My Lucky Phone

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I am surely jinxing myself by writing this, but I have amazing Cubs ticket karma.

The past two years I have tried to get tickets I have gotten them.  No problem.  Just hit redial about a thousand times and my lucky phone won’t let me down.

I have only gotten through once on the computer, and that was after my “I have great karma getting tickets for other people” friend Debbie made it through the waiting room 3 seconds before me.  That was for playoff seats, and I couldn’t use my lucky phone because it was internet only.  

Every year on single sales morning my sister and I prep for the work ahead.  You have to have the tix # on speed dial on your mobile, your cordless phones need to be fully charged, and your credit card ready.  We will call each other to practice moving from the speaker phone to the handset, just to be sure we don’t cut ourselves off.  Then I put my headphone on for the one phone, limber up my fingers for the speaker phone, and log onto the virtual waiting room.

This year I only had to dial for an hour before getting through for my Cubs vs Indians tickets.  Which, with the Cubs, is almost a land speed record.  Then, I got through again about a half and hour later to get tickets for my sister and her kids.  Mission accomplished, thank you very much.

Every time I have gotten through it has been on my lucky mobile phone.  I don’t know why the baseball gods have blessed this particular piece of junk, but they have.  And now this poses a problem for me. 

I had been thinking of changing providers, or even upgrading to a cooler new phone.  Now, however, it would seem that I have to keep my piece of sh*! phone until it no longer works to get Cubs tickets.  Not that I am complaining.  It is a small price to pay for the ability to speak to those in the great beyond of the Cubs ticket office.  

I am superstitious only when it comes to sports.  Baseball and fishing are about it.  I have some lucky flies for the river, and I adhere to the baseball classics like never stepping on a foul line and never saying someone is pitching a no-hitter/perfect game (because, of course, the minute someone says it, it ends).   And now, it would appear, that my personal electronics have become part of the cloudy fog of sports superstition.

So much for an iPhone.