The Haves and the Have Nots

First appeared on February 4th, 2009
in The Lebanon Reporter

Like an influenza pandemic, tough economic times have infected that which was previously deemed the healthiest economic model in the history of mankind: professional sports. Recently the Colts made some tough staff reduction decisions as attendance for all sports, going back to baseball season, has dipped noticeably.
But give the Indiana Pacers credit; while they have struggled to win games they have worked hard to get people in the door. Fifty dollars got you two seats in the lower bowl one night; forty bucks got you a seat and all you can eat another. The Pacers have come up with so many gimmicks to drum up bodies it’s as though the marketing department hired one of those corny commercial filming used car salesmen; you know the type-the guy who gallivants around with wads of cash in his fist while jumping a Shetland pony through a ring of fire-crazy Bob something.
Suckered by their “buy one ticket-get a free Thick Burger and T-Shirt” deal we headed to Cornseco Fieldhouse. At the ticket gate one wouldn’t have guessed we were gripped by the worst recession in modern history. The Fieldhouse was awash in an electric blue and gold as a band of comely 500 Festival Queens passed out free zip bags to the first 6,000 fans (the 4,000 leftovers are most likely for sale on Ebay).
Of course our “Free Thick Burger and T-Shirt” seats meant the balcony so we were herded on an escalator and carried past the lower bowl entrances and luxury suites. At the last stop on the up escalator, we headed for the concession stand where we were greeted by a worker who seemed eager, if not hungry, for business. While double-checking to see if they even sold the $6.00 hamburger advertised on the board a faint “I think we have some in storage” was heard in the back. Apparently ticket sales aren’t the only thing that have slowed at Cornseco.
After a few minutes, and an Alexander Hamilton, we were in our seats. The group of strangers we were shoulder to shoulder with seemed very polite at the least. After all, they did apologize for spilling their coke, popcorn, Milk Duds and candied peanuts on us. The usher wasn’t nearly as punctilious when, in a tone strangely reminiscent of a Fort Sill drill sergeant, he repeatedly commanded we get up to let people through.
After a phone call from the Brother-in-Law the Williams boys find themselves constantly measured against, we relocated from our seats in the crow’s nest to a pair of lazy boy recliners 13 rows behind the Pacers bench. By giving us his seats, the face value of which is more than the gross domestic product of Kiribati, for a brief moment in time we became honorary members of a different world. With room to stretch our feet out we found, instead of barking like short order cooks, the ushers whispered to see if there was anything you’d like fetched from the concession stand.
Placing an order involved a lot of swiping; the ushers swiping our credit cards on a wireless device and us swiping Dwayne Wade’s sweat from our faces. With feet propped up, a gaze high in the rafters of Cornseco reminded us of our own humble beginnings. There, somewhere between the Strato and Nimbocumulous, we saw the friendly Milk Dud spillers we had left behind, their faces mere specks in a sea of blue, gold, green and gray. One glance at the ticket price of our new seats reminded us that perhaps the hard times haven’t found everyone just yet.