Ricky-Tikki-Bon-Bon!

By Terri Lord

"Nobody does for leather what that young man does." My 63-year-old Mom elbows me and points to Ricky Martin's butt as he jumps and gyrates to "Shake Your Bon-Bon."

"Look at his tush." Her voice is low and staccato, the last word almost a whistle.

I grip my chair. What next? I think. Will she burst out a Bic? Throw her underwear on stage? We are midway through the concert, and Mom shows no sign of slowing down.

She isn't normally this way. Mild-mannered at home or in a mall, Mom at the stadium is someone new. Here, alone in her sensible shoes amid an army of teens, she is provocative and self-assured -- and disturbingly horny.

I look over. Mom is dancing. She thrusts her hips to the right and brings her left fingers up for an unsyncopated snap. She repeats the move in reverse. Back and forth she snaps and thrusts, sometimes with such force I can't tell whether hips or fingers are making the noise.

I know she and her best friend Marty have been going to stadium concerts for the past 12 years. But I thought they were just sitting in the back row, tapping their feet and maybe humming. That's how I envisioned the Barry Manilow and Elton John shows. Even the Janet Jackson and Tina Turner gigs. Of course, the Spice Girls are harder to explain.

Marty was busy the evening of Ricky. I am her arena replacement, though I haven't been to a stadium since 1991.

No matter. Mom asserts her dominance early on: Two hours before the show, she makes me change my shoes from high-heeled boots to tennis shoes.

"Your feet are going to hurt, and I don't want to have to slow down for you." She crosses her arms and taps her Reeboks until I make the switch.

Next we drive to the stadium, where she gives me detailed parking instructions.

"Go to the east side of the lot, near that gate."

"But it's closed," I object.

"They'll open it by concert's end -- now back in. This way, we'll beat all those other weenies out."

Once inside and seated, she hands me a wad of cotton for my ears. "You'll thank me later, when that bass hits your chest like a heart attack." She then distributes the rest to our seatmates.

It isn't long until the big moment arrives. The lights dim. Mom sits up straight in her chair, takes a deep breath, and starts prophesying like a swami.

She knows Ricky will enter the stage on a motorcycle. She foretells every costume change. She predicts macro crowd behavior ("They'll scream their heads off, but will sit quietly during ballads ..."), and micro crowd moves ("That blonde's wearing leopard print -- she'll stand up and block our view ..."). Sure enough, the masses -- led by the blonde -- charge out of their seats at the first note, screaming, but hush during Ricky's slow tunes.

"How do you know these things?" I ask.

"Experience," Mom says, and gives me a wink. Then she cups her hands and yells at the blonde, "Down in front! Move it!"

Experience indeed, and a moxie I've not seen before. Will we get into a fight? Will Mom throw the first punch? At least we have the footwear and parking space for a quick getaway.

Ricky is revving up the crowd with a catchy salsa number when I see Mom talking to the woman seated next to us. Sue or Nu (it's hard to hear through the earplugs) is upset, overwhelmed by the noise and crowd. She hasn't been to a concert since Elvis, and is unprepared for such a high-volume event. Her friend seems oblivious to her troubles. Mom leans in close to listen and offers Sue some of the water and cored apples she's brought in her purse. Five minutes later, Sue is smiling and shaking her bon-bon in a familiar, unsyncopated rhythm.

We become our mothers, so the saying goes. A few hours earlier, this alarmed me. But maybe, if it means a knack for kicking up my well-worn Reeboks and being kind to those in need, that's not such a vida loca, after all.