I pulled into the Wilson parking lot behind the tennis courts and into the spot closest to Cameron, right next to Coach K's car. Already excited to be going to my first-ever Duke homecoming football game, I was even more thrilled after scoring the best parking spot on campus. As soon as I got out of the car, however, I heard a low voice shout in my direction.
"Hey, buddy! You want a ticket?" Although the man's tone was appalling enough, what was even more outrageous was that the man trying to scalp me tickets just outside the stadium gates was an on-duty police officer. I didn't even give him the courtesy of an answer as I turned and walked away.
It wasn't until I came back to my car at halftime that I realized that the officer, clearly out of spite, had given me a parking citation for $300. Furious, I decided right there and then that I would fight it.
Should I go online and arrange a hearing to appeal the ticket? Too conventional. Should I seek out the officer and report him for ticket scalping? Too confrontational. Should I take my complaint straight to President Richard Brodhead's desk and demand a policy change? Too bureaucratic.
No, I needed a solution with immediate results. I needed something that would clearly get my point across. Just then I heard the band begin to march onto the field for the halftime show. I immediately started running back to Wallace Wade with a plan in mind.
Just as there was a brief lull in between songs, I came sprinting out of the stands and onto the field wearing nothing but my shoes and socks. Almost immediately, a team of 11 security guards and police officers rushed onto the field from the far end zone. I stood there for a short moment on the 5-yard line, studying their formation. Even though I had never played organized football before, I remember seeing the X's and O's formulate in my head. All of a sudden something clicked-I knew exactly what to do.
I remember it like it was yesterday. The crowd was on their feet cheering me on. The band even stopped playing momentarily to give me a drum roll. All eyes were on me. Then it happened. As my opponents and I met around mid field, I couldn't be touched. I was shaking and baking every which way, throwing in spin moves and cutbacks all over the place and weaving in and out of the woodwind section of the band for blocking when needed. I was surprising even myself.
Suddenly I heard the crowd's volume reach a whole new level. I looked up and realized that there was only one man left separating me from the end zone. I was going for a touchdown.
I looked up at the jumbotron and saw a zoomed-in shot of my opponent's face. I froze. It was the same police officer that had tried to scalp me tickets earlier-Sergeant Flemmingsdale. Immediately things became personal.
I slowed down and got close enough to him so that I could see the whites of his eyes. It was clear that we both knew what was at stake. Feeding purely off of the energy of the crowd, I made a quick fake left and then spun around on one foot and started heading for the right corner of the end zone. Flemmingsdale didn't know what had hit him. Touchdown.
As the band queued up the fight song and I started into my celebration dance, a sudden roar of boos came over the crowd. I looked back and saw a yellow flag resting in the middle of the field. Apparently one of the clarinet players had been called for holding back at the 35-yard line. The touchdown was being called back.
I never got the $300 parking ticket revoked-in fact, that $300 was small potatoes compared to the fines and court fees that I racked up for obstruction of justice, public indecency and seven other misdemeanor offenses. Nevertheless, I was carried off the field that day in front of 30,000-plus with a sense of accomplishment. It was a lesson that taught me all too starkly that sometimes taking a stand means stripping down and running the ball up the field on your own.
Nick Alexander is a Pratt junior. His column runs every other Friday.
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