Dos Billetas, Dos Billetas

It being a Friday night, the team in the midst of a Mets-esque freefall, and Lebron James sitting this one out with a bum wheel, I decided that I would rather not go to tonight's game. However, I'm still in possession of the two tickets that I had bought several months ago (on the first day tickets went on sale as a matter of fact) while under the clearly mistaken impression that this matchup would be an important one between two teams vying for the Eastern conference crown.

So, I asked around the office. No one was interested in the tickets. I asked my buddies. No one was interested in the tickets. I asked my brother. My brother asked his buddies. No one was interested. I put the tickets up for sale on Craigslist, and a few people seemed interested. However, when it came to arranging a time for them to buy the tickets, all of sudden, no one was really interested. As I left the office burdened by the extra weight of two tickets, it seemed there was only one available course of action. I would head over to the Garden and try to scalp the tickets. I didn't want to go the game. Still, I would rather go to the game by myself, inevitably spending another $50 on beer, temporary tattoos and novelty foam hands, than just let the money go entirely to waste. Not that I've ever sold tickets like this before, but how hard could it be...

Stepping onto the sidewalk at the corner of 33rd and Sixth the familiar chorus washes over me.

Need Tickets? Need Tickets for tonight's game? Need tickets?

It seems like this corner is taken, and, honestly, this has always struck me as a bad place for a scalper. I would never buy tickets an entire block away from the Garden. If I've learned anything from shopping with my mom (and to a lesser extent with my sister), it is that there could always be better deals ahead; never buy the first thing you see. I have the feeling that the guys selling outside the Manhattan Mall have been ostracized from the fraternity of impromptu ticket sellers for some unforgivable trespass. Trudging on through the slush I realize that I'm out of uniform if I'm hoping to join the army of scalpers: my jacket, while dark, is not puffy.

Arriving on the steps of Penn Plaza around 6:15 there is a light crowd milling about. Most of the scalpers congregate at the bottom of the stairs. Most of the teenagers too nervous to approach said scalpers pace around in attempts to look busy at the top of the stairs. Several of the scalpers ask me if I want to buy tickets. I decline. Apparently, I don't seem like competition. Being white, relatively young, and not the least bit intimidating I look more like the kids without tickets than the burly gentlemen selling them. I quickly decide that I need to use this to my advantage.

I move inside the Garden and head towards the ticket office. I find the long line, surprisingly long considering, people waiting to try to buy the last remaining tickets to tonight's game. The second half of the line is outside of the main box office area in the foyer where bags searched, where unsavory characters and attractive young women are frisked, and unnecessarily high-priced programs are sold by a guy old enough to have remembered when "Knickerbocker" was a topical reference. Unlike the area just outside this area has been cleared of competition by the purple-jacketed Garden staff. With a captive audience I go to the head of the line.

"I've got two tickets in the 300 level for face value. Anyone want two for face?"

A momentary silence, guys glance at girlfriends for approval, girlfriends look around for security, I look around for security....

"How much? Where are the seats?"

Two girls near the front of the line step forward and ask how much. I am asking for $70 each (face value plus all charges). They offer $60. They are smug and British, and tell me that I should take what I can get. I tell them that I've got plenty of time before tip-off and will come back if I don't get any better offers. Next up, some guy offers me $50 for the seats. I make my way towards the back of the line repeating my offer.

"I've got two 300 level tickets for face. Anyone, two for face?"

A young lady unhappy waiting in line drags her overwhelmed boyfriend out of line and towards me.

"Are these good seats?"

"They're in the 300 level, which ain't the top. They're pretty good. I like 'em"

"How much?"

"I'm just trying to get back what I paid for them, so $70 each."

The look at her boyfriend is as much a plea as it is a demand, but to no avail...

"Uh, I think that is a little bit more than I wanted to spend. Honey, I think we're going to just get the cheap seats."

I don't know who was more disappointed with this guy, me or his girlfriend. Regardless, there is another fella right behind him stepping up to inquire about the tickets. He walks up, stops about a foot in front of me, and just sorta stairs. I look at his girlfriend, she just looks back.

"No speak english. Speak Spanish?"

A smile crosses my face, and I decide this is too funny of situation to walk away from. Time to dust off the high school Spanish.

"Yo tengo dos bilettas para esta noche, setenta dolares"

The couple clearly enjoying my horrific spanish, seems grateful that I'm at least making an attempt to speak to them in their own language. They step out of the line and after about ten minutes of trying to communicate that it is $70 for each ticket, and this is, in fact, how much I paid for them, they buy the tickets for exactly $140. After pocketing the money, I attempt to wish them well, but by the looks on their faces did not succeed.