My life in ticket stubs

One day in the early 70’s instead of tossing out my .75 cent movie ticket for a creature double feature, I saved it. And I never stopped. Almost 40 years later, my ticket collection represents hundreds of moments in my life captured on tiny pieces of paper.

At the bottom of my box is a confetti mix of colorful stubs from the old Salem Cinema on Essex Street, now a condo complex. My friends and I would ride our bikes to the Saturday afternoon double feature. Back then, movie tickets were generic and the color rotated to keep you from sneaking in. I would write the movie name and date on the stub along with my own rating system. As a budding critic, I made some solid choices such as giving American Graffiti and Jaws four stars each, but also had some questionable reviews like calling Roddy McDowell “CUTE” in The Legend of Hell House, which I also gave four stars (huh?).

Eventually, I left the security of Salem Cinema for the excitement of live theatre. My stubs attest that I have seen just about every musical ever made multiple times from Boston to Broadway, and was a regular guest of my Uncle Walter who had season tickets to the North Shore Music Theatre back when it was a summer only theatre in a tent. My most memorable theatre experience was scoring front row seats for my mother and I to see Damn Yankees starring Jerry Lewis at the Wang Theatre. As I smugly marched up to the best seats of my life, I found out they really were the best seats- but for the prior night’s performance. The pain of that mistake hurt my ego as much as the folding wooden chairs they kindly set up for us near the lighting booth by the exit door.

Before age caused me to worry about such things as finding parking spots and getting up early for work the next day, the highlight of my summer was the announcement of the concert tours. My stubs document performances by timeless musicians such as Stevie Wonder, The Eagles, U2, Aerosmith and Eric Clapton, as well as an intimate performance by The Wallflowers, who inexplicably performed at a Beverly High School dance in 1997 at the peak of their popularity (does anyone else remember this?). My most memorable concert experience was Don Henley at Harborlights in 2000. I was sitting in the ‘cheap seats’ when a stranger asked me if I wanted an upgrade as her friend could not attend. And an upgrade it was- front row center so close to Don Henley I could see the pills on his flannel shirt.

Along with my good concert experiences came the memorable fiasco that was the Parliament & Funkadelic concert in 1979 at the Peabody Ice Rink on Rt. 114. At the age of 19, I naïvely thought it was appropriate to dress up for concerts, including my nana’s antique watch necklace, which I last saw laced through someone’s fingers as they ripped it off my neck in the riot and mugging that ensued in the parking lot. Good times!

Thanks to working at the Boston Herald for nearly 20 years, I often served as host for our Boston Garden box where I attended such classic sports rivalries as Bruins/Canadians and Celtics/Lakers- complete with birds flying around in the rafters and fog hovering over the parquet floor. And my ticket stub to the US Open reminded me that before Map Quest and GPS, a wrong turn at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night coming home from New York can quickly land you in the middle of a scene reminiscent of the movie Judgement Night.

As I smiled at memories of these moments and the people I shared them with, I came across a raffle ticket with my name scrawled across the top in my brother’s handwriting.

I was at a newspaper conference in Philadelphia fall 1998, and returned to my hotel room to find a message to call Stephen as soon as possible. We barely talked at home, never mind when I was away, so a flurry of worst case scenarios controlled my thoughts as I nervously called to find out what the emergency was. As it turned out, he was trying to sell the last $100 ticket to the Boys & Girls Club $5,000 raffle, and had run out of prospects. It was the first time he had ever asked me for a donation or even talked about the Club for that matter, and I gladly committed to buying the last ticket with a verbal IOU. Before I got on the plane to return home, he had left me another message telling me that I won. It was not until his wake a year later than I found out he had tried to put my ticket aside and draw another as he didn’t want it to look “fixed”. Seeing that ticket with my name in Stephen’s handwriting made me smile, as it was he who had saved it, not me; I had found it tucked amongst his own ticket collection.

As I proceed to pack up my memories, I notice a dramatic drop off over the years. The collection I once added to several times a week slowly dropped to once a week, to once a month, to several times a year. And while I can vividly recall most of the events the stubs represent, I can hardly tell you what else I filled up my time with in recent years aside from work. In fact, this collection is as much a reflection of time lost as it is of experiences gained. And with that, I promise to not let my collection gather as much dust on the shelf, making more time in my life for the type of adventures and experiences that filled it up in the first place.

You Never Know Until You Try

There is a hot debate going on right now among some members of my running club, and it concerns the idea of giving all finishers of an event an award as opposed to recognizing only the "winners". Some people believe this "everyone wins by participating" philosophy contributes to a feeling of entitlement, defeating the whole idea of good sportsmanship where you learn to lose (or win) with dignity. Others believe that by rewarding all participants, everyone feels a sense of accomplishment and pride.
While both viewpoints are valid, there is no easy answer. And from personal observation, I’m not so sure it is about the medals or ribbons as much as it is about what is inside each of us. I’ve seen some back-of-the-pack runners of all ages complete their first race bursting with pride they did not need a medal or ribbon to validate, and I’ve seen top finishers so disappointed in their performance that no award could take away the sting of what they considered a personal failure.
Which got me thinking less about the finish, and more about the fact that with all the pressures to win and succeed that bombard us from all sides, it’s a miracle we are strong enough to try at all.
There is something very brave about the act of "trying", whether it is running a race or running for office. Our results oriented, "winning is everything" world can intimidate the faint of heart who are unable to block out the negativity surrounding them. In both the professional and volunteer worlds, the mere mention of a new idea will inevitably elicit a list of potential disasters, suggesting it may be better to not try at all. "What if you can’t do it?" "What if no one comes?" "What if it doesn’t work?" "What if they say no?" "What if its too hard?" "What if you FAIL?" Negativity can paralyze us and leave us stuck in our safety, never knowing what could have been if only we had more faith than fear.
I work in sales, where the fear of trying can literally end a career. This fear was put to the test at the start of my employment with the Boston Herald when I thought it would be a great idea to throw an advertiser party. Who doesn’t love a party? Months of preparation, hours of event planning, and hundreds of invitations later, it was the day of my grand idea. A handful of Herald employees stood with me in the Rotunda at Faneuil Hall surrounded by food for hundreds as we watched a rainstorm pound down upon the city. It was the kind of rainstorm that ties up traffic for miles. The kind of rainstorm that makes you turn around and go home rather than attend a Boston Herald party. My only consolation was that our publisher, was in New York and wouldn’t be present to see this fiasco. "The Publisher just called. He decided to fly in for the party and is on his way from the airport." I quickly did the math on how much the company had spent for this debacle, and it came to somewhere around $80 per shrimp. Just then Pat walked in, not so fresh from his flight and one mile drive from the airport that took him over an hour. He glanced around the room and took in my debut disaster. The words he spoke next, I will never forget. "Tough break on the weather, but thanks for trying," he said "everything doesn’t always work out, but you still have to try. That’s the only way you’ll ever know if it was a good idea or not." Then he ate a shrimp.
That was one of those defining moments when someone has the power to crush you, or lift you up. Thankfully, I got a lift, and I’ve been trying things ever since. While it remains true that not everything has worked out the way I’ve wanted, for every disappointment I’ve endured I’ve also had some really great successes.
Which comes back to the original question. Should everyone who finishes be recognized with a reward for being brave enough to try at all? Ask a marathon runner and see what they say, then ask who has the right to judge which personal accomplishment is greater than another. Awards or not, we all know what is easily within our reach, and what we have to try really hard to achieve. And in that trying, comes the true measure of success.