My friend Brookie G. gave me permission to tell you about some craziness we endured last night. Brooke is a friend of mine from the Padres event staff. I got a late offer for free tickets to the Seahawks-Chargers preseason opener, and she had never been to a game, so I invited her. We had a great time and, just as planned, exited the gates after the third quarter ended and all the starters and top reserves were on the sideline making dinner plans.
We had our own dinner plans too: find her car between section C and D of the Qualcomm Stadium parking lot and high-tail it to nearby In-n-Out Burgers. After representing my work at a community event in the afternoon, my friend Carlos Rocha dropped me off at the Q, where I waited to meet Brookie. Remember that point. We met up at the game at one of the gates (H).
So we stroll out at game's conclusion and our seats happen to be near Gate C - nice, that means a straight shot to area C of the parking lot! So we walk out to look for Brooke's silver Accord with SDSU license plate frames.
But in area C we didn't see it. So we walk to adjacent area D. In area D we didn't see it.
It's all good, it's barely past 7:30pm. "You probably parked in E and walked through C and D," I told her, "let's walk over there."
But in area E we didn't see it. We then took a jaunt to area F.
Brookie is stunned, and a bit nervous, but insists she walked through C and D because the first gate and ticket windows she saw were C. I was more preoccupied with the observation that there were a lot of foo's tailgating with Doug Flutie and Natrone Means jerseys. Bro, if you can afford to tailgate, can't you afford to replace the jerseys of guys who retired years ago?
It's 8pm and we still can't find her car. She then flags down two dudes driving by batting her eyelashes or something and they agree to drive us around to look for it. Two random guys, one rocking some Chargers gear and the other wearing some Dolphins clothing, and professing to be a Dodgers fan - ain't that some s***? - and they're driving in circles looking for Brookie's car. Now I owe them tickets to a future Padres game. Dang it!
After a half-hour, they give up and we get out of their car. My stomach is rumbling and we flag down a cop car. We're desperate and confused so we ask these nice cops if they can help because we don't see any Chargers shuttles or anything. No problem, they say, we'll drive around the Stadium but you guys stay here so we can drive back to you.
They point us to a chain-link fence and it happens to be near the Chargers player parking lot. By now it's 8:30 and, yes, the game is over and players are leaving. So we stand and wait by the fence.
Out of nowhere out walks one Karen Madden, my co-worker, close friend, marathon relay partner - Team MADness woot! - and part-time gameday staffer for the Bolts. She is headed home but when we tell her what's going on, a.) she laughs and b.) she volunteers to drive Brooke around the now-thinning lot while I wait for Officer Friendly.
The policemen do return and say they'd seen several cars matching the description but none of them matched Brooke's registration. So no dice. But they'll keep looking.
Meanwhile I notice there is a random leather boot on the ground next to me. Who the heck lost that, I wonder? Then I see Chargers players driving out of the player lot in their Beemers and Hummers and souped-up rides. So I start waving to them while yelling, "Go Chargers! Super Bowl, baby!"
Antonio Gates slows down, looks me up and down, and says: "'Sup, bro?" Philip Rivers drives out, looks me up and down, signs autographs for a few kids clinging to his car, gives me a thumbs up, is apparently chewing gum, and smiles and nods before peeling out. I see Antonio Garay and I shout, "I follow you on Twitter! Great Tweets, bro!" The massive nose tackle laughs and responds, "Thanks, man. Good luck to you."
Good luck to me? Why would he say that? Then I realize he and the other players saw this boot next to me. They think I'm a war veteran collecting donations. Dang it!! True story.
Finally Brooke and Karen return. K-Mad had speculated that Brooke had parked in an OUTER lot and walked through the main entrance. Guess what? She was right. There is no one more clutch than Karen Madden and no more embarassed than Brooke.
It's 10pm. So we take Brookie G., who is apologizing profusely, to her car and Karen takes me to Wendy's drive-through and then home. It's all good. Brooke promises increased situational awareness. I promise that if football players think I'm taking donations, I will take them next time.
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