Near Miss

I understand disappointment. I comprehend regret. I grok despair. That's why my empathy gland swelled when I read the story of one man's search for Bruce, and the crushing loss he felt when he was turned away at the last possible moment. A long time ago, I reconciled myself to a Bruce-less existence. I lived in Colorado, after all and it was possible back then to count the times that the Boss had visited the Centennial State on one hand. I had heard the apocryphal tale of a fan who hung around after a show and was eventually rewarded with the appearance of Mister Springsteen himself, who accepted this fan's invitation to dinner and a movie. A dream date with the Boss. They went to see "Annie Hall." They had dinner this guy's parents. And it all took place in Denver.
Or so they say. Growing up in Boulder, most everyone in that town had a Dan Fogleberg story. This guy sold Dan some hiking boots. This girl who brought him frozen yogurt. He was everywhere, but I never met him. Even if it had been my wish. That's kind of what I imagined would happen if I decided to hang around the Jersey Shore. I probably would trip over Snookie or "The Situation," or even Dan Fogleberg before I had a chance encounter with Springsteen. I could sit at the door of the Stone Pony for weeks at a time, and the moment that I moved left or right, that would be the time that Bruce Springsteen would amble on in and play a three hour set. With me on the outside. Just like the guy in the story.
I know that there are plenty of people, the couple hundred who watched Alejandro Escovedo and Bruce tear through "Beast of Burden." I know it wasn't me, and I suppose I'm happy to know that it wasn't a lot of other people too.