When they start playing the game in the front row.

There's really no view like the front row. More than on the cusp of the action, you feel as though you're actually part of the action. From this vantage point, the seemingly clear wall between spectator and spectacle disappears. All that keeps you from joining in the fray is your own self control and sense of place. Yet from the front row, proximity continually borders on participation.

This evening, the front row came to me.

As I left the house around 5:00 to meet up with a teammate for a run along the American River Parkway, I noticed a pile of police cruisers blocking the street, just three houses down. The police helicopter hovered overhead. Neighbors stood in their yards--adults in conversation, and children tangling in the yard. An ambulance idled at the end of the street. As I rolled through a growing throng of onlookers, I glanced in the rear-view mirror in time to see two officers in swat gear approaching the house, guns drawn.

One neighbor pulled his car alongside mine as I chatted with his wife. "He's got a gun," the cop had informed him. "They think we should get inside or leave." His wife joined him the car, and they headed out behind me.

Word spread. Adults hurdled. Kids ran.

I had a nice twilight run along the American River. I told my friends the story about the cops, but the details evolved and dissolved, as stories often do.

By the time I'd returned to my car, details had emerged (except the part in the updated report about the man surrendering). I knew I might not make it onto the street, but that's all I knew. Seventh Avenue was abuzz with people, lights, and news vans. I parked down the block, and made my way through the mass, toward my awaiting front row seats.

After talking to a patrolman, I was able to pass the barricade, whereby he escorted me to the house. I had enough time once inside to fire off an email to Stephanie explaining what I'd learned. Upon hitting send, the doorbell rang.

And this is where the front row becomes part of the action.

The man at the door was a police officer--a member of the negotiator team, to be precise--and he wanted to talk about strategies. "In these situations," he told me, "we really need a 'home base,' a quiet environment with a table and, to be honest, a bathroom."

Stephanie is working a filing this week, and is in a the office at nearly all hours; my only concern at that time was getting some fuel in my body. The needs of the local law enforcement seemed far more pressing, so I agreed to let the negotiations team establish a communications center at the dining room table.

As the officer started shuttling team members and suitcases into the house, my head was flooded with images from serial crime dramas. There would be coffee in Styrofoam cups, cell phones, laptops, printers, and sweaty men loosening their ties. The tension would wax and wane. They'd have a specialist on the line--someone they'd need to tap in through an elaborate line swap. Maybe the suspect would make demands? Maybe the SWAT team would move in?

Before the second trip for gear, the officer informed me that the standoff had ended. The action was over. The game had ended. The front row became a house, and house received a number of compliments, for it still offered a necessary component of the aforementioned 'home base': the bathroom. Officer after officer offered thanks, appreciation, and an unusual volume of admiration (the width of the planks in the wood floor received the most praise).

Being part of the action certainly livens up the experience, but if I can swing it in the future, I'd just assume watch the game from home.