by Deb Ashmore, Director, Individual Giving, XPN

The first time I saw a picture of Bruce Springsteen I was a little girl in my best friend’s bedroom that she shared with her older sister. At the time, my prized possession was my Shaun Cassidy album. It would take a few more years before adolescence and the addled essence of a working class neighborhood would draw me from “Da Do Run Run” to “Born to Run”.

By the time Born in the USA came out I had made the pilgrimage to Springsteen’s home in New Jersey and stolen rocks from his drive way, I had mantras from his lyrics to help me through specific tasks (if you hit the quarter exactly on the word ‘bow’ from ‘tie your hair back in a long white bow’ you are almost guaranteed a clean shot) and a motorcycle was a necessary accessory for any potential suitor.

The night before tickets went on sale for the Born in the USA tour, I spent the night at a girlfriend’s house. We woke the next day at an ungodly hour and spent the next nine hours waiting in line. As we neared the ticket counter, exhausted, dehydrated and desperate for a smoke the news spread as my heart broke – sold out.

A permanent cloud was cast over that summer as the concert drew nearer and I remained ticket-less. However, there was one moment when briefly the sun peaked through and lit up the whole world. It was at a U2 concert when Bono spoke the words I remembered from an earlier U2 concert – “who wants to play my guitar?” As the crowd roared with the anticipation of witnessing a lucky fan take the stage and play with U2, Bono spoke again – “does Bruce Springsteen want to play my guitar?”

And then he was there. He and Bono did a duet while I screamed and wept and jumped and climbed on top of my friends and strangers to get a better look.

That remained my most magical musical moment until I finally did get to see Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. I don’t think I’ll ever feel again the way I did that night. I can’t tell you what songs were played or in what order – I just remember hearing the opening chords to every song and laughing and crying at once over and over again all night long.

I can, however, tell you the exact date because I still carry the ticket stub from that concert in my wallet today. It was September 13, 1999. Fourteen summers had gone by, my husband didn’t ride a motorcycle, I no longer shot quarters and I couldn’t tell you what happened to all the rocks I had collected from his drive way. But suddenly, I was 16 again, riding in the back of a pick-up truck with shirtless long-haired boys, a can of beer and The Boss blaring out of the stereo just daring the grown-ups to try and stop us.