Turns out the waiting line for World Cup tickets was the real group of death

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The plan for Wednesday had been to go into the office. But there was some business to take care of first. I had set a reminder alarm for 7:59 a.m. When a neighbour came by with fresh donuts at exactly that time, I quickly thanked him, sprinting back to the computer. Can’t miss my opportunity to get World Cup tickets, I garbled, mouth half-full.

With a soccer-obsessed teenager, I had been frankly thrilled that the FIFA World Cup was coming to Vancouver. Lucky us! I promised tickets, no matter the cost. I mean, your city hosts World Cup games, your kid loves soccer – how could you not go?

I’ll tell you how.

I had entered every ticket lottery I could find. The one offered by my bank, my credit card. I had exactly as much luck with these lotteries as I’ve had with those where the jackpot is actual money, and not just an opportunity to spend it. But no dice.

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So, Wednesday. A new ticket drop was happening at 8 a.m. I got into the queue. And waited. And waited. “Your position in the queue is secured,” it promised. “Don’t move!” it warned.

I was afraid to leave my desk, afraid to shower. The office? Ha!

I did dash upstairs for my blood-pressure medication. Wise, given the morning’s activity. Which became the afternoon’s activity.

All along, the site encouraged me, in bold: “Almost there…”

By noon, I had been “almost there” for four hours, the red countdown circle of death slowly becoming more and more grey. (As was I.)

“A few minutes” turned out to be 340 minutes, which, call me a linguistic nitpicker, I don’t believe qualifies as “a few.”

Just after 1 p.m., the visible countdown began. I had been on the site, in my chair (with occasional bathroom breaks) for more than five hours.

Finally, at 1:40 p.m. I was allotted five minutes to make my purchase. Alas, every attempt to buy tickets for any Vancouver game led to this: “403 Forbidden – Rate Limit Exceeded″ in bold, in red.

Through seven long minutes of this on repeat came panic. (And relief, when I wasn’t cut off after five minutes.) Then, a break! The system gave me the chance to buy tickets for Switzerland vs. Canada at BC Place on June 24 – my top choice. What a way to celebrate my son’s high-school graduation!

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I could pay $980 per ticket, or $2,450 apiece for better seats. Gulp. Okay, let’s just see what happens, I thought. I tried for two $980 seats, but received another red error message. Only when I clicked on the $2,450 tickets could I get to the point where I could actually buy them. Nearly $5,000 for two tickets.

Son, you know that money I’ve been saving for your tuition next year … ?

My kingdom for a trust fund! (Or, by this point, an adult diaper.)

What would an actual trip to Switzerland cost?

Modify my tickets! Find me cheaper ones! I kept getting the error message. Then, back in! This time, for Canada vs. Qatar on June 18 – for a mere $770 a ticket. “Select a seat,” it instructed. I tried. Oh, I tried. I searched the section that was alleged to have these available tickets. But every seat was greyed out (see hair joke, above).

Loading, loading, my computer kept telling me. Empty me, empty me, my bladder kept begging me.

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I tried a new method: best ticket available. And that’s when I found it: a single ticket for Canada vs. Qatar. Did I want to spend $770 to send my kid to a game alone?

Maybe? Let me think! I clicked on it.

And that’s when I was kicked out, back to the waiting room. Saved by the timer, I guess. To the tune of 800 bucks.

Time: 2:10 p.m. I had been at this for six hours and 10 minutes when I gave up altogether.

Reader, I showered.

My colleague Gary Mason wrote this week about the bad bargain that cities have made to get these World Cup games, costing taxpayers hundreds of millions. At the same time, here in Vancouver, the city is cutting lifeguards from beaches that poor plebs like me can actually afford to use. (They’re free.)

When the sweet kid next door told me about his friend going to the World Cup because his mother is a politician, I smiled and nodded because I did not want to alarm the child. But I was seething. And once inside, I felt like throwing something. What caught my eye? My kid’s soccer ball.

An apt projectile. But what would it cost to fix a window, if I broke it? Less than a couple of World Cup tickets, I now know.