Next Stop, Hell

This weekend was more productive than most. Among the many things I actually accomplished was a trip to the local minor league hockey match. It promised to be packed with action and excitement, considering we were blessed with two fights in the first four seconds of the game.

As is to be expected, the beer flowed like wine, and the action was action-packed. Our seats were three rows from the glass, behind the visiting team’s goal – not bad for last minute. I would go into the struggle it took to actually order the tickets, but that would be a 6 pager. Long story short, I felt like I was calling Dell’s support center. It took a lot of spelling and talking loud for one to properly understand, from my end. Moving on.

I immensely enjoy going to hockey games, but I am somewhat different than most in the fact that I don’t scream officiating advice at the referee. However, I thoroughly enjoy those that do. I had the pleasure to be sitting directly in front of an older woman, who must have been a retired hockey referee, because she seemed to know all the correct calls to make and made sure to point out, rather loudly, her thoughts to those on the ice. What made it even more amusing was hearing her yell things like, “Great call, ref, why don’t you open your eyes,” then mumble “jerk” under her breath. I’m assuming he’d been her neighbor for years, and was constantly swiping her newspaper. Of course, the more enchanting amber nectar that graced my taste buds, the more I enjoyed her impudent pandemonium.

I’m of the opinion that unless you speak through vast amounts of experience, you really aren’t in a position to bark orders or advice at the adept. Continuing, if you simply can’t help yourself, then why should you be free from similar disparagement? It’s the “something tells me I can easily beat these trained professionals” mentality that of many overzealous fans. So I like to mock the mockers. I began to heckle her anytime she heckled the refs.

“You can’t shout any louder than that? What, do you have emphysema or something?”

Or, “Oh, nice complaint, lady. Get better seats next time so you can actually SEE THE GAME!”

My fun with her, though, came to an abrupt end due to the fact that she ceased her shouting during the entire third period. My life seemed to lack meaning. That is until I heard a new voice, from 4 rows back, shouting at the refs with what seemed like a drunken callousness.

I believe he was rooting for the visiting team, because he was rather upset every time something bad happened to one of them. I wasn’t completely sure, though, because all his belittlement was directed to them. Let’s just leave it at; I was confused.

His first insult he shouted at one of the team members when he was checked head first into the boards. As the left-winger of his favorite team lay sprawled out on the ice, lifeless as a bear skin rug, when he shouts,

“Hey, can’t you just get up or something?”

Another remark was something about calling the player’s mother to come pick him up. I found much enjoyment in his remarks. They seemed to lack depth, but were quite playful. So, I decided to join in… only when I shouted things at the ref or players, I did so in a fashion much like a completely inebriated fan might. I would mumble, shout things that didn’t make sense, or even trail off in the middle of a taunt and pretend to pass out. By no means was I the only enjoying this situation, either. I was sitting next to a friend of mine, who for the sake of concealing the identity of those involved; we shall simply call him “Ken.” “Ken” was enjoying my musings as much as I. That is until he had the foresight to turn and see whose expense at which we were having so much fun.

Suddenly, “Ken’s” mood became somewhat somber, and in a stern voice he said,

“Uh, I don’t think that guy you are making fun of is drunk.”

It was at that point I stopped and looked at “Ken” in utter befuddlement.

“Turn around,” sighs “Ken”, in a somewhat ashamed tone as he covers his face with one hand and motions over his shoulder with the other.

I turned to see exactly whom it was I had been “ridiculing” for half of the third period. It turned out to be a middle-aged gentle man who was, I’d say, for the sake of being politically correct, “special”. He was there with what looked to be were his parents, obviously having a great enjoying the game. Along I come, transforming an otherwise great excursion on a Saturday afternoon into an episode South Park.

In my defense, I had no idea. Perhaps I should have looked before I started making fun of someone… but I’ve never been astute enough to do something of the like. So, for my follies on Saturday, along with those of you that have been laughing and enjoying yourself at the expense of this poor man who was only trying to have a good time, I shall see you all in Hell, where we have now secured our very own parking spot, right up front.