I got to go to the Pens vs Blackhawks game Saturday night with Brenna and her friends as a belated birthday party for her. Crosby was sidelined and we ended up losing 1-2 in OT, but oh my sweetly spanked Mussolini was it a self-hugging good time. (Except for when Jordan Staal got the game tying goal with 1:32 left in the third – then it was a Brenna-hugging good time.)
It had been years and years since I got to go to a game, and the way the Mellon Arena smelled and sounded and the way the crowd melded together in verifiable best friendship (minus the Chicago urinal cakes behind me) as soon as the Penguins took the ice made me realize I shouldn’t have taken my family’s season tickets for granted back then.
I like to imagine this is how God shits on me, plopping me down amid fans of the opposing team, because this always happens at a sporting event. Last hockey game I went to, we played the Sabres and a group of asshole frat boys from Buffalo were right behind me, mocking me every time I cheered, ridiculing Lemieux, being regular beer-chugging pigs, spouting off made-up stats to sound cool and mighty. I’m not sure if I mentioned this before, but I don’t have a good lock on my temper and it seems that males try to capitalize off this the most.
So here I am at this hockey game. I’m 17, at the game with Lisa and our friend Angela. I can bear it no longer and find myself spending most of the game half-turned in my seat, attacking these flanneled mother fuckers with words they probably don’t even understand. Meanwhile, Angie has her face in her hands and Lisa is squeezing my arm, reminding me that I am a weak girl, susceptible to rape and having my intelligence insulted because girls aren’t supposed to know shit about sports, damn ya’ll, get me back into the kitchen so I’s can finish bakin’ my hubby a bundt cake.
Of course I wouldn’t back down. I motherfucked those inbreds all the way to the end of the third.
And of course we were parked in the same lot as them. And wouldn’t you know, as soon as we got outside the arena, it was all, “Hey baby, wanna go get a beer with us?”
Sure, ten minutes ago I was just threatening to fillet your mothers and string them up by their intestines like mistle toe, but yes, now I’m ready to sneak into a bar with you guys, drink some Schnappes and suck you all off in the mens room later.
Unfortunately, Lisa was there, perched on my shoulder, and steered me toward her car.
“That’s the last sporting event I go to with you,” she said, as Angie stared out the window exhaustedly.
“Yeah, really,” she agreed.