As we got closer to the gates, people were walking towards us. “Standing room only,” they sighed as we walked past. We shrugged. We didn’t care if we had to stand, we were excited about seeing this piece of American culture first hand.

We arrived to shut doors. The security guards weren’t letting anyone else in. Was this like baseball, where you can’t go to your seat when a batter was in the box? Somehow I didn’t think so…

It was almost a mob scene. People locked outside the doors were waving tickets, pushing closer to the doors, screaming, “We have tickets. Let us in.” Surely there was some mistake. Why were the doors closed?

Someone opened one of the doors. Kim and I made a bolt for it, skirting past the security guards who said, “Hey, you can’t do that.” We were inside, plotting to get the other seven in. They were outside, waiting in line for a refund. Money in hand, they were about to call us to come out when a policeman said, “Follow me,” to the madding crowd. They followed. He swung open a large cow gate and began taking tickets. The seven hung back, wondering what their next move should be. The policeman shut the gate and wandered back to the main entrance. Stas walked over to the gate, rattled the handle, noticed it was unlocked, and walked in, followed by the other six. The security guard glanced up, more interested in his hot dog than in protecting the monster trucks.

“we r n” read the text message. A night of whooping and hollerin ensued.

Big truck.

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