Back in the days when I was able to healthily flaunt the newfound wealth that I had from Stafford student loans, I decided that it would be a worthwhile endeavor to reward my best friends, my boon companions, my "bros", if you will, with a special Christmas present that would not only show them my appreciation for them, but also allow us to share a new experience, bonding with one another as we'd never had before. (Note: Still not gay.) It would have to be a special event that I gifted them with, something that would blow our collective sensory perceptions straight out of the water, a time that would cause untold rapture and would go down in legend as one of the greatest trips ever told.
This is not that trip. That trip would come later, involving an orca, a waitress in South Dakota, and chapstick. But that's a story for another time.
(Sidenote #1: In recent weeks, I've noted a trend where my blog echoes my mood of the given time, and reflects a certain self-loathing that's always been rather pronounced in my writing. While this is something I fully intend to embrace, I'm also all for the exploration of my past life, recording it in a time honored tribute (i.e. blogging) to preserve these macabre trips for posterity. What this means is several posts over the next few weeks that have more of an autobiographical feel to them, and fewer diversions into topics such as sports, politics, and the homeless.
With that being said, sports.)
The actual trip was four months in the planning. When working on a trip of such magnitude with such fickle people surrounding the entire enterprise, one must carefully plan how these events go down. My associate and I spent the better part of October scouring the internet for the best possible solution as to how to spend our holiday time and money. Finally, the solution was arrived upon, and announced to the friends: we would be attending a hockey game in February as part of a Christmas present. You're welcome, earth.
The cast of characters included myself, my associate (traveling along separately with his own crew of rag-tag outcasts and vagabonds), the Ginger (whom we may recall from prior tales and studies), the Professor (whom has graciously accepted once again to appear in these chronicles as "The Professor") and the remaining member of our team, a ne'er-do-well so nefarious and twisted, so eccentric and fanatic, that no true name can do him justice. For the sake of anonymity, to protect the innocents, and out of our own perverted self-interest and hyperbole, he shall be referred to here as "The Hood."
(Sidenote #2: All of these characters will play a part in future chronicles to come. Remember them. Study them. Know their tendencies. It just may save your life some day.)
The game, as mentioned wouldn't be until February for technical reasons. That technical reason being that we would be seeing a professional hockey contest between the Detroit Red Wings and the Colorado Avalanche at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit. (Or "the Joe" if you're so inclined.) The schedule listed February 17th, so given that I bought the tickets in October for a December Christmas present, there was ample time to prepare for the event.
Or so we thought.
The ensuing trip to Detroit was harmless enough. A long stretch of corrugated freeway, rumpled and pulverized from years of long, cold, and harsh Ohio Winters (Note the Inclusion of the Oxford Comma), the road is to your car's tires what that damn helicopter was to John Landis in The Twilight Zone movie. Destroyed, just like Vic Morrow and those two Vietnamese boys. They will soon be scraps of rubber, again, much like Vic Morrow.
Braving the roads, we arrived in Detroit, that dessicated, burned out hulk of a city where it is possible to watch the American Dream sputter and gasp as it is exhumed upon an automated assembly line towards technological oblivion. For the people of Detroit, it almost goes without saying that times are tough, but that there is hope for the future. One homeless man eulogizes a deceased firefighter, who bravely rushed into a building that should have been condemned years ago to save a child. The building's burned out carcass stood for years after he perished, an ode to the city's inability to give up and die, or to allow itself to be reseeded for new growth.
But enough of that. We were here for hockey.
Pulling into the garage, it was established that The Hood was a simple boy, reared in the suburbs, far from the violent city life. Consequently, the established idea that there would be buildings larger than he had ever seen before was something that escaped him.
"I'll tell you that the building immediately outside," began the Professor, "Could hold ten of the Administration Buildings on campus."
"Well that's just not true..." replied The Hood, which turned into open mouthed awe as the visual spectacle of the outside buildings confirmed the Professor's initial assessment. We were indeed in a new, harsh world, strange and corrupt of intentions.
Given that we had hours before the game even began, thanks to a paranoid Fear of arriving late, or worse, in city traffic, we looked about for something to do. The Professor, being a native of the world, recommended to us an establishment called the Post Bar, which was apparently a staple tradition of him and his family members. Or something like that. To me, it just appeared as another dive bar buried beneath a parking garage.
Entering, the first adult beverages of the day were consumed. A couple of Miller High Life's goes a long way towards establishing character and content within a bar; it signifies that you are a man of little taste, but a taste for the macabre. It shows that while you may be reduced to spending on cheap, mass-produced beer-flavored swill, you at least have more sense about you than to pound away at Bud Light after Bud Light. (An inevitability that hung over our crowd like the plague, given the lack of variety to your typical stadium fare.)
While at the Post Bar, we divvied up our uniforms for the day, an erstwhile (TM) set of hockey jerseys spanning various tastes and interests. The Professor wore his native Red Wings colors with pride, while the Ginger wore his hometown Avalanche with something akin to pride. The Hood wore a local hockey jersey that escapes my mind at the moment due to its obvious inequity compared with the prior two (Or it might be something his father wore, the ex-professional hockey player and bruiser of a man. Do not engage the Hood's father in a fight, for vengeance will be swift, and the payment will be your teeth. Trust me on this.) My jersey, given that I am aware that hockey is played on skates with sticks, was the tribute to an independent group called Moxy Fruvis. (Perhaps you've heard of them?) The latter jersey, a point of pride for me in the choosing, would draw some of the strangest looks from anybody in the stadium that day, and might have served as the best conversation starter in the world had we not been surrounded by a horde of angry, bloodthirsty, capricious hockey fans.
But we're getting there.
Leaving the Post Bar, we trekked into the stadium, where the first order of business was establishing our seats. It is true that when purchasing the tickets, I had looked towards the least expensive choices. It is also true that the correlation between price and distance from the arena may or may not have placed us outside of the arena itself. We'll leave that up for debate.
"At least we've got a good survey of the action," the Ginger said, peering down and trying to contain the nosebleed started by high altitude.
"That's true," I replied, also holding my nose. "We won't miss anything, except names. And who knows who these guys are anyways?"
"Well, I do," replied The Professor, "There's Lindstrom, Zetterberg, Hossa..." as he continued, we made our way back down. There was serious eating to be done.
None of this group could ever be classified as small. This is not to say that we're fat, overweight behemoths. We're simply large men, and that builds large appetites. For food, beer, etc. When I'm the smallest of the group, there's something to be said for what we need and can consume. And the ingested food of this trip would be legendary, in no small terms.
Among the first things we picked up at the concessions stand downstairs were (per person): two giant bratwursts, individual nachos, personal pizzas (with sausage and pepperoni), peanuts, and two more stadium sized beers apiece. These joined the Miller High Life's already consumed at the Post Bar in a state of gastrointestinal bliss and nourishment.
(Let it be said here that while ticket prices are already somewhat silly in nature, given their prices, the true gouging comes from stadium food. Some parks make absurd amounts of money just by feeding you. For example, a six dollar bratwurst contains a limp, boiled bratwurst wrapped in a soggy white bread bun. For the same price, one could purchase a pack of five of the same bratwurst and a cheap pack of buns. Right there, you've got five that would normally cost you $30 in the stadium. Do we see how the stadium has just made $24 off of the last two and a half customers? Now, with that being said, I am willing to embrace these prices, because like many other American sports fans, there are just essential rituals of every contest that must be
observed. To fail to do so is a lack of adherence to the hegemony of sport. And one cannot violate the hegemony. That's how the bastards get you.)
While everyone wrangled their way back to their seats, my associate pulled me aside into one of the curtained tunnels leading back into the arena. I watched my companions as they ascended the stairs, making a mental note to rejoin them.
"What have you found?" I asked, clutching my personal tray with intense anticipation.
"The whole team is running bug-shit beneath the stands," he confided, clutching what looked to be a confiscated hockey stick. "They've been doped up on some strong shit, my friend. Lindstrom is handing out packets of Torodol himself. Can't miss it."
"We knew that, man, we knew that" I replied. Anyone crazy enough to play in a professional sport such as hockey must constantly be battling the side effects. "What have you found out?"
Without speaking, he withdrew a bottle. Toradol.
(A popular choice of professional athletes, Toradol is one of the many drugs ingested by Brian Urlacher, Tony Romo, Ronde Barber, and many more to use as a painkiller. Non-addictive, and legal in the U.S., side effects may include gastrointestinal bleeding, as shown in a multitude of studies. Not shocking, when you get down to the basics.)
"Great Scott, man" I replied, grabbing the bottle. It looked to be about half full.
"I just did a hit," he replied, "And man, I'm floating on air at the moment."
"Are you?" I asked, suspicious. Pulling the stopper, I tried it myself. Goes down smooth enough, I thought. Soon enough though, a numbness followed by intense euphoria overtook me. The Fear settled in quickly enough, with the driving sensation that there were evil demons about, and that Hockey was the only solution.
"Good work," I replied. "Now get to work, there's business to be done here." With that, he crept away into the bowels of the stadium, for reasons I am not indulged in enough to comment upon here.
Returning to my friends, the game began. Here is my main problem with hockey, as with soccer, basketball, etc. There are, to be sure, highlight moments. There are, to be sure, moments of suspense, and games with great import have that hanging over them. That's why I love the NBA playoffs and Stanley Cup finals. The outcome feels more important.
For a game in February where all that matters is a theoretical dip in the standings, I am FAR less likely to give a rat's ass about watching overpaid millionaires skate back and forth for three hours. The hits are fun, goals are cool, etc. A half hour's worth of fun. However, for the remaining 2:30, I am disinterested. Granted, I can't skate, but I'm sure I could learn. How does that warrant your being paid millions?
(Yes, this carries over to baseball as well, my pride and joy.)
To be fair, the game did have many exciting moments, ending in a 6-5 shootout after overtime proved futile. The Avalanche and Red Wings played admirably, but this is not about them. This is about us.
During the first intermission, The Ginger and I coasted down towards the bathroom. Still floating on a Toradol high, we found a long line to piss into a trough, something that 95% of men would have a problem with in a general public restroom, but in a hockey arena pumped full of testosterone, no one bats an eye at this. While standing in line, some far more drunken Red Wings fans than us stumbled out of the room. One of them, a seedy looking shortie with an old tattered jersey, caught sight of the Ginger's Av's jersey, and proceeded to glare him down with intense vitriol in his eyes. After a few minutes of this, the man yelled out, "Hey, John Denver's a fag!" before fleeing with his companions back into the arena.
I sometimes feel that fanaticism is a lost art, especially when you're so used to being on top.
Returning to our seats, I caught sight of the giant octopus hanging over the stadium, and promptly retreated further into the state of the Fear. Hockey is full of its own quirky traditions, including its own peculiar sense of fashion. The octopus is a particularly Detroit ritual, dealing with a past incident where two brothers flung a live octopus onto the ice following a Red Wings win or something (I'm not sure, and didn't care to research this point, as the occasion still scars my mind). That being said, the presence of a giant, eight-legged freak floating high above the arena as a strange form of idolatry terrifies a man in the grip of a Toradol binge. Fleeing the stands temporarily, I consoled myself with more bratwurst and beer to soothe my poor mind. There should be license requirements and strict notice posted if you're going to be assaulted by a blow up cephalopod during a sporting event.
(Sidenote #3: Did you know that the world 'cephalopod' is not listed in Blogger.com's spell check? I feel this is a grave oversight, considering the nature of this post.)
The final incident of note during the game itself was that I may or may not have punched a five year old girl. I'm strongly disinclined to believe this not because I don't remember it, but that as an erstwhile (TM) hockey fanatic, I would not feel strong enough to punch said girl unless she had it coming to her, or was in truth a human sized octopus. In which case, the incident would be more widespread than just poor me, and it would not make for such a specific story. Therefore, I believe it to be false. But again, believe what you will.
Fleeing the arena following the shoot-out, we realized that the four of us were in no condition to drive. What's more, strange noises began erupting from beneath the stadium, and I became conscious that my associate was still loose. Fearing the consequences of being caught on camera with a deranged lunatic, we moved towards Detroit's Greektown, a narrow collection of businesses designed to cater towards those with money to spend. (The 1% of Detroit if you will). Along this way, we spotted a new casino, perched at the end of the street, and attached to one of the swankier hotels of the region.
A quick survey of our group revealed that we had never been to a casino. (Save the Ginger, I believe, who did his time in Vegas, doing something that has never been fully specified for these chronicles.) Moving into the lobby, we broke out our remaining cash (something to the equivalent of ten dollars and change) and moved towards our locations of interest.
Let it be said that I am a terrible gambler. I cannot play poker to save my life because I am incapable of hiding my expression at a deck of cards. In real life, I can disguise my intentions with the best of them. In the pit, where every single tic is revealing, I am doomed. Therefore, we shied away from the card tables, trying our luck with a series of automated machines.
The Hood soon spotted a "Star Wars" themed slot machine. Realizing that these things are crack for those willing to dole out money to spend, I remained leery of the strange box with a touch screen and wookies to boot. However, the Hood remained.
Where he soon turned a profit. A sizable profit that isn't fit to disclose here, but suffice to say, we were able to pay for our food later that night, and our gas too.
May the force be with us, indeed.
Freeing ourselves from the casino, it felt as though we had just embarked upon a new passage of manhood. We had attended a sporting event as adults, we had just gambled with the best of them (well, in the same room as them), and now we were once again loose in the city. And, despite our best of efforts at the stadium to stuff ourselves to the brink of oblivion, we were hungry once again.
Taking in a deep dish pizza place, we were tormented by vision on television of a giant man whose name may or may not rhyme with Crack, Yack, Gak, and Stack, dancing while wearing a horrifying white mask with a back troupe of dancers, all emblazoned with the same mask. Unfortunately, this dance by The Stack Attack had all the subtlety of an Aerosmith concert. (You know, the band that got away with rhyming the words 'Tallahassee' with 'sassafrassie'.) Consequently, giants with white masks rhythmically flailing away on giant flat screen televisions while still in the throes of the Fear sets about an intense Loathing of your surroundings, of the waiter carrying your deep dish pizza, of the gastrointestinal problems you are developing due to an abundance of beer, Toradol, and cheap stadium food packed with sodium.
But I digress.
Leaving, we made it back to the car in one piece, and tore out of Detroit as fast as my newly shredded tires would carry us. In my haze in the back, I collapsed, finally, my body in an intense state of subliminal exhaustion. As we drove back south towards the Border, stars above us, and a tranquil state of being settling over the car, it occurred to me that we had overcome all of our perils, but that even five hours in Hockeytown, with the craziest of the crazies, was not what it set out to be. Reputations are one thing to be earned, but the actuality is far more tame than the pretense. In practice, there is a fear and pacification that is set out over such an event, there are Rules that must be followed, and while they may be Broken, it is for the Fear that we adhere to these codes. There is no Breaking of them when what you are following is actually intended by the Rules themselves.
Case in point, consider the octopus.
The other thing I realized, half sleeping, was that my associate still remained in Detroit, doing god knows what.
One can only hope that the consequences would not unleash the firestorm to come. Unfortunately, we were wrong. (To be continued.....)
(Postscript #1: Work on the novel continues. At the moment, we have breached the 40,000 word mark and have concluded Part 2 of 5. The last two days have been spent taking a break from it, as I am a little worded out at the moment. As tomorrow is a laundry day, work will resume at full throttle, and on pace for a finish to the first draft within the coming Months. River of Doubt is in progress as well, and I look to begin true work with The Professor as early as next week.)
(Postscript #2: I am looking for sponsorship to attend any Republican primary rallies in the coming weeks to see how the other half lives, works, and operates. I make no efforts to hide my liberal leanings, but in the nature of the work I've been progressing on, I am curious as to how this rat-trap operation will be functioning in months to come.)
(Postscript #3: I really do enjoy hockey more than this particular article gives me credit for. However, as I've stated, I enjoy it more when the stakes are higher. That goes for all sports in general, but particularly for something like this. Not to say I don't enjoy it, but...ah, there I go, speaking in a round-about way again. (Bonus for those who guess the reference.))
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