It’s just embarrassing.
Listen, paying over $100 to see a sports team or a band is highway robbery. I don’t care how good they are (not to mention the fact that they charge you an arm and a leg for a hot dog). So naturally, I’m the kind of person that will buy the cheapies—you know, the nosebleed seats that nobody else really wants. Honestly, I don’t really mind it. There’s more leg room anyway.
But it also stands to reason that if I see a few seats down there in the front that are unoccupied, I’m gonna want to take them. So I stealthily climb down from the nosebleeds, exit the section as to pretend I am a newcomer, and re-enter briskly, heading for the good seats as though I belong there. It is my firm belief that if you walk quickly and with enough determination, nobody will ever question you. So, I settle in, relishing in the fact that I just conned the stadium out of a few bucks. I mean, come on. Nobody’s using the seats, so it’s no big deal, right?
The prehistoric usher ambles over and eyes me suspiciously. I look nonchalant, pretending to concentrate on the game. Then he drops the bomb: “Excuse me Miss, can I see your ticket?”
I gulp. “Uh, yeah. Sure.” Reluctantly, I hold out my ticket, expertly covering the section number with my finger. No matter. He snatches it from me.
“Oh, no. Your seats are up there,” he says, gesturing to the deserted abyss hundreds of feet above us. Now this is the truly embarrassing part, because you can never admit that you were trying to sneak to better seats; you have to try and pretend like you’re lost, or somehow misread the number on the ticket.
“Oh. Uh, really? I thought…I just…the number…yeah.” Then comes the red-faced walk of shame (or more accurately, the climb of shame) back to your real seats.
Apparently the preservation of the empty good seats is crucial to the structural integrity of the stadium. Who knew?