The Waiting Game

2842 - perhaps not the fastest way to the Super Bowl.

Somewhere along the line, I seem to have gone off and into the End Zone.

Years ago, I couldn't stand football, or "football" as we called it (don't ask). Then, around 2004, I secured season tickets and started going to the games. Back then, the Ravens just didn't fare too well and by 2006, I was so inundated with work I ended up only attending two games that year. Not good.

But for whatever reason, I've gotten back into Ravens Football again and decided that I should buy myself a PSL (personal seat license) for the right to buy season tickets. Even today (as in 1996 when it started), I still find it foolish for people to pay cold money for the "right" to buy tickets. It's really just absurd. But seeing that Fan is short for "fanatic" it makes sense. You have to be fanatical to spend that much money.

Prices for PSLs today have skyrocketed into the stratosphere. People are asking for twenty grand for centerfield seats. That's crazy.

With a fan base as crazy as the Ravens enjoy, PSLs have been sold out for years, but you can get a new one (or one that someone else has given up) by joining The Wait List.

The Wait List is a limited list of 3,000 people who pay fifty bucks to join, plus twenty-five dollars per year to maintain their position on The List. By the way, that price is per seat. So for a four seat position, one pays $200 upfront and $100 each year to maintain position. Of course, all the money you paid to the Ravens will be applied to your eventual purchase of the PSLs.

Signing the paperwork reminded me of a buddy in Northern Virginia. An American chap with a lifelong love for cricket. An avid player, he petitioned to join in his twenties and won his entry into the club almost ten years ago. He was on their wait list for thirty years.

Talking to my Ravens representative, who tried to steer me towards the PSL Marketplace to quickly (and expensively) purchase a PSL, told me that my wait time on the list would probably be fifteen years.

Guess that's better than thirty...

Black Is All Black

Oh, yes...

It's odd to me when I think upon how the New Zealand All Blacks have not won the Rugby World Cup in 24 years. I always think of them as the greatest rugby team ever. The ones we idolize and strive to emulate. They were the baddest, toughest and most fierce team in the world.

Or maybe that's just because I was always envious of their Haka.

As a young captain on Hawaii Loa College's RFC team, I was new to the sport and relied upon my teammates experience playing throughout their youth in the leagues of the Pacific Rim or at boarding school in England.

But nothing was ever as terrifying as playing in the Hawaii leagues. Big, tough, burly Polynesian men racing to cream this chubby Filipino boy. I admit, I was scared shitless half the time. I came from genteel living. This was maniacal, crazed and utter mayhem - like Lord Of The Flies, without the literal killing.

I knew I was in new element when, during one match, a referee made a call that did not quite agree with a rather solid-looking Fijian. He approached the ref and promptly clocked him on the top of his head with a downward swing of his burly arm. The ref crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

I could hear the smack on the head crisply and clearly, half a pitch away.

Needless to say (or maybe I should underscore it), the player was immediately red carded and banned outright from the sport for life. But that ref looked worse for wear and I certainly was a bit more intimidated by these solidly built men from the South Pacific more than ever.

Today, the All Blacks (my All Blacks) take to the field against France in the World Cup Finals. And as much as I like the cuisine, countryside and cities of France, I like my All Blacks better.

You can guess whose jersey I will be wearing today.