POSTING #85

More Problems with Tickets

As I was writing last week's posting (#84) about some missing Phantom of the Opera tickets, I remembered another story about tickets.

Twenty or so years ago, Pat and I were planning a holiday with friends at their summer cottage in Gloucester, Massachusetts, about forty-five kilometres north-east of Boston, on Cape Ann.

We decided that it would be fun to take our friends to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park---if we could get decent tickets.

We knew that Red Sox  fans were fanatical and tickets for home games went quickly. Luckily, one of our sons was doing graduate work in Boston area at the time, so we asked him---well in advance---if he could get tickets and accompany us to the game. He stood in line and managed to get 5 great tickets.

I can't remember who was playing the Red Sox, but the game wasn't that important. What was important was getting inside Fenway Park.

When I was a teen-ager, I played short-stop for the Arthur baseball team (we called it 'hardball' to distinguish it from 'softball'). Our coach, John Walsh, a local pharmacist, loved baseball and although his favourite team was the Cleveland Indians he also liked the Red Sox and their historic and quirky home field, Fenway Park.

As a coach John drilled us in the skills of fielding, hitting and base running but he also stressed the strategy of the game.  We had to keep asking, 'What's the best way of playing this pitcher, this hitter, this field?'

He told us that each of the major league parks had its own personality and the managers had to adapt their game plans to take account of the individualities of the lighting, the  foul lines, the distance to the right, centre and left field fences, and on and on.

No field had more quirks than Fenway Park.

Built in 1912, it soon became too small to house all the fans needed to pay the costs of a major league team. Over time, additional seating was added, which often meant changes to the shape of the playing surface.

I would lie in bed at night listening to American stations broadcasting games. When the game was in Boston, the announcers would talk about Fenway being 'a hitters park' because the right field fence was only 302 feet from home plate. In left field there was not a fence but 'The Wall', now called 'The Green Monster', which was only slightly further from home plate.

Hit 'The Wall" and you had yourself a home run.

As I lay in bed, I tried to visualize Fenway and how the two opposing managers would try to take advantage of its peculiarities.

Now, with good tickets in hand, I was really looking forward to seeing the inside of Fenway.

Unfortunately, at the last minute our friends couldn't come to the game.

So, we had two spare tickets.

Being a country bumpkin from Arthur, I assumed that I could just go to a wicket at Fenway and get a refund. We had heard that the game was sold out so the club wouldn't have any trouble re-selling our tickets.

That was not the way things worked.

The official at the wicket told me that ticket sales were final, no refunds.

"What am I supposed to do?", I asked.

"Well", he said, "it is illegal to re-sell Red Sox tickets but you could give them to a policeman." He explained that the police had a benevolent fund and money from donated tickets was used to help the widows and orphans of police officers.

That sounded like a good cause, so I wandered over to a policeman and offered him the two spare tickets.

He shook his head, saying that the police no longer re-sold tickets. That was done by the Boston Fire Department. I should find a fireman and give him the tickets.

There was about an hour to game time, but I was getting antsy about finding our seats, in a park we had never visited before, and having time to study the park before the game started.

I walked away from the policeman, scanning the crowds around the entrances for a fireman.

No fireman.

Just then a young fellow touched my elbow. Motioning for me to bend down, he said in my ear, "I heard you talking to the cop back there. Do you have spare tickets for to-night's game?"

I explained that I had two but that I was trying to find a fireman to whom I could give them.

"There ain't no firemen around here. Can I see the tickets?'

I showed him the tickets.

"How much do you want for them?"

Whoops!

A scalper!

I guess I had lived a sheltered life. I had never had any dealings with scalpers, either buying or selling.

Looking at the young fellow, I noticed that he had a buddy. They were in their early 20s, with Red Sox caps, light jackets and running shoes. The one talking to me had a street-savvy look as he managed to keep an eye on the policemen at the same time as he was talking. The other one, slightly taller and bigger, didn't look too bright. 

What to do?

I  finally decided that I had tried to do the right thing, that there didn't seem to be much chance of finding a fireman any time soon, and therefore I might just as well try to recover some of my money.

That is, break the law and sell the tickets.

I know.

I am not proud of my slippery rationalization.

"How much do you want for them?, the savvy one repeated.

I looked at the face price of the tickets and decided to round it up a bit.

The scalper responded that game time was getting close and that he mightn't be able to unload them. He suggested a lower price.

We haggled a bit, with the scalper keeping his eye on the policeman. Eventually we agreed on a price.

The scalper told his friend to give me the money. The fellow reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some bills while the scalper used his body to block the policeman's view.

I started to reach for my billfold to put the money away.

"Don't take out your billfold", the scalper hissed at me, pointing with his eyes at the policeman and giving me a look that said, 'How stupid can you get'.

I handed the tickets over to the scalper and stuffed the bills in my pocket.

The fellows melted into the crowd.

Later on, in the stands we found we were sitting beside two young, well-dressed fellows, perhaps from one of the high tech firms along Highway 128 outside of Boston.

I wondered---but didn't ask---how much they had paid for their tickets.

But I knew whom they had paid!

000

A final story about tickets.

As soon as tickets went on sale for  the Winter Olympics in Vancouver, a friend bought a  single ticket for the final---the gold medal---hockey game (his wife is not a fan).

For $500.

He joked that although he hoped that the game would be between Canada and Russia or perhaps Canada and the US, he realized that the game could be between two less interesting countries, say, Sweden and Slovakia.

He was prepared to take the risk.

Of course, as things turned out the game was between Canada and the US.

On his way into the arena, his ticket in hand, a scalper offered him $10,000 for it.

He didn't pause, just kept on moving.

Telling us about the game later on, he could hardly describe the waves of emotion that swept over him and the other spectators as the game went back and forth, and then into overtime, with Canada finally winning. He says that it was one of his life's greatest thrills.

His wife says she would have taken the $10,000. (Pat says, "U betcha!)

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See you on September 12th for Posting #86 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting,  or email me at johnpathunter@gmail.com.