I got to the front of the ticket line
and pulled out a crumpled twenty.
The cheerful young man said,
“Oh, no. Gotta use your phone.”
He sat behind a window at Wrigley Field,
Selling entrance to hapless souls like me.
I fished out my ancient device,
The kind kids now relish as dumb.
“No smart phone? You know, with apps?”
He asked, his smile a bit more patronizing.
“Can you puh-leeez take cash for a paper ticket?”
I pleaded, praying for a physical keepsake.
As he conferred with his even younger superior,
I remembered my first games at the old ballpark.
Back in the day, a surprise awaited me in the mailbox:
A Luddite’s ticket, including the stub with a rain check;
“Cubs” encircled in red v. the visiting team logo;
Seat location, and wait … the price under five bucks.
The kid disturbed my reverie. “Boss says you need a phone.
Or you can pay an extra five dollars to print a ticket.”
I sighed and added a Lincoln note to the Jackson.
He heartlessly returned the sigh. “Wrigley’s cashless.”
My tickets of yore now serve as bookmarks.
“Admit one,” they mark the passing of pages.
You too can use an old ticket as a bookmark by buying Dr. Oza’s alternative Cubs history, Double Play on the Red Line.