I went to a fight the other night and a hockey game broke out.
– Rodney Dangerfield
Dallas is currently leading the series 2-1. With the Blackhawks out for the season, I have decided to bestow support upon my hometown’s team. (Although for the next two games, I’ll be cheering for Anaheim to ensure that there is a game 6 for me to attend on Sunday when I fly home this weekend) This may come as a surprise to some, because I have adamantly opposed them in the past. I guess being away at college, I appreciate the whole Texas pride thing a lot more.
I just cringe when I think about the prototypical female “Stars fan” wearing her kitten heels, halter top, booty shorts, with a glass of red wine in hand, ignoring the game (and her obese, balding date) to scan the crowd for the next potential victim *cough* I mean… boyfriend, while not so secretly holding on to the hope that Mike Modano will dump Willa “I wanna be bad” Ford *cough* Mandy and confess his undying love for her. For those of you who haven’t attended a Stars game before, allow me to post this revised list I originally wrote on livejournal back in 2003. In case it’s not obvious… I had some unresolved anger issues back then.
The demographics of Stars fans
a) slutty women who wear tube tops to hockey games in arenas where the temperature is in the 30’s in an attempt to pick up…
b) drunken sugar daddies. never in my life have i seen so many ugly old males with hot chicks as at a stars hockey game. what these men lack in aesthetic appeal, they make up for in arrogance and money. they are too busy name dropping and counting the money in their gucci wallets to notice when someone scores a goal. the only time they take their eyes off their dates’ chest or the ice girls’ assets is to cheer during the power play. because the word power gives them a hard-on. but even worse than the drunken sugar daddies are the…
c) drunken old women. no matter how many margaritas you drink, those leather pants will NOT look good on your wrinkly ass. and of course there’s the even more annoying…
d) stupid ditsy women. not to be confused with the slutty tube top wearing women. these are the ones eating nachos and screaming the lamest remarks ever known to man with absolutely no relevance to hockey. “c’mon guys, they’re all on the ground” WTF that makes no sense at all. shut up about how leanne rimes has lost weight and watch the game– you might learn something. but i guess i’d rather hear them screaming than the…
e) fat loser guys who think they’re experts at hockey. i like when they swear and yell at the professional hockey players, as if they can hear them from 1000 feet away, and as if, if given the opportunity to play, they could do any better because they’d be too busy falling and tripping on their rolls of lard.
Yeaaaaaaaah… come to think of it… I may still have some unresolved anger issues. Nevertheless, this year’s Stanley Cup playoffs have inspired me to consider what makes our favorite sports, teams, players– the favorite. What comes first… the chicken or the egg? Growing up, did I like the Redwings because Fedorov was on the team, or did I like Fedorov because he played for the Redwings? Sadly, I can’t even remember now. Maybe it was just because my little brother had a huge poster of him hanging on the wall of his bedroom with the caption “White Russian” in bold letters.
The number 7 is my favorite because it was Chelios’ number when he was captain of the Blackhawks. My dad grew up playing the game in Chicago. However, his hockey career was cut short, when he made the mistake of inviting my mom to one of his games, where he was hit in the face with a stick, and his nose was broken into a bloody mess, at which point she gave him an ultimatum… hockey or me. Since I am here typing this today, I think it’s obvious which one he picked 🙂 But he has been a die-hard Blackhawks fan all of his life, which he naturally passed on to me.
My friends find my love of hockey to be bizarre considering my aversion to sports and athletics in general. What few people understand, is that hockey is my connection to my dad. My mom and I share the love of music, theater, and reading… and just about everything else. My brother and my dad watch just about every sport imaginable together. They go on golfing trips while my mom and I relax in the spa. They read old car magazines when my mom and I are off in the Jane Austen aisle at Barnes and Noble. I tried desperately to relate, but it just isn’t in my blood.
Until my dad took me to a hockey game, which he lured me to with promises of cotton candy. I didn’t understand the rules at first, but I got swept up in the excitement of the sport. Hockey is unpredictable… wild, even. I love watching players skate across the ice with such finesse. There’s a grace in the aggressive nature of hockey, versus the bumbling, fumbling world of football. But my favorite part is sitting in silence next to my dad, watching the thrill and joy in his eyes during every second of the game.
Maybe there’s a Freudian undertone to my attraction to hockey players… but I think there’s a sort of confident spirit that hockey players embody. Something I guess you have to have in order to survive on the ice. I’ll never forget the first moment I set eyes on my 6th grade crush. He was playing on my brother’s team, and had just scored a goal. He did some victory maneuver, gliding while kneeling on one side. It was freezing cold in the rink, but I melted.
I don’t go to the hockey games to score a rich, wine drinking, silver fox to keep me secure for the rest of my life. I’d rather squeeze through a row trying to get to my seat, while stepping on the peanut shells of a guy who is so fixated on the game that he doesn’t notice my backside in his face. If a guy ever takes me to a game on a date, I won’t know it’s for real unless he refuses talk to me while the zamboni is driving around and doesn’t acknowledge that I am sitting next to him until I “accidentally” kick over his beer with my shoe.