Don't worry about whether we got into the game. Seven more tickets later, we got in.
Worry about whether I survived picking up a 200-pound retired roller derby bruiser when she fell from the (really steep) seats above and behind us onto Drew and nearly caused a domino effect all the way to the field (sort of a wave gone horribly, vertically wrong). Somehow she landed on her back, so I had to grab her around the shoulders and heave her back to a standing position like Dracula coming out of his coffin.
She survived with her beer still firmly in hand.
My shoulder is a little sore, but otherwise I am fine. I fully expected it to happen. I always sit behind the drunkest, foulest-mouthed houligan in the stadium. Who knew this time it would be a 50-year-old woman from St. Louis?
The game was the best kind: close but with a happy ending.
Maurice Morris gets no respect.