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"All seats are released 10 minutes
before departure, and all seats
have now been assigned. Please go to the
end of the line." "But I'm in first class." The agent scowled at me as if dealing
with a stupid child. "It's
too late. You have lost your seat. Go to
the end of the line." I was stunned. My watch read 6:55. I'd
lost my seat. Blood dripped
to the floor. My hand was sticky; the
tissue was shredded, sopping. I
shambled to the end of the line, numb. Five minutes later the agent announced
that the flight had been
closed, and anyone holding tickets for
this flight could catch the next one
in two hours. Two hours meant I would
arrive in Minneapolis after the game
was over. There'd be baseball, but there
wouldn't be any for me. I don't remember ever being so
depressed. I wandered away from the
line, closer to the gate, as if by doing
so I might somehow find a way
aboard the plane. I stood there, one
hand on my bleeding face, the other
holding my ticket and upgrade limply at
my side, feeling a gnawing
emptiness as the reality sank in: I
would miss the game. I was standing to the left of the
check-in desk. The ramp to the
plane was to my left. I was staring at
it like a man in an emergency room
watching a silent TV while waiting to be
sewn back together, when a gate
agent strode off the ramp toward me and
announced, "I have one more seat.
Who wants it?" "I do!" I shouted and almost tackled
her. By sheer luck I was
closer to her than any other would-be
passenger and no one was going to get
that seat ahead of me. She grabbed my
ticket and hurried up the ramp with
me in tow, handing me a boarding pass on
the fly and returning my upgrade. "The seat's near the back," she said as
I followed her on board,
and I shuffled down the aisle feeling
the other passengers looking at me in
barely suppressed alarm because of my
bloody face. Each one seemed to
breathe a sigh of relief as I passed,
knowing I wouldn't be sitting
anywhere near them. I went all the way
to the rear without finding the
seat, and I just stood there, waiting to
be rescued. No way would they get
me off this plane. "What are you doing?" an attendant
asked. "I have a seat, but I don't know where." The attendant who'd brought me aboard
returned and beckoned me
forward. A few rows up there was a
middle seat and she held my bags while I
crammed in, then helped stow them. I leaned back in my seat trying to catch
my breath. I'd never felt
so wrung out. The tissue in my hand was
reduced to powder and the blood
still seeped from my lip. It took an
hour in the air for me to gather the
strength to go clean myself up, and when
I witnessed the spectacle of my
face in the mirror, I cringed. I looked
as though I could have climbed
aboard the plane after three weeks of
sleeping on the street. But I made it to Minneapolis. My good
friend Louie was waiting for
me at the gate and hustled me to his
car. I threw my bags in the trunk
after dragging out my sweats and changed
clothes as we drove. Game time was
in 30 minutes and we had about a
20-minute drive to the field. | ||
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