Effulgent
I went to a hockey game last night. Pro hockey. I'd never been to a full-fledged, big league hockey game before. The game is great. But, man, those breaks are endless. I can only see so many kids skate up and down the floor, trying to get dressed and make a shot for a jersey before I start to get the jitters.
My friend, the deputy, and I went together. We tend to go to these types of events together, places where he can drive long distances. I always, without fail, fall asleep on the ride home. I make him tell me about his kids and his wife's weird friends and his in-laws to keep him entertained when I am awake. He tells me I snore.
We sat next to a family of four. The mother was probably a couple years older than me. Their daughter was turning 12. This was her birthday celebration. She had on a team jersey and had her hand wrapped for some kind of wrist injury. Instead of crawling over them, we walked around the entire row and I sat next to the little girl.
"We get here early," she piped up when I sat down, "so we can catch these." She showed me a handful of pucks.
"That's great," I said, putting down my beer.
"It's her birthday," her mother said, leaning over me. They looked exactly alike. Curly hair, crinkly blue eyes, freckles. The perfect mother and daughter.
We went on to talk about what they did for her birthday, how old she was, where they went to dinner. I gave her the prize from the Cracker Jack we bought. When I got up to go to the bathroom, the mom told the deputy what a nice wife he had. He did nothing to dissuade her, knowing that the actual explanation--that his wife was at home with his three kids while he was at a hockey game two hours away with his unmarried lady friend--probably wouldn't fly with that crowd, despite the fact that his wife knows he's with me and appreciates the fact that I get him out from under her feet on occasion.
Whenever there was a stop in play, the cameras would pan the crowd, looking for people to show on the big screen hanging over center ice. Little kids would get up and dance, waive their foam fingers around and generally act like little kids, all in the hopes of appearing on tv. I started thinking about the lengths to which people would go just to get on tv. Then I told myself to shut up.
The girl next to me? Danced unabashedly and unashamed. She had no rhythm. Her wrist was wrapped and her hand completely immobile. She looked like my drunk friends in college when they pogo'd. But she was having the time of her life.
I remember, vaguely, turning 12. Just on the cusp of really caring what everyone thinks of you when they look at you. She isn't there yet and, when she gets there, it is going to be painful. Knowing people judge you for your haircut. Or your shoes. Or the fact that you dance like Elaine Benis.
I hope she stays this way as long as she can, that she can dance without caring for as long as possible. That she can look for success for all the right reasons, recognition for accomplishment rather than for farce. That she can stay young for as long as possible.
When they left, she turned and waved goodbye.
"Happy Birthday," I called, as they walked up the steps.
My friend, the deputy, and I went together. We tend to go to these types of events together, places where he can drive long distances. I always, without fail, fall asleep on the ride home. I make him tell me about his kids and his wife's weird friends and his in-laws to keep him entertained when I am awake. He tells me I snore.
We sat next to a family of four. The mother was probably a couple years older than me. Their daughter was turning 12. This was her birthday celebration. She had on a team jersey and had her hand wrapped for some kind of wrist injury. Instead of crawling over them, we walked around the entire row and I sat next to the little girl.
"We get here early," she piped up when I sat down, "so we can catch these." She showed me a handful of pucks.
"That's great," I said, putting down my beer.
"It's her birthday," her mother said, leaning over me. They looked exactly alike. Curly hair, crinkly blue eyes, freckles. The perfect mother and daughter.
We went on to talk about what they did for her birthday, how old she was, where they went to dinner. I gave her the prize from the Cracker Jack we bought. When I got up to go to the bathroom, the mom told the deputy what a nice wife he had. He did nothing to dissuade her, knowing that the actual explanation--that his wife was at home with his three kids while he was at a hockey game two hours away with his unmarried lady friend--probably wouldn't fly with that crowd, despite the fact that his wife knows he's with me and appreciates the fact that I get him out from under her feet on occasion.
Whenever there was a stop in play, the cameras would pan the crowd, looking for people to show on the big screen hanging over center ice. Little kids would get up and dance, waive their foam fingers around and generally act like little kids, all in the hopes of appearing on tv. I started thinking about the lengths to which people would go just to get on tv. Then I told myself to shut up.
The girl next to me? Danced unabashedly and unashamed. She had no rhythm. Her wrist was wrapped and her hand completely immobile. She looked like my drunk friends in college when they pogo'd. But she was having the time of her life.
I remember, vaguely, turning 12. Just on the cusp of really caring what everyone thinks of you when they look at you. She isn't there yet and, when she gets there, it is going to be painful. Knowing people judge you for your haircut. Or your shoes. Or the fact that you dance like Elaine Benis.
I hope she stays this way as long as she can, that she can dance without caring for as long as possible. That she can look for success for all the right reasons, recognition for accomplishment rather than for farce. That she can stay young for as long as possible.
When they left, she turned and waved goodbye.
"Happy Birthday," I called, as they walked up the steps.
posted by Miss Head at
6:58 AM
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