down every street, purple ribbons of fans are rejoicing. It is just a midseason win over a team that isn’t very good, but morale is high. We pass the giant Viking ship in the plaza, teeming with boisterous fans. The stadium towers behind us, shrinking ever so slowly as we waltz back to our vehicle. As we merge into the traffic of 695 once more, I whisper goodbye to the stadium that I now plan to visit each October. And I have returned each October since, each time as joyful and amazed as the first time I encountered the Minnesota Masterpiece.