SECTION: Sports; Pg. 40

LENGTH: 552 words

HEADLINE: RESERVE TICKET DOESN'T SIT WELL

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


I HAVE HAD some trouble sleeping, and it is not just because the dog is scratching herself in my ear.

The World Series, sports' biggest bachelor party, is coming to my home. Like the other bleacher creatures, I feel great pressure to become the perfect host, to create a nurturing, yet utterly hostile, atmosphere. What will I wear?

"You're not wearing your good pants," my wife says. She has just brought them back from the dry cleaners. The bubble gum stain from Game 1 vs. Texas is almost gone.

"I can't believe you ever wore them to the bleachers," she says. "What were you thinking?"

All right, she has a point which she is belaboring, as usual. I was a rookie then. Now, two series later, I understand the concept of dressing down for success. I understand a lot, now.

I spend my days imagining new chants, wishing that David Justice was healthy and that Halle Berry was fair game. Jermaine Dye has a first name that begs for nasty poetry. But I don't even know the name of his girlfriend.

The nights are harder for me. I spend them facing down my worst fears, considering the awful possibility of defeat.

There are so many reasons to hate the Braves, even if you are not a Native American:

Ted Turner, the self-appointed juror of good taste in television and cinematic programming. Let him try to censor us.

Jane Fonda, the tomahawk chopper, seller of cookbooks, rubbery product of the nip and tuck. The Bleacher Creature feels sick every time he sees her '90's manifestation.

Then, there are those Atlanta pitchers. Everywhere you look. Starting pitchers.

I remember interviewing Tom Glavine in Atlanta, just before the Olympics. He didn't seem like such a bad guy then. I must have been blind.

I have a recurring nightmare, the real reason for my sleep deprivation: I am at the bleacher turnstile for Game 1 of the Series, Andy Pettitte is working a full count, and I am being told that my ticket is not for the bleachers, that it is for a so-called "better" seat.

It is worse than a nightmare. It is a real possibility.

I was so busy interviewing bleacher creatures on line getting their Series tickets, all I could manage for myself was a $ 45 reserved seat in the main stands.

A seat with a back on it. A seat with space for my knees. A seat without a guaranteed puddle of beer.

How despicable.

I am going to the game tonight, praying I can remedy this situation hours before the start. I must find some disloyal creature willing to exchange his bleacher seat for a more expensive ticket. I must trade down.

This is just what I don't need right now: a distraction. All my energy should be focused on the task at hand, on creating the sort of energy that destroys opposing outfielders and allows the Yankees to thrive.

My children, my wife, must live their lives without me for one more week.

I went out behind the bleachers yesterday afternoon, walked along River Ave., because I couldn't stay away any longer. White banners hung everywhere. The scalpers had been rousted by police, after all the publicity about counterfeit tickets.

The creature within me experienced a sudden sense of serenity. If only I could have bunked down right there, I would have slept at last.

The sleep of creatures.

Note: Bleacher Creature



GRAPHIC: ILLUSTRATION BY ED MURAWINSKI

LOAD-DATE: October 20, 1996