The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

...Is the best game you can name? Really? The folks out there that share this mentality are just lacking in imagination. Let's try together, shall we? Perhaps leap frog is the best game you can name...or scrabble...or that game with the stick and the hoop, though I can't name that one so I suppose that doesn't count. Not that it looks like good fun anyways. Duck, duck, goose because you get to hit people...hit/tap, potato/potato. The point is, any number of these things are better than hockey. I'm going to complain about one more thing and then I will do my best to maintain optimism about a sport that I don't care to familiarize myself with. Why did I have to go with one thing to complain about? It's so hard to choose. Alright. Got it:

Last night Boyfriend watched a show with old dudes in monkey suits. Old dudes and monkey suits, you have my interest for eleven seconds unless you're more than a one trick pony and can make with some magic and bring the panache. This show did not. I asked what this was, it was not from Boyfriend's usual repertoire of sports, news, the whittling hour with Hans Olaf, and action movies with stars who are currently sitting on parts of themselves that went farther south than one ever anticipates. Essentially this show is the Oscars for hockey. Boyfriend called it the Hall of Fame, I think. I call it tedious and dry. Here is my complaint: In the Oscars, the music plays you off if your speech is too long. Bald dude whose name I don't know and whose career I don't care about, you do go on. And on. They should edit that shit for television. No. Wait. I don't care. They had their eleven seconds of my time before I dry heaved and marched out. Complaining over.

This is one of the stories that I know some folks have been waiting anxiously to read; I've retold it countless times, so here it is. The tale of my first and only, ever hockey game. I'm pandering and it makes me She Hulk at myself. That's not a good look on me...She Hulk versus She Hulk, the main event where neither personality survives.

The year was 2010. It was a balmy September afternoon, Wednesday, and a young girl's dreams were about to come true. Not my dreams, I'm sure some kid was going to the hockey arena and she was really looking forward to it. I was not. Her excitement was contagious like an infection. It was a night of pre-season hockey that I will never forget, Vancouver Canucks versus Edmonton Oilers in a head-to-head battle/clash of the titans extravaganza. Vividly I recall our vantage point, Section 310, Row 6, I was in Seat 3. I know you're gaping open-mouthed at your computer screen amazed at how smart I am with sports and how accurate my memory of that night was. What can I say? It was an enchanting evening. Me remembering things, that's an adorable thought. Cards on the table? I found the ticket when I was going through a purse I haven't used in a long while. Cool. Free order of bandara pizza bread from Boston Pizza on the back. I wonder if this is still legit.

The evening began at the Shark Club for dinner. By dinner, I mean a rushed appetizer that Boyfriend ate most of, what an asshole romantic shared plate that was as intimate as the evening would have been if the place wasn't so packed and I had three separate strangers touching me at all times. As I am a doddler by nature, I don't much care to rush, but I swear, 15 minutes before the puck dropped he had me running down the street to Rogers Arena Clearly he was unaware at how difficult it is to run with hands full of a salsa-dripping quesadilla. By the time I handed the doorman my ticket, my palms looked like I had been playing patty cake with a baboon's ass. chasing the promise of visual ecstasy that is hockey.

We passed through the ubiquitous crowd of people clad in Canuck blue. Freaking lemmings. Have you any idea how very long we waited in line for beer? Me either, I'm not sure it would be worse to be in the desert needing that same beer to quench my thirst but with Boyfriend's delightful company, one loses track of time. Now, Boyfriend and I made a deal prior to this lovely night out, wherein he paid for the tickets and dinner, and I would pay for the beer at the game. Sounded like a good deal to me. Beer is cheap. Beer at a sports arena, I learned, is not. When a person such as myself is in a place such as this, she needs all the liquid sports tolerance she can slug back nothing more than to enjoy the experience. She just did not expect it to come at such a price.

We sit in our seats just as the show starts. The lights begin an ostentatious night club display and the television thing lights up with exciting words that flash across the screen, motivating housewives and househusbands to twirl their dishtowels in the air and scream something like, "We just got a dishwasher! We don't need these anymore!" I look at the time clock and think, I just have to survive to the end of this. Optimism time: there are only three acts of this play, not quarters like I originally thought. Push the ceiling as the kids say!...they don't say that? Well they will after this.

Act one of the sports play: the heroine (this part is played by me), struggles with the idea of enjoying an evening at the arena. She has officially given up on optimism and braces for hockey to drain her of her life force. When I say she's given up on optimism, she's going to stop correcting the negativity in this blog post. I can't NOT complain about things. I am She-Hulk, hear me bitch.

I learned something very interesting within the first few seconds of the match: Boyfriend was cheering for the other team. One does not make friends at a hockey game when one's other half is calling the home team a bunch of pussies. How to deal with this whole thing: drink beer. Every time Boyfriend yells at the Canucks or cheers on the Oilers, the circle of people around us scream at us or try to cause us to explode through creepy bulging-eye contact and what I assume are poorly exercised telepathic muscles. I have a solution that makes the situation better, I point at Boyfriend and announce to everyone in earshot that it's him, and only him that feels that way. I live and breathe Canucks -- though, by the time I've implemented this master plan, I'm a few beers in and don't notice that I'm saying Ganucks. No matter. It's not me that they hate.

Now, I'm sure I've mentioned that Boyfriend is a creature of habit. Boyfriend has a tradition when he goes to games at Rogers Arena; about a minute before the period is over he leaves to go to that restaurant/pub dealy they have in there. I'm half in the bag when Boyfriend grabs my elbow and whisks me away. When he walks fast, I need to run to keep up. Count it folks, that's twice thus far he's made me run in the same night. Why do I need to run? I have no intentions of ever needing to make a fast getaway, well, unless the folks in our section turn on us Frankenstein-mob style. We get to the restaurant, sit on bar stools, hammer down a couple more beers, then my hand is grabbed and I'm pulled out in a rush to get back to our seats because the game will start again soon. Need more beverages. We stop and order a couple more for the next third of the game. Only, I open my wallet, and moths fly out. I trained them to do that; I love a non-verbal cue that signals that I'm out of money.

Boyfriend rolls his eyes. Let's be real for a moment here: what did he expect when he tried to dupe me into buying beer all night long? Boyfriend pulls cash from his pocket. You know, Boyfriend, there's enough there for nachos. And CHURROS! My excitement factor gets out of control when I've been sipping the sports tolerance juice.

We get to our seats, arms ladled with popcorn, nachos, beer, candy, a fake gold grill we bought off a gangster wannabe and churros. That'll teach him not to feed me a proper dinner. This is how one does a soccer game in style. Hockey. It was a hockey game. My insincerest apologies.

Act two starts with a score of I don't know what with two teams I can't differentiate. I've long since forgotten the first period and how we're the neighbours everyone hates. Frankly, at this point I don't care. Act two is when the heroine's heart warms to the sport and she begins to cheer. Only in her haze she doesn't know what or who she cheers for, she just screams like a banshee when those around her do. Boyfriend yells something about a penalty, I get my cavewoman grunt on. Our neighbours boo us. The Canucks do something that warrants excitement from the crowd, I do as the Romans do and scream for those in the arena. The hockey neighbours boo Boyfriend for being contrary; seemed like fun, who wouldn't turn on Boyfriend under the same circumstance? Let's face it; I had no clue what was going on. When I spilled a drink I clapped my hands and tried to high five the guy that ended up wearing it. He did not high-five me back.

Just before the inning ends, Boyfriend grabs my arm and he dashes to the pub/restaurant thingmy; I stumble to keep up. This time at the bar goes by even faster. It feels like I blink and we're back in our seats with more drinks in our hand. Act three, score still unknown, not sure if there have been any penalties, the heroine squeals with delight at the zamboni then konks out for the duration of the period.

I wake to the sounds of the crowd when Boyfriend shakes me awake.

Is it over?
Yeah.
Did they live happily ever after?
Who?
Do we ever have to do this again?
Wouldn't waste my money.
Cool.

Somehow we ended up home. I can't say precisely how far Boyfriend needed to carry me, but we both learned a valuable lesson. Hockey and I just can't handle each other.

Time for tea,

K