Special Delivery

March 24, 2008

When you look in the mirror do you see the stunning picture of success or an ordinary, perfectly acceptable human who might be missing that little extra ‘something’?

Is the gleam missing from your eyes, the hop missing from your step, and the confidence missing from your posture? I used to be that guy but that’s all about to change.

I’m waiting for the familiar rumble of the UPS truck on my rutted side road, because inside that massive brown truck is proof of my success. And when the overnight envelope drops down next to my front door, I’ll probably giggle a little and start beaming.

For some people this moment would be the delivery of their first book (been there, done that), a diploma that had to get mailed home once class fees or college community service was completed (nope, got my diploma right on stage at Boston Garden, or even divorce papers being dropped off (I don’t have a copy of mine, but it was an uncontested dissolving of a union).

None of those things apply because the envelope that arrives today has tickets inside. Baseball tickets. Baseball season tickets. Baseball box-seat, season tickets. Those tickets are how, in-part, I measure my life accomplishments.

On the list of 100 things to do before I die, season tickets to a sports team have always made the cut. When things like sky-diving dropped off the list, season tickets remained. When driving across the country received a check mark, season tickets moved up in the queue. And when other additions threatened to bump some lesser goals off the list, season tickets were never in danger.

The value of this purchase from a personal perspective is soul-defining. Primarily because my perception of success has been influenced by what I saw around me during high school and college.

Successful people ate out (which may have something to do with my credit card fetish), they traveled a lot (please note that I’ve only been to Europe four times since 2004), they enjoyed the arts (struggling through museums is a favorite pastime), and they had season tickets.

Similar to a season pass on the ski slope, a season ticket affords you choices mere mortals don’t get. Let’s use a baseball season for example. Of 81 home games, you can decide to attend one, some, all or none of the games and still retain the status and power that having tickets delivers.

You can give away seats and garner favors. Or use tickets as gifts when you’ve forgotten an occasion. You can attend games with friends or colleagues. And you can just use the seats alone-giving yourself extra arm and leg-room.

Best of all, you can use the phrase, “I have season tickets.” It’s not quite as impressive as murmuring, “Have you met my girlfriend? She’s a surgeon, massage therapist and world-champion gymnast,” but you get the point.

So, with the sun peeking through the curtains and the team traipsing around Asia, I’m sitting here waiting for a large dirt-colored truck to stop at the house and deliver me a little package of ego.

An overnight delivery of confidence, vim, vigor and happiness.

Until that happens, I can’t be absolutely sure that I’ve made it.