I was an 11-year-old girl playing on an all-boys little league team when we got wind of an amazing ticket deal to go to an Oakland A’s game. My father, ever the adventurist and one to never pass up a deal, knew we had to go.
He piled four of us and himself in our green Jeep and away we went. A three-and-a-half-hour car ride from Reno, Nev. at that age seemed like an eternity. But I was surrounded by family and little league teammates so I suppose the road trip wasn’t all that bad.
We were greeted by the sales window in which we heard the ticket deal we looked forward to had those specific tickets sold out.