Have you ever been to the "expensive level" of a professional sports arena? My visit to the Club Level at Qwest Field in Seattle was a first for me. Maria and I signed up to participate in a fund-raising concessions stand at Qwest Field, and each time several of our friends graciously worked along side us. Each person who came with us added to our portion of the profits from the concessions. This amount was received at the JRP offices and added to our personal LA trip account .
Unfortunately, James, at 17 years of age was not allowed by Qwest Field HR to work in the concessions stand. Because Maria and I were both over age 21 we were assigned to work at the front counter. Those people ages 18-20 worked in the background putting hot dogs in the steamer, heating up pretzels, passing food orders to those at the counter and restocking paper products. There were also salaried cooks employed by the restaurant contractor at Qwest Field who cooked the mini pizzas and the panini sandwiches. There was a "parent volunteer", an extremely patient woman, who organized the changing collection of volunteers week after week.
I went into this project with gnawing trepidation. I have a phobia with numbers and most things mathematical. I think it's an ADD-ish thing...( not meant as a pun, I mean a brain functioning thing...) If you want to raise my pulse all you need to do is put a Suduko grid in front of my eyes.
I was depending on our concessions efforts, combined with our friends', to be a major part of our fund-raising. Driving up to Qwest Field I had great hopes that I could just be in the background cooking hot dogs and pretzels. Imagining a possible assignment as a cashier at the front counter caused me anxiety. I took slow breaths and reminded myself that I knew how to (slowly) count change, and using a digital cash register should make everything easy. I was passionate and determined to be successful at this for myself and my kids. I would even do math to get my kids to that performance stage in Los Angeles.
At Qwest Field we worked at Seahawks' football games and Seattle Sounders' soccer games. Our family's opportunities to fund raise in this way were limited because we were only able to work on Saturdays. Most games fell on Sunday. We are devout members of the LDS (Mormon) faith and use the Sabbath to focus on worship and spiritual rejuvenation. We choose to avoid things like shopping on Sunday or sporting events on Sunday, etc.
Even as a non-fan it was interesting to me to be a part of the Qwest Field behind-the-scenes game day. The only sporting events that truly interest me are those in which my children participate. I'd never pay the exorbitant price to watch a professional game because know that I would zone out, daydream and miss the game. It would be a waste of money. Also--this is weird, but--I really don't care who wins. Okay....well, I care if Brigham Young University teams beat the University of Utah sports teams, and the University of Washington Huskies make me happy, but I still don't think I could pay attention at any of their games either.
Here is how things went on game day: We were given the location of free parking for workers at the field. This location changed from game to game and sometimes involved quite a walk through Seattle. (And it was always sunny, no kidding.) Concessions workers were required to wear black pants and shoes and white shirts. On game day there was always a mass processional of uniformly dressed people strolling from the parking garage towards the venue. We were required to arrive at the field hours before the game, walking past security guards and barricades posted in preparation for the crowds of spectators.
Qwest Field is huge, clean and beautifully landscaped. It is next to the Seattle Mariner's sports arena, also a lovely, mammoth complex. There are huge banners displayed of individual sports figures whose names are familiar even to me, non-fan that I am. Even I felt a sense of excitement walking past Security and into the private back doors to Qwest Field.
We walked along a vast, cement corridor that encircled the stadium below the tiered seating. Suddenly there was an open space to my right. There was the players' broad, open walkway to the field! The grass was bright green, the seating rose steeply to glassed-in viewing boxes above. I was not prepared for the breath-taking size of the stadium. I wanted to run out on the field and sing the National Anthem.
Stern-faced, beefy security guards stationed near the players' locker room glared at me when I slowed my pace at the field entrance. I smiled, and hurried to catch up with my group heading towards the mammoth freight elevator.
We rode the elevator to the Third level, the Club Level. Spectator tickets at this level are pricey, and I was always amazed at the number of fans that crowded that area on game day. Here the corridor also encircled the stadium seating, but it is lushly carpeted and softly lit like the hushed hallway of an expensive hotel. We walked past a large open restaurant area with giant plate-glass windows overlooking the field. We walked past several closed doors. One opened, a waiter came out and looking in, I saw it was a box seating room--cushioned chairs and a large window over-looking the field far below. It seemed odd to me that people would pay so much money to sit so high above the field and watch the (at that distance) tiny-figured players from behind a glass window. Wouldn't that be the same as watching the game from the cushioned recliner in your home, on television, for free?
We continued our walk past other concessions stands, these were like large "food court" type eateries in a carpeted, lush environment. The back space of our concession stand was surprisingly small, warm and cramped. There were commercial refrigerators, steamers, and big ovens with racks of trays filled with giant pretzels, heating. Our first discouraging assignment was Inventory. Each paper cup, pretzel tray, frozen pizza, case of hotdogs, etc, etc had to be carefully counted both before the game and at closing time.
Duty assignments were also given. Everyone over 21 was required to man a cash register at the front counter. My heart began pounding faster, I realized that there was a separate key on the register for every item, even for each flavor of pop, and the printing on the keys tiny and abbreviated...math skills, memory skills, swift dexterity...oh, no. At the register the duty included happily greeting customers, taking their order, helping assemble the order, getting their drinks and processing their money or credit card. Additionally, we needed to ask for ID of those ordering beer, and check the ID for the correct birth year. We would be fired on the spot if we served anyone under-age, (even if it was a math calculation error), plus--throughout the evening there would be under-age "plants" testing for our ID compliance along with follow-ups by liquor control officers.
My anxiety level increased. Then I realized that in addition to serving bottles of pop and occasional cups of coffee, we cashiers also served beer, pouring it into open cups. Okay. wow.... So another new territory. I told the group leader that I was Mormon, and didn't even drink beer....could I just go in the back and put hot dogs in the steamer?
"We don't want you to drink the beer, just serve it. We need you to cashier."
Maria and I looked at each other. She smiled. I reflected on the fact that, due to my personal and religious code of health, I also don't drink caffeinated drinks like Coke or coffee, but if a customer ordered one I would serve it without much thought. So, beer is just another beverage to the customer, right?
Maria and I were given cups to practice pouring beer.Our leader demonstrated the technique. I tilted the cup at an angle under the beer faucet. I pulled down the large porcelin handle and watched the beer pour into the clear cup. At a precise moment, I learned that if you suddenly righted the angled cup, the level of foam at the top of the drink was greatly reduced. I knew anecdotaly that beer drinkers didn't like foam on their drink. I decided that if I had to serve beer I would do the best job I could. All night long I practiced with each customer and very quickly learned when to tilt the cup, only leaving a scant 1/8" foam head. One man watching my skill switched to my register to benefit from my precision.
Pouring with accuracy was a game for Maria and I, and it makes me smile that she and I, the Mormons, have this newly discovered knack.
My fears regarding the cash register also receded, though there were occasional keying and money mishaps. I never, however, got over my trepidation regarding ID checking. I was so afraid of making a mistake, that I asked for ID from pretty much every person that didn't look elderly. That seemed to make most people cheerful, thinking they looked so young.
There were large, flat-screen TVs everywhere to watch the game action, and just to our right were large glass doors through which the periodic sounds of the crowd cheering caused our waiting customers to also break out in cheers. It was a festive atmosphere. It was also touching to me to see how many families, with both parents, were there with young children, realizing the financial cost it was for them all to be there. It was also very sweet to observe the enthusiasm of fathers and young sons sharing the fun of the day with each other.
When the game was over we had Inventory all over again, re-counting every item, even the burnt pizzas that got tossed in the discard box. The Club Level emptied out fairly quickly post-game. Occasionally I would stand at the large glass doors over-looking the confetti strewn field and just admire the vastness of a place I had only seen on television.
We were all exhausted, with aching feet, at the conclusion of cleanup and Inventory. It was more than an hour after the game's end that we were able to walk back to our car and drive the two hours home. I am still in awe of the kindness of our many friends who volunteered to help us each time we asked, just so we could participate in the LA experience.
