Lightning

Worth the wait

The most daunting Lightning line? Vinny, Marty and Ruslan? Try the one to get $8 tickets.

TAMPA - They come full of passion and pride, dressed in their finest silver and black, ready for the long haul.

Gathered outside the St. Pete Times Forum, they regale neophytes with stories from past campaigns. Each Lightning victory swells the line.

They have all come back for the same thing: cheap hockey playoff tickets.

At 9 a.m. on the day of the game, the Lightning sells 200 tickets for the bargain rate of $8, with a limit of two per customer.

So they all know, with the certainty of a Pavel Kubina slap shot, that only the first 100 or so people in line will walk away happy. Many arrive hours before the box office opens. They join the impromptu pajama party, toting tents and sleeping bags.

Some have elevated waiting to an art form.

"It's about a good time killing time," said Guy Aubrey, 45, an ordained minister back for his sixth wait.

Friday, 5 a.m.: Joseba Aguirrezabal becomes the first in line. That's 5 a.m. the day before the game, a full 28 hours before the tickets go on sale, 34 hours before the first puck drops. The next arrival won't show up until 8 a.m.

This is Aguirrezabal's fifth time in the line since the 2004 playoffs began. That's every home game, except one.

His first try - game one of the Islanders' series - did not work out so well. He had been well positioned near the front of the line with a $20 bill in his pocket, ready to buy two tickets, one for him and one for his sister. At $9.75 each - $8 plus a $1.75 service charge - he thought he had it covered. After 11 hours in line, the box office doors opened.

"Two, please," Aguirrezabal said.

"That'll be $23.50," the ticket vendor replied.

His heart sank, like a goalie who has let in a softy between the pads. He had done the calculations. He had done his time. How could this be?

An extra $2 game day service charge, he was told.

Aguirrezabal pleaded, briefly, feeling the pressure from the line to move on. He left, head down. He couldn't buy just one and leave his sister high and dry. Minutes later, the box office stopped charging the extra service charge. It was too late. He was gone.

The setback was only temporary. He was back two days later. Fifth in line and enough cash in his pocket. And he keeps returning, with his book bag, football, deodorant and a change of shirt.

"I'm broke. I have no money," said Aguirrezabal, a student at Hillsborough Community College. "I'm one of those people who really love the Lightning, but cannot afford it. This is the only way."

3 p.m.: Hockey Hall of Famer and Lightning broadcaster Phil Esposito bounds toward the box office in shorts and a loose shirt. A man in line asks for an autograph. In a hurry, Esposito still obliges.

"Have fun at the game," he tells the autograph seeker.

4:07 p.m.: The ice resurfacing machine dumps a pile of fresh ice shavings in the middle of the concourse to cheers from the fans. The older ones use the new bounty in their coolers. The younger ones start a snowball fight. The main target: a beaten up car that the Lightning brass had painted with a Flyers logo and left for fans to abuse.

Before the snow arrived, a mother was quizzing her 12-year-old son on homework problems. The snow beckoned. "Go on," she said.

She and her husband came to the Times Forum in the morning to buy four regular tickets. When they discovered the cost (about $68 each) they hatched a new plan: join the line. She picked her son up from school and left the decision to camp out over night to him. For a 12-year-old hockey fan, it was a no-brainer.

They were in for the duration. "Family time," she called it.

5:12 p.m.: It's easy to tell the newbies from the veterans. A newbie comes with a chair, a blanket, something to read and maybe a box of Krispy Kremes. Veterans bring tents, inflatable mattresses, TVs, DVDs, video games, folding tables, ice, electric fans, grills, adult beverages and a cornucopia of sausage products.

The vets talk with a confidence about how the night will unfold. "Things get a bit rowdy, but nothing out of hand," one says. "They did tip over a car during the Montreal series."

The vets willingly share their hard-found knowledge with any interested newbie: Don't set up in front of any exit doors. The line numbers get handed out about 7 a.m. No number, no tickets. The Marriott Hotel has clean bathrooms and good coffee. Don't worry about bugs, the breeze keeps them away.

The crowd, on the whole, is on the young side. Lots of college students. Some high-schoolers. Most are so young they never could have seen Bobby Orr or Guy Lafleur play hockey. One wonders in jest if the latter is the name of a drink, unaware that Lafleur was an amped-up version of Martin St. Louis in the 1970s.

There are a sprinkling of older fans, most migrants from the North. They grew up on a steady diet of Denis Potvin, Bobby Clarke and Mike Bossy. They remember Cam Neely and the young Mario Lemieux, the one before the ailing back.

Most are in the line for a second, third or fourth time. They came for the cheap tickets, but the camaraderie helps get them through to the morning. When a veteran rolls up, the other vets greet them with a hardy hello and help them set up.

Shawn Munsen arrives with four young boys, three of his and a family friend. He knows the challenge of the next 16 hours will be a keeping them occupied. They have a large tent and video games.

"It's for them," Munsen says when asked why he'd line up for so long. "Okay, it's really for me. But it's for them, too."

7:53 p.m.: The line snakes from the box office doors along the side of the Times Forum, across the concourse nearly to the parking garage. At a maximum of two tickets each, the first 100 people in line could gobble them all up. Still, optimists join the line.

Jake Wilby and his two buddies arrive with folding chairs, a cooler and several bags of Doritos.

"We're good. We're good. Just fine," Wilby says, quickly counting the people in front of him.

Another group sets up shop behind them.

"See, we're not the only people with high hopes," he says.

10:30 p.m.: A young woman walks up on the scene toting a folding chair under one arm, a blanket under the other, and towing a suitcase on wheels. As she surveys the line, her chihuahua tugs on its leash. She utters a series of expletives. She notices that a few people sitting nearby have overheard her disappointment.

"I guess I'm too late," she says sheepishly, and walks away in the direction of her car, dragging the chihuahua behind her.

10:51 p.m.: A dozen or so revelers start stomping on the old car, the one painted with the Flyers logo. They pound on the doors and tear away part of the front bumper. A minute later someone calls out.

"Let's flip it."

They gather on one side of the car. Phil Borycens, 20, who has set up his drum kit nearby, beats out an encouraging rhythm. After a couple of attempts, the car ends up on its roof. Borycens blasts through a quick solo as the crowd cheers.

Saturday, 2:35 a.m.: A half-dozen raucous Flyers fans walk through the concourse. Verbal sparring breaks out. The yelling escalates.

The line takes up a mildly lewd chant that echoes on the Times Forum walls. The Flyers fans walk away.

Minutes later, the PA system from the bar across the street comes alive. "You are the most diehard Lightning fans I've ever seen," the speaker says. "Come over for free beer. I mean it, free beer."

It takes a bit of coaxing, but a crowd begins crossing the deserted street. Soon, a woman is dancing on top of the bar.

7:17 a.m.: The head of security comes out to announce the imminent distribution of the line numbers. The numbers represent your place in line, the key to getting two of the 200 tickets. Other than a few standing-room-only and scattered single tickets, the game is sold out. The 200 cheap tickets are the last resort. Miss out and you're out of luck.

As the veterans had mentioned, a few "leaches" float toward the front of the line.

"No way, man," one woman says to a man in a Lightning jersey. "You weren't here overnight. You don't get to butt in line."

With that, the man walks toward the back, shamed by the calling out. He doesn't get tickets.

Two hours later, the box office opens. The bleary-eyed shuffle in. Aguirrezabal gets his tickets. As does Aubrey and the Munsen crew. Even Wilby and his buddies luck out, though just barely.

"That's what it's all about," he yells, holding his tickets in the air.

3:12 p.m.: The Lightning play the first and part of the second periods as if they had slept outside on the pavement. Sluggish and out of synch.

The fans from the lineup, though, cheer wildly throughout, slamming their thunder sticks together. A few take cat naps during the two intermissions. Others use liquid refreshments to remain on their game.

The final seconds tick away. The Lightning win 3-1.

Aguirrezabal exits the Forum and immediately secures a front spot in the lineup for Monday's game. He has his bookbag, football, deodorant and will secure another clean shirt.

Is it all worth it?

"Hell, yeah," he says with a smile.

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