Over the Borderline: I Got Kicked Out of a Madonna Concert

I was 26, with a new master's in journalism, and I'd been hired by The Daily Commercial in Leesburg, Florida. It wasn't the movers-and-shakers life I'd imagined, but this newspaper was owned by The New York Times Company. Doing a great job could land me a spot at a more prestigious paper.

Thrilled to score a position as an entertainment reporter, I soon discovered this bait-and-switch mostly entailed editing Dear Abby and Heloise, both buried deep in the comics section — not exactly a Pulitzer-launching pad. After months of editing advice on meddling mothers-in-law and sure-fire remedies for ring around the collar, I longed to do what I was hired to do: review concerts and plays I couldn't otherwise afford to attend. So I began researching bands and Broadway tours coming to Florida, then relentlessly went to work on my editor. At last, I convinced him to let me review Madonna's "Who's That Girl" tour at the Orange Bowl in Miami.

On the day of the concert, I was giddy with excitement as I retrieved my first press pass from will call. Proudly placing it around my neck, I fondled its plastic loveliness like an adolescent girl twirling her hair. But when I got to my assigned stadium seat, I was appalled to see they had put me — the PRESS — in nosebleed country. I had to squint to bring Madonna into focus. It was like looking through a microscope, trying to make out a Ripley's-Believe-It-Or-Not mural on a grain of rice.

So I did what any other temporarily insane 20-something might do. I flashed my press pass to anyone standing between me and the Material Girl. "Excuse me" … "Pardon me" … "Pardon me" … "Excuse Me" … "Press coming through."

Making my way onto the floor and in front of the stage, I was so close to Madonna I could count the stitches on her torpedo-boob bustier. Fans danced with their hands in the air, and I followed suit, stopping every few beats to take notes on my steno pad. 

Guards lined the foot of the stage, keeping concertgoers behind a yellow line. A born rule follower, I stood as close to that golden boundary as possible, without going over. But the crowd took on a life of its own, and I was soon tossed out of the safety zone. The next thing I knew, Madonna's fishnet stockings were disappearing into the distance, and I was flanked by two security brutes, being escorted through a tunnel and out of the stadium. 

What? Did that just happen? I was a "good girl" — a five-foot-two people pleaser who peddled Thin Mints until the 12 grade. I was that kid who clocked extra hours with my night brace by wearing it outside to play. Now I was a security threat?  

The outside of the stadium was dark and desolate. Terrified, pulse racing, I skittishly speed-walked around to the entrance, but security wouldn't let me through with a ripped ticket. I flashed my press pass; they weren't impressed. I showed off my notepad; they were unmoved. 

My six-month journalism career flashed before my eyes. If I didn't get back into that stadium, I'd be kicked out of the news business before I'd ever gotten in.  

Tears trickled as I imagined returning to my paper without a story. Surely, I'd be fired. Estranged from my family, I was on my own, with nowhere to go. I envisioned my future, sleeping under a filthy bridge, trying to score spare change cleaning windshields with a dirty rag. 

An hour later, seeing the snotty, pitiful mess that was me, security let me pass. Beelining up the escalator to my crappy seat in the sky, I was just in time for the encore. 

On my way home that night, karma taught me one final lesson. Traversing the dark, deserted stretch of interstate known as Alligator Alley, I ran over one of its namesake reptiles and broke the chassis on my '72 Oldsmobile Cutlass — a bright orange, spray-painted beater already dying from a slow leak of radiator fluid. Terrified to exit my car on a pitch-black road full of hungry amphibians, I sputtered north on a prayer, arriving back in my newsroom at dawn. 

So what's a reporter to do with just a few hours to file a story about an event she essentially missed? Choice A: Go to the editor, fess up and let the paper fill the hole with a story from the newswire. But fear took over. My student loans were due. I had no savings and no safety net. And now there would be expensive car repairs on a cub reporter's salary. 

Panic struck, and I entered survival mode: Choice B. I arrived at my desk early enough to read reviews in every morning edition of every newspaper that covered the concert. Mine was an afternoon paper, buying me time to Frankenstein everyone else's thoughts into one cohesive string, put it mostly in my own words, and file my story. 

That afternoon, arriving back from lunch, I was greeted by my usual copy of the day's edition on my chair. I opened it to my review and saw several sections circled in red — all those that looked eerily similar to the review in The Miami Herald. My gut felt as twisted as my fender. 

All afternoon, I waited to be called in to the features editor … or worse, the managing editor … or even worse, the editor-in-chief. But the summoning never came. Someone had given me a second chance. But who? For the remainder of my time at that paper, I felt branded with a large, invisible "P." I was the worst kind of second-rate writer — a plagiarizer — and the shame and guilt felt more horrible than getting caught. 

More than three decades later, I have compassion for that terrified young girl. She was a scrappy survivor, so focused on covering her tracks that the reporter in her, trained to follow a lead, missed the real story. 

Today I would race into my editor's office, regale every self-deprecating detail of getting thrown out of that stadium, share a laugh at my own expense, and take readers on a hilarious journey. Instead of living with shame, I would have the opportunity to learn my lesson and teach one in the same day.  

The irony isn't lost on me. Madonna sang about being "like a virgin"; I actually was one! Her lyrics bragged "bad girl, drunk by six," while I barely dipped my pinky in the Manischewitz at Passover. I'd been a good girl all my life, only to get kicked out of the ultimate bad girl's concert — all because, for one fleeting moment, I wanted to feel important. I craved my moment in the spotlight and found myself in the shadows. 

It's funny how great that crummy seat felt when I finally got back into that stadium. At 60, I finally understand that for everything age strips away — taut skin; thick, luminous hair; an inch of height — it bestows the gift of perspective. 

Sometimes circumstances don't turn out as planned. But sometimes, life gives you a story that is so much better than the one you set out to tell.