Gather round, y’all, and let me tell you the tale of my first hockey game. It all starts on a cold December day in 1992. My Dad came home from work with exciting news. “Guess what, everybody?” my Dad said. “What?” we all responded. “Every year at this time, I get all kinds of goodies and gift baskets from the gravel companies for being such a nice government inspector. And this year, one of those cheap-ass gravel companies gave me a pair of Oilers tickets!” Dad explained. And the great debate started. Who would Dad take? Would it be me, or my brother? My sister was never a consideration, because it’s silly to take a girl to a hockey game. (In 1992, I wasn’t as enlightened as I am now) Soon, my Dad made a decision. My brother would go with him to see the Edmonton Oilers tackle the San Jose Sharks. I, understandably, was depressed. Here I was, the middle child, getting the shaft once again. My Dad sat down with me and we had a talk.
“Are you OK with this, Mark?” he asked.
“Sure I am,” I said, feigning enthusiasm.
Dad saw right through my charade. “Don’t worry, Mark,” he said. “Every Christmas, those gravel companies actually shell out for some pretty nice stuff. I’m sure it won’t be long until I get another pair of hockey tickets. And when I do, I’ll take you.”
“Promise Dad?”
“I promise.”
Seven years later. . . . No longer the innocent 15-year old high school freshman. Now, I’m a hulking 22-year old college graduate leaching off of his parents until I figure out what to do with this thing called “life.” Dad came home from work one night and said “Guess what? One of those cheap-ass gravel companies gave me hockey tickets for a Christmas present!” And I immediately shouted “WOO!! My turn!” On Wednesday, December 1, 1999, I was off to see the Edmonton Oilers tackle the Colorado Avalanche. Not those lame-ass Sharks. I was getting to see a good team. And the Avalanche.
We got in there with 10 minutes to spare. We found are seats, and were prepping to see a game. It has been years since I’d been in the Northland’s, I mean Edmonton Coll…, I mean the Skyreach Center. You know, that building where the Oilers play that has a new name every two years. It was smaller than I remembered. I was amazed by that scoreboard. You know they show movie trailers on it before the game? I must have seen the trailer for The Green Mile about three times that night. And then, just like at a movie theater, the lights dimmed. This giant golden oil rig started descending from the roof. These indoor fireworks went off. The song The Kids Aren’t Alright by The Offspring began to play. And then, the announcer (that guy who’s currently in those McDonald’s hockey card commercials) said “Ladies and Gentlemen, your Edmonton Oilers!” And the team skated out onto the ice! And the crowd roared! And somewhere in the darkness, the Colorado Avalanche skated out onto the ice. The lights came up. The national anthem was sung. And then, to quote Wayne from Wayne’s World, “Game on!”
About 5 minutes in, that’s when “the incident” happened. This guy came in and sat down next to me. “Hey, your in my seats,” he said to me.
“Uh-huh,” I said, my attention focused on the game.
“Yeah, I got season tickets,” he explained. “And you’re in my seat. Don’t worry, you don’t have to move. Unless someone comes along and chases me out of these seats. You see, I got season tickets. And you’re in my seat. But that’s OK. You can sit there until someone tells me to move.”
“Thank you, you’re too kind,” I mumbled. Or words to that effect. I was focused on the game. We all got into the game. Then, three minutes later, the guy turns to me again.
“Yeah. These guys here,” he points to some people in the aisle. “I’m in their seats. So I want my seats now. Because you see, I’ve got season tickets, and your in my seats. And since these people want their seats, I want my seats.”
At this point, my Dad interjected. “Isn’t this section 114?” he inquired.
The guy said “Nope. This is 112. I know because I have season tickets, and they’re for section 112, in the two seats you guys are sitting in. 114 is one aisle over.”
“Our apologies,” my Dad said. And we moved. But, my Dad had to use the bathroom. So, he went and I waited in the concourse.
And that’s where this incident began to bug me. I don’t know why it bugged me. I was clearly in the wrong, and maybe even a little rude. Hell, that guy was even being really nice about this mix-up. But it bugged me. Looking back on it now, I think it bugged me because I always wanted to be a big city guy. And incidents like this (be they few and far between) remind me that I’m just some Gomer from Smalltown, Alberta, innocent in the ways of the city life. Incidents like this point out my imperfections. I don’t like my imperfections being pointed out. But I tried to get over it. Really I did.
When my Dad got out of the bathroom, we found our right seats. I liked them a little more, actually. They were a little wider, and a little more comfy. Almost exactly level with the goal, only 14 rows up. Good seats. The game continued, my attention focused on it. You know, when you watch a hockey game live, it is almost eerily quiet. I mean, when you watch it on TV, you’ve always got someone going “Joe passes to Bob. Bob passes to Frank. Frank scores!” But none of that live. Even the crowd lowers the voices to a loud hush when the game is on. Almost too quiet for a hockey game. Soon, the buzzer sounded, and the first period was over. My recap: Oilers 1, Avs 1, and lots of fights. Lots of fights in that first period.
During that first intermission, my Dad went to get popcorn, and I sat back and relaxed. Lots of neat stuff during that intermission. They had these cute little pee-wee teams come out, and they played a quick, 5-minute game. Then, these guys came out with these massive slingshots and started flinging T-shirts into the crowds. Very cool. Then, my Dad came back, the Zambonis did their rounds, and the second period began.
During the second period, it began to set in once again why I don’t watch hockey that much. It gets kind of boring. Just back and forth, back and forth. First, the two teams tussle over the puck in one end of the rink, then they tussle over it at the other end, back and forth. Then, someone scores, and everyone’s happy. (Gee, with commentary like that, maybe it’s a good thing that every station manager at Augustana’s radio station shot down my proposal to allow me to broadcast Viking games. But I digress. . . .) The second period came and went. Nothing exciting. Oh, yeah, Oilers scored. At the end of the second, it was Oilers 2, Avs 1.
Second intermission. This time around, the Edmonton Sun was sponsoring some kind of contest where this blindfolded guy got to run around the ice looking for a bag containing $100. That was OK. Then those guys with their slingshots came out again, flinging more T-shirts into the crowd. Those crazy Zambonis came out again, and then on to the third period.
I was really starting to wonder why I was so upset that I didn’t get to go seven years ago. Man, hockey is boring. Back and forth, back and forth. Men are paid $90 million a year to chase around a puck. My love of hockey was starting to die, and my hatred for sports in general began to re-surface. The game continued. Back and forth, back and forth. At the 2-minute mark, people began to leave, assured of an Oiler victory. “Geez, look at all the people leaving,” my Dad commented.
“Ehh, they’re just being stupid,” I said. “A lot can happen in 2 minutes.” And I was right. What happened next seems to happen in every last 2 minutes of a hockey game. The Avs called a time-out. They pulled their goalie and put an extra man on the ice. The puck was dropped. An Oiler got the puck, broke out of the crowd, and scored on an empty net. Oilers win, 3 – 1.
And that was it. Game over. As my Dad and I walked out to the truck, I was wondering what the big deal was. Why the hell was I so eager to go? As we piled into the truck, my Dad said “Thanks for coming, Mark. I had a really nice time.” You know what? So did I. My Dad and I have grown somewhat distant over the last few years. I like sci-fi, he likes westerns, and things just kind of go downhill from there. We don’t talk much. We don’t do much together. But, for one single night, we were at a hockey game together. We were doing something together. Just my Dad and me. Hopefully, we won’t have to wait seven years until the next time.