The American Way

Is ticket scalping American? At a time when the country is keen to embrace its American identity, an excessive amount of clothing with American flags, or the continuing practice of singing God Bless America during the 7th inning stretch, it seemed an important question.

It was certainly on my mind as I roved around Gate 5 of Comiskey Park before the 74th All-Star game on the South Side of Chicago. The security was thicker than the waistlines of the fat cats who had bought their tickets online for upwards of $2,000 a piece. As with most illicit activity these days, it's okay if you do it online. But outside the stadium? Plainclothes officers were trying to infiltrate deals. Mounted officers were trying to direct their horses and traffic when they were successful in the first task. There were lots of men in black.

As in all things wholly American these days, terrorism was on the minds of the proud and the paranoid, so most people seemed to accept the tight security. Still, it was excessive. A man playing his horn hid behind a wall, and quickly snapped up the change I tossed in his case. "I can't let the cops see," he said, peering out from behind the wall as if he were on a sting operation. "They don't want anyone making any money on this game."

A ticket taker justified the crackdown, saying, "It's the All-Star game, it's a federal thing, it's an international thing, it's bigger than just a ballgame." In other words, it's a national and even international presentation of America to the world. Apparently tight security and strict law enforcement are part of the evolving American identity.

Nevertheless, you can't keep a good scammer down. By the night's end, the ticket takers at Gate 5, one of several gates, reported they had had to turn away a total of 12 fans with counterfeit tickets. The counterfeits were alleged to be some of the best ever, identifiable only by a slightly lighter shade of blue.

Plenty of nefarious entrepreneurs were afoot. One man approached me selling All-Star towels, and then whipped out a few baseball cards from the 1980s. Baffled, I declined, and then wondered if I shouldn't have tried to sell off some of my dusty childhood treasures. A veteran sports journalist later informed me that he was not just trying to leverage the over-hyped atmosphere to unload old baseball cards, but that each card invariably came with an All-Star ticket for free. A marvelous loophole.

Debbie, who had come up from St. Louis and had been milling the grounds with her husband since the morning, had momentarily passed through the gates to All-Star heaven. An usher had approached her and offered her a free pass through the turnstile for $100. In probably her only act of infiltration ever, she related how she waited by a tree for his signal, and then walked through. When she got to the other side, she was told to put $100 in a nearby trash can. She said she had planned on hightailing it to the cheap seats, but a police officer caught her arm. Told either she or her accomplice on the inside would go to jail, she finked.

As game time approached, the number of fans holding up hopeful fingers for the number of tickets they wanted had multiplied. The locals were unimpressed. Benji and Jason, brothers who grew up on the South Side going to Sox games and hating the Cubs (on Wrigley field: "It's a beergarden, and it smells like urine"), disparaged all the hopeful finger wavers. "This isn't a Dead Concert, it's pathetic, this is baseball." He did mention though that "if someone's gonna give me $1,000 for a ticket, I'll take it."

After getting quotes on tickets from between $200 and $2000, I changed my strategy from hopeful contender to hapless pity case, and accordingly modified my sign from "I NEED 1" to "I'D LIKE 1." Stakes were high, and with a lone $40 to spend, I was clearly out of the game.