Every day it happens.
It’s inevitable and everybody knows it.
You just pray to God that it will never happen to you.
But one day, when you’re waiting in line to buy that
ticket for a concert or sporting event ““ or let’s say
Saturday’s basketball game against USC ““ it will happen
and there’s not a thing you’ll be able to do about
it.
You will be the one standing in front of the window when the
ticket vendor steps outside waving his arms and announces three of
the most heartbreaking words known to man: “We’re sold
out.”
At first, there’s shock.
“He’s joking, right?! There’s no way
they’re actually sold out!” You search the faces of
those in line behind you for validation but you find none.
Your shock quickly turns to anger as you realize this is not
some kind of sick prank.
You say, “all right, that’s enough. Just get back in
that little box and sell me a ticket,” usually with some sort
of expletives sprinkled in there.
Like a jewel thief who’s a day late, you wonder where you
went wrong.
Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped at the ATM to get cash or
watched SportsCenter for five minutes that morning or shampooed
your hair. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you are not going
to the game.
My friend Matt was the victim of this exact situation on Tuesday
morning. There were 100 student tickets available for
Saturday’s game. He was No. 101.
Words cannot describe the pain.
I was about No. 125 and even I was pretty upset. (But honestly
it was more because I woke up so early for nothing.)
Matt is one of those people who probably will never leave
California between December and March for fear of missing a home
game. He bleeds Bruin blue. I’ve seen it. It’s kind of
gross.
If you ever want to know anything about UCLA basketball, and I
mean anything, he’s the one to call. Ask him about
UCLA’s recruiting class and he’ll give you their next
five. Ask him how the point guard is doing in school and
he’ll give you his test scores from third grade.
If anyone deserves a ticket to what will probably be an
upsettingly close game, it’s this guy.
Denying him an $18 chance at two hours of happiness is like
denying gravity to Isaac Newton.
After the supreme disappointment of getting shut out at the
ticket window, I pitched a proposal to Matt.
I offered to go with him to USC’s shiny new Galen Center
on Saturday, sit outside and cheer on a team we wouldn’t be
able to see. Surprisingly, he said no.
Not even a delicious breakfast bagel from Rendezvous could
soothe the agony. And they are delicious.
The thing is, once you are No. 101, there’s no going back.
Every line you’re in from now on could be a repeat
performance. Waiting in line will never be the same again.
That’s why I’m always wary of cutting in line. You
never know when you could be stepping in front of a former No. 101.
That would be very bad.
I guess that point I’m trying to get at is simple.
If you were No. 100, I could sure use a ticket right about
now.
Seriously, No. 100, E-mail Feder at jfeder@media.ucla.edu if
you want $40 for your ticket.