I Love Sting

Last week, my son and I went to see "The Police" in concert and I found myself blissfully transported back to one of those adolescent days that makes you shake your head as an adult.

It was August 13th, 1982 and blistering hot. I was fifteen, terminally irresponsible and like most teenagers, I had no sense of my own mortality. My friend, Katie and I began our day by boarding the Go Train in Oshawa, Ontario. We were headed to Toronto to the CN Exhibition Centre to attend the "Police Picnic".

When I asked my dad if I could go, I think he assumed that it was some sort of law enforcement shindig and I didn't particularly want to disabuse him of that idea. After all, the vision of a clean cut crowd with no drugs or alcohol was far more palatable than a stadium full of rowdies watching a concert and passing the dutchie. Bad, bad daughter.

He eventually learned that I was going to a music event and he asked about the seats. He was insistent that if he was to allow me to go, we had to be in fixed seats and not in the mêlée that was general admission. I told him that yes, we had proper seats but no, he couldn't see my ticket to verify because Katie's sister had purchased them and we were to meet her there to pick them up. LIAR! (And this is why I expect to walk through the fires of hell with my own children. It's all about karma, people.)

Anyway, we boarded and settled into our seats with the Saturday comics. Then, we did some illegal drugs. (Yes, you read that right. What can I say? I was a train wreck as a teenager.)

We arrived at the stadium and were herded with 25,000 other people onto the field portion of the arena which was general admission. This meant that we did not have seats. We were to stand. Like pink flamingos. For hours. One advantage was that we had the ability to push towards the stage with the crowd. One major disadvantage was that the concert started at two o'clock int he afternoon and finished at eleven in the evening. It was beyond exhausting to stay upright for the entire time.

I didn't.

I was doing pretty well up until about seven in the evening. I had suffered through forty five minutes of A Flock of Seagulls:


(there is very little in the way of kind words to describe the fashion disaster that was the 80's pop band)

I watched Joan Jett and the Blackhearts get booed off the stage for doing a cover of the Who's "Summertime Blues":


(If I'd had produce with me, I might have thrown it.)

I danced through the English Beat's entire set:

(Spot on example of 80's dance moves that I practiced in front of a mirror. Who knew that I could have stuck my finger in a light socket and achieved the same technique?)

Finally, after nearly seven hours in the heat and humidity with very little water and absolutely no food, I found myself lightheaded. The Talking Heads came on and the crowd lurched towards the stage. I lost Katie in the madness and at one point, I was lifted off my feet and propelled forward by the crush of people. I found myself about three yards from the barrier lined with security and then,

I fainted.

The next thing I knew, I could feel hand after hand on my head, my back, my legs and my bottom. I opened my eyes and instantly understood that I had been lifted up and was being passed forward to the medics on the other side of the barrier. I lost my concert program and my Adidas jacket during this little fiasco but on the plus side, I did manage to get close enough to David Byre to see the sweat roll off the tip of his very straight nose.



While sitting in the back of an open door ambulance drinking water and munching on a granola bar, the lights dimmed and the opening few bars of "Don't Stand So Close To Me" could be heard. The crowd went wild. I turned to the medic and told him that I felt fine. He suggested it might be better for me to stay put for a while. I wasn't sure if he could make me do that but I wasn't willing to take any chances so the second he turned his back to attend to another patient, I bolted from the ambulance and headed for the nearest exit back out onto the field. With a cursory look at my ticket, the security guy opened the gate. I worked my way to within twenty feet of the stage and quickly made friends with a tall red headed boy from Milton. I watched the rest of the concert from his shoulders.

I clung to the hope that Sting would spot me in the crowd, recognize that I was his soul mate and send a roadie to give me a backstage pass. Several times during their performance, the spotlights swept the crowd and each time it landed on me I shrieked, "I LOVE YOU STING!!!" But alas, it was not meant to be. He married a different blonde and they have been a tantric twosome for nearly thirty years. Whatever.

I met Katie after the concert (at a spot we had designated in the event that we got separated) and we slept for the entire train ride back to Oshawa. Her mum picked us up at the station and dropped me at my house. As I approached our front door, I noticed luggage sitting in the vestibule. It seems my father had seen me on the evening news on top of Red's shoulders and apparently, it was the last straw for him. The bags packed on the front stoop were mine. After much begging, tears and promises to "get my act together", he opened the door and I was fortunate enough to lay my head down on my own bed, grateful to have dodged another bullet. I went to sleep replaying the concert in my mind.

So last week Dylan and I got to see The Police. My boy watched in amazement as thousands of other middle aged folks like his mum jumped to their feet dancing, whistling and singing every note right along with the band. Oh sure, The Police had aged in the twenty plus years since they last toured. Sting's beard is now gray, Stewart Copeland wears glasses and Andy Summers has developed jowls but age hasn't affected their performance at all. They ROCKED the place. And Sting is still one of the sexiest men on the planet, although I no longer wish to bear his children.

I was hooting like a school girl and Dylan was obviously surprised to see this side of me. At the end of the concert I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, "I LOVE YOU STING!" Dylan's jaw dropped. "What?" I said. He just shook his head, his eyes wide. I firmly believe that it is every parent's duty to embarrass their children. It's how they learn humility. I wanted to tell him that it could have been much, much worse but as we drove home, I was preoccupied replaying the concert in my head.