On Sunday afternoon, Date #7 informs me that he has a hockey game later that evening and that he’s debating whether or not to “drag” me along.
“No, I’d be happy to go,” I assure him. I’m not particularly enthused by hockey (okay, I’m not at all enthused by hockey) but I imagine watching Date #7 bash people over the head and ram them into those sides of the rink will be quite thrilling, plus, I’ve been preparing for this moment.
Last week, you see, I received a text from Date #6 inviting me to join him for lunch as he had the day off work. We went to Bridget Foy’s on account of my customer loyalty Happy Birthday Gift Certificate and proceeded to get completely plastered. Remembering that Date #6 plays hockey, and that Date #7 plays hockey too, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to educate myself.
“Tell me something intelligent to say,” I’d instructed Date #6. “Something about hockey.”
To his credit, he did try and to my credit I did try to remember but by the time I reached Pittsburgh, all I could recall was that some guy who plays for Penguins has a really girly name (Cindy Crosby?) and may be forced into an early retirement due to an unfortunate concussion.
(I’ve since remembered that he’s not actually called Cindy Crobsy, he’s called Sidney Crosby and it’s just bitter Flyers fans from Philadelphia who make the “mistake” of calling him “Cindy.”)
At any rate, I’m excited about going to Date #7’s hockey game because this will be my first ever hockey game and my first time meeting any of his friends. I slip into my platforms, my sexiest Victoria’s Secret underwear (for post-victory celebrations) and my platform espadrilles because I want to make sure I’m looking my very best just in case I’m brought up in any of the pre-game locker room conversations.
(I know for a fact that women discuss men in their dressing rooms before a show because I do it all the time, so I’m assuming that guys do the same thing?)
As such, you can imagine my disappointment when I find myself seated in an empty rink next to a woman who’s wearing a Cubs t-shirt and a pair of flip flops. Clearly this is not the see-and-be-seen social event I’d imagined it would be. You can’t even buy pretzels (for some reason, I assumed that a recreational hockey game played in an empty rink on a Sunday night in suburban Pittsburgh would have pretzels, and hot dog venders, and souvenirs, like they do at Mets games.)
Nonetheless, I have leftover sushi from dinner and leftover chocolate from Fallingwater so I ration myself according (two squares of chocolate and one piece of California roll per period) and scan the ice for Date #7.
Now, this recreational league is so recreational that they don’t even have a team name (Date #7’s team is simply called “the white team” and their opponents “the black team”) nor do their jerseys have numbers.
Realizing that I’ll have no idea who’s who once they’ve put their helmets on, I call Date #7’s cell phone, which goes to voicemail (mind you, I had a glass of wine on a rather empty stomach during dinner).
“I have a very important question for you,” I begin, “Three actually. What color are your socks because I’m not going to be able to tell which one is you but the guys who are on the ice now all seem to have different colored socks so if you tell me what color you’re wearing I’ll know it’s you. Secondly, someone just shot the puck like into the ceiling. Is that allowed? Third—actually I can’t remember the third question. I will have to call you back.”
A few minutes later, I call back. I haven’t the faintest recollection of what that third question was but it must have been important because I felt compelled to leave another voicemail.
Finally, the players skate onto the ice and Date #7 gives me a little salute. I make a mental note that he is wearing black socks, but there is also another player on his team wearing black socks so it’s going to be tricky to tell them apart.
See: here I present photograph proof of Date #7’s existence and there’s no way you’ll be able to guess which one he is.
Mind you… the game hasn’t even started yet and given my penchant for accidentally claiming other women’s boyfriends as my own, it’s about to get interesting.
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- Pittsburgh Penguins Need a Big Year from Evgeni Malkin (bleacherreport.com)