Freshman year 1982. My dad comes up for the much-hyped and much anticipated Miami game, but sans ticket. We figured we'd get one outside of the stadium. But after all kinds of hustling, begging, and running back-and-forth in the parking lots, no ticket was still to be found at kick-off time. It was literally impossible to get in.
My dad tells me to go ahead on in and I give him my section number - yes, right at the glorious and historic end line at the north east corner of the stadium (the "This is...THE SWAMP" wall now) - in case a miracle happens and he somehow gets a ticket. Seven minutes into the first quarter, I'm sitting there with my buddies, pretty dejected that my father came all the way from Palm Beach County and ended up not getting in, when all of a sudden we see the visage of my dad trudging up the stairs toward us. We squeeze him in, and witness an absolutely epic game with an amazing finish. With time running out in the fourth quarter and against a furious rush of Hurricane defenders Wayne Peace throws a desperate, high-arching pass to James Jones, who catches it one-handed on a stumbling back-peddle as he slides across the old astro-turf into the end zone directly in front of our seats.
How did my father get in? Well dad - being dad - recognized an opportunity when he saw it and seized it. He saw an ice truck driving in and jumped on the back with a bunch of workers in uniforms. He must've looked completely out of place with his sans-a-belt slacks and golf shirt. A cop pointed to him, he pointed to the guy next to him, the guy next to him pointed to his supervisor, and the rest, as they say, is history, or a very special memory for me. By the time the supervisor realized what was happening the truck had already gotten far enough into the stadium and my dad had hopped off and sprinted toward the stands.
