I’ll set the stage: in-laws in town for the turkey; brother-in-law wants to go to the Canucks game; game is sold out (basically); we buy tickets to the football game instead; time passes; we arrive at BC Place, tickets in hand and meet up with Chris.

It was raining a little bit on Saturday evening and Ryan (the tall, gangly one who I can now legally refer to as my brother-in-law) wasn’t sure he wanted to stand at the bus stop getting wet and trying to avoid eye contact with the little man selling vague religious slogans on his hat. We decided to run down Oak street to see if, perchance, we couldn’t meet up with Chris. We missed him, and nearly the bus, and were still a bit winded from our fifteen block sprint when the number seventeen dropped us at the base of Cambie bridge and we strode eagerly to gate G of the stadium.

The thing about football games — and I understand this completely — is that like many sporting events, they tend to attract folks who don’t always behave themselves in public. I usually try and avoid being one of those folks. Maybe it’s a strong sense of public responsibility. Maybe it’s the fact that beer costs more than seven bucks at the game. Either way, I paid my twenty bucks to watch the cheerleaders football game, and I wasn’t planning on causing a riot or anything of that sort.

We handed the ticket guy what he wanted. Patiently endured a free security grope. And then regrouped, all three of us, a few steps away from the low metal gate surrounding the building.

The thing about BC Place is — the thing you really need to know — and would know if you lived in this city and were even slightly privy to even the shallowest bit of Vancouver trivia — is that BC Place, the football stadium, is inflated. The white pillowy marshmallow that is the roof of the mega-complex, is held up, largely, by a whole bucket full of air pressure. Now, I don’t know that I could adequately explain the physics of it here without completely boring my audience, as loyal as you all are, but I do know the following:

a) it takes a whole lot of air pressure to hold up a roof large enough to cover a football stadium, and

b) those revolving doors are there for a reason

Ryan, the aforementioned gangly one, failed to realize either of these simple facts, and instead opened the emergency exit doors. [ Insert large gust of wind here, as BC Place deflates by a fraction of a percent and we come to understand, briefly, what it it must be like to live through a tropical storm. ] My ticket stub blows out of my hand, into the rainy evening, and we manage to pull the door shut seconds before the security guard shows up.

Explain that.

Panicked, I push back outside (with it enough to go through the revolving door this time) and begin searching for my ticket stub.

[ Insert brief conversation with the security guard here. ] Enter police officer.

I won’t detail my conversation with the cop here: it isn’t actually that interesting, and the gist of it was that (a) I was an idiot for going through the wrong door, (b) I should know better, and (c) it should be crystal clear that my “buddies” and I were not to be “wreckin’ up the place.”

Sigh. Ticket(stub)less, I get back into the stadium, and slightly embarrassed we go looking for our seats, the security guard caught up with us a few minutes later to give me back my ticket, and the rest of evening only really got better. But at least we had a good story for Thanksgiving dinner.