The Very Angry Fan

Among my hopes is that, as I age, I don't become a cranky old man. Alas, despite my best efforts, it may be happening. Last Saturday my beloved Canes hosted Virginia Tech, and in a rare occurrence, Wifey accompanied me to the game. She hasn't been in years -- can't stand the heat, and doesn't really like football enough to commit hours to going, but my usual companion, Mirta, had a wedding, and Wifey decided to attend. Our usual tailgate host, Norman, begged off, as his great tailgate companions had a medical issue, but nonetheless Mike filled in nicely, and grilled hot dogs and provided margaritas. It was a nice time, and the cloudy skies kept the temperature down. I didn't partake in my usual vodka -- had a few beers instead. It was a lovely, nice time, and then... Wifey and I went to the gate, and the gate attendant gave Wifey grief for having too big of a handbag (the thing was not big at all). Wifey stepped into an adjacent line, and gained access. My attendant kept scanning my ticket over and over -- not getting the beep he wanted. My ticket is a cardboard, old school one -- with my name on it, for heaven's sakes. Nope -- five minutes went by, and the young man continued to fiddle with his machine. Kickoff was approaching, so five minutes seemed much longer. The young man called over his supervisor -- a guy in his 40s, graying hair -- looked like he might have been a cop in the past. The fellow took my ticket and fiddled with HIS machine for another several minutes, before handing me my ticket back and saying "No --there's a problem. You need to walk to the other side of the stadium and find a line where they can reprint your ticket. Nothing more to do." I took my ticket back, and simply said no -- I WAS going into the stadium, and I stepped around the turnstyle. The man stopped me by stepping in front, and asserting his authority. I asked him if he would accompany Wifey to her seat -- as she was already inside and didn't know her way around. He said no, but that I could NOT enter. I told him directly I WAS entering. He told me he would call the police, and told him to go right ahead -- if they ordered me to leave, I would, but was not listening to an idiot employed by "Elite Services." The dude was NOT backing down. Neither was I. He grabbed my ticket, and wrote down the seat location, telling me "Police will be coming to get you, and you will be escorted out and arrested." I told him that would be fine, as I quickly calculated the $50K or so I would settle for in a civil case of false arrest against "Elite Services," in exchange for being led out of my Club Section in cuffs. I also made a mental not of my friend Steve the cop's number -- knowing if Miami Dade Police really DID come, a call to him would get me sprung. Wifey and I got on the escalator to the club. She was impressed and maybe a little turned on by her man's showing of machismo -- he wasn't letting some idiot tell him what to do. Ha! As if! Wifey promptly lectured me on my anger, and how mean I sound when I speak to people who cross me, etc... Whatever. Wifey's Canes season is over, anyway -- that was her last game. She was concerned that the police were coming -- maybe we should sit in another section. Nothing doing. I took my seat, and told my friends what happened. Dr. Barry's friend John offered to give me his hat and sunglasses. A discussion of "Spartacus" ensued -- would we ALL say we were the resistor, if the police came? Dana reminisced about a similar incident back in '84 -- Eric and I came to the Canes-Gator game early, to get prime student seats, and minutes before kickoff, the Orange Bowl staff decided we really weren't in the student section -- we could go toss off. Eric and I got livid -- Eric more so -- and was led out to calm down. But we kept our seats! The Gators won, though, as I recall... Our game played on, and by the second quarter I figured I was in the clear -- though everyone laughed whenever a cop appeared in our section. The Canes won, and Wifey admitted as how it "wasn't too bad" being there. Next week, Norman is due back, and Mirta is excited to go. The game is early -- noon -- but we'll eat lox and drink at 10 am. Hopefully I'll be admitted without incident. If not, I won't press my luck -- I'll simply call for my liason in the Canes office, and see if he can get me in with my legal tickets. And if the Canes somehow upset Clemson, I won't be the grouchy old man after all -- just a happy one.