Tuesday, 28 July 2009

Game 6 = omigodomigodomigod

So I was sorting through Drafts that never got published and stumbled across this. I seriously could have sworn I published this. Clearly, I am delusional. But when you figure out when it was written, you will understand why my brain wasn't completely with it...


June 10th, 2009 - 1 a.m. ish

So, if y'all pay attention, you know I had to work tonight.
See, thing is, I work in the prep kitchen of a PUB.
On a university campus.
In Canada.

So, clearly my bosses had the TVs on CBC tonight.
Hell, the D-man likes me enough that he put it up on the big screen projector
(ie. 10' x 10' hockey - hello super-sized le swoooon...)

3 p.m. Pacific Time/6 p.m. Pittsburgh Time
Get to work.
Fish gives me a long list of instructions which I actually write down for fear of forgetting something in my current state of High-Strung, Pre-Game Frenzy of Nerves... (good thing I do, because I nearly forgot some things later)

Workyworkyworky.

4:30 p.m. Pacific
Warn my co-workers that I will not be myself tonight.
A. laughs, D-man makes sure to tease me about my Penguins-love.
Am so tense that, if someone shoved coal up my butt, a week later they'd have a diamond.
(If you get that reference, you get cookies. For real.)
My head feels like it will explode.

4:45 p.m.
Pub is deadsville, Population: Staff.
Break-time with M. who always says the best things ever. Tonight it is the following:
"Now, you start giving a shit."
It is an instruction she gave junior members of the drum core in her pipe band.
NHL slogan for 2009-2010?
This is the girl who once said, in reference to Letang's habit of hanging out around the net during pre-game warm-up: "He's so hot, he doesn't need to warm up!"
This is only one of the many reasons why I love M.

5 p.m. PT, 8 p.m. Pittsburgh
HNIC logo soars across the television screen. My heart swells.
Break is technically over.
Pub is still dead though so... nothing to do...
May as well watch the puck drop.

Here. We. Go.

Jittering like a meth addict in withdrawal...
My head is pounding.
I escape down to the kitchen.
Three minutes later, I am back.
There is seriously NOTHING for me to do in the kitchen.

MAF makes some huge saves.
The few customers we have stare at me when I hoot happily.
"Crosby takes a shot on a pass from Sykora..."
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

This makes my entire day.
Petr Sykora is in, nothing can go wrong.
Lalalalalalalalala!
We drive the net.
GO US!!!

First period ends.
Shots: Pens, 12 - Wings, 3.
Normally, this would be worth laughing at. Gleefully. Potentially with a hint of evil-genius laughter...
But, somehow there is no score.
This is disconcerting, but not as bad as being behind.
We'll take it.

I go down and do the, like, ten dishes that need doing.
I am back before intermission is over.
D-man tells me not to look at the TV; he loves him some calimari...
I am fairly certain the second period has not begun,
but I let him string me along because I need the distraction.
My head still feels like it's going to explode.

Second period. (Time is no longer of consequence.)
Miss the puck drop.
Come back up and Pens are up 1-0.
Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump Around! Jump Around! Jump up, jump up, and get down!
People think I am caaa-rraaaa-zzzyyyyy.
Screw 'em.
Stop even pretending to try to get work done. (There is none to be done anyways.)
Sit and watch the big screen.
Shots on Goal: Pens, 20 - Wings, 7
I suck on ginger ale like there is no tomorrow. Like I really need more sugar?
Could really use a beer. Or half a bottle of Jack. Or some Cobra Scorpion Whiskey.
Too bad I'm working.

A bunch of guys come in from the patio. Green polo shirt boy is actually pretty cute.
They are cheering for the Pens. But not Pens fans.
I have realized there is a VERY huge difference.
I consider myself a Pens fan. (DUH)
The television tells me it was Staal who scored.
Fist pump.
CALLED IT!

Hot damn, I am good.
Suddenly, I feel the power of Max Talbot's beard giving me faith.
Since someone I called on to score had scored, my predictions have not been disproved, and are, therefore, still valid.
HOPE!!!

Wings hit the post with 1:30 remaining.
SUUUCKAAAAHHZ!!!
Flower gives his pipes a good pat: Merci Monsieur Goalpost, it vaz nice of yous to help owt tonighz...

At some point in this period (it's 1:37 a.m. and I'm trying to do this sans notes from memory...), Flower sits on the puck.
Signature Flower, but this time it works in his favour.
Wings are DEEEE-NIIIEEED!

Mr. Green Polo Shirt tries to flirt with me.
I cannot take him seriously after he refers to the Pens as 'young guns' and then goes 'Huh?' when I mention how I've finally forgiven Feds for his pair of goals in 2004.
[headshake]
I mean, really, when someone scores the ONLY two goals in Game 7 of the Cup Final?
THAT'S MEMORABLE!
Even if you were cheering against the guy.

Detroit looks AWFUL. I'm full on cringing.
It's actually kind of concerning. I wonder if it's some sick trick.
Shots: Pittsburgh, 62183 bazillion - Detroit, 9

Haven't checked the time since the beginning of the game. No point starting now.
It's not like I didn't have another 15 minute break I can claim this is part of...
If I needed to. Which I don't. Because the pub is still deadsville.
No work for Mer to do.
May as well watch the game!

THIRD PERIOD.
We are 20 minutes from not losing the Cup.
Because I don't care what Danny B said: this game isn't about winning, it's about not losing.
Game 7 can be about winning.
We just need to get there.

Tralalala!
Several muscle groups are tempted to relax; but this is still a one goal game.
Not for long.
TK SCORES!!!
Off his own rebound. Just like Simba, I mean JStaal.
Didn't call this one.
DO NOT CARE.
Pens are up 2-0 in the second.
Several dozen muscle group ease up just a titch...

Mr. Green double high-fives me. GO PENS!!!
So does his red-headed friend, who reminds me way too much of Lauren. (Only Lauren's prettier.)
And his other friend.
Well, he tries.
And fails.
And punches me in the EYE.
And walks away laughing.
Asshole.
I am doubled over in pain; the guy has gone to sit back down.
He's sipping his beer with a 'what?' face like Baby Kane or Della's stretched across faux-innocent cheeks. I am on the clock, or I'd call him a rat fucking bastard with no manners and ask for his name so I can file assault charges.
If he'd even shown the smallest iota of caring that he'd just HIT ME IN THE EYE, I would be in a more forgiving mood.
Mr. Green realizes I'm actually in pain. Like fer reals, dude! Ya think?
Cause, you know, I'm usually such a wimp.
Fuck you.
The guy who hit me gets up. Says I can hit him if it'll make me feel better.

Actually, I'm seeing double you fucktard. I punch him in the kidney. Hard. I actually catch him off-guard. I refrain from punching him in the eye. Probably not the best thing to do my fourth day back (although, my bosses would fully back me up if he'd tried to complain).

He never apologizes.
Not even a simple, "Shit! Sorry!"
Nothing.
I am losing hope for men...

Go ice my eye for a minute.
Return a minute later and the Wings have scored. Jerks.

Doesn't matter.
We are going to win.
I know it.
This is glorious.
LALALALALALALA!!!
Feel lovely.

Also very nerve-wracking.
Especially when Dan Cleary has the most stunningly perfect break-away and we momentarily kiss our confidence good-BYE.
Flower saves the world.
GIGANTIC SIGHS.
Mr. Green is giving me weird looks because I'm yelling about a missed hooking call or something.
Then CBC mentions how the refs missed it. Mr. Green turns in disconcerted shock.
He seems unfamiliar with the concept of a girl knowing more about hockey than him.
Idiot.
I make some joke about the last time the Cup final went to seven games.
"Oh yeah, Calgary and the Canes."
No, you idiot, Calgary played the Bolts.
Edmonton played the Canes.
Two years later.
Really. Honestly. This makes me sad.

I turn back to the game. Yell like hell when someone (Cooke I think) makes some uneccesarily violent hit that I think is going to be penalized. (In the end, he isn't.) At least it's the PK and not a power play.
"Uh, wouldn't a power play be better?" Mr. Green asks.
Seriously?
I thought you said you were a Pens fan!
(I didn't believe you for a second, but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.)

Lesson for the night, ducklings: Practice safe sex. Use condoms. There are enough idiots in the world already.

Clock runs down.
2-1 Pens. Still.
The adrenaline is surging through me.
Game over.

JUMP AROUND!!! JUMP AROUND!!!
JUMP UP JUMP UP AND GET DOWN!!!

Back to work.
There is finally something for me to do.
It's at least 8 p.m.
Dishes get done.

8:30 p.m.
Taking clean dishes back up to the pub.
Get attacked by BJ. Forgot COMEPLETELY that she'd said she was going to stop by during the game. Clearly that was a lie, but she's here now.
E. is coming.
I'll take my "break". (BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!)
Order some dinner (because I couldn't eat before due to vomit-inducing nerves).
Go down, wrap up some stuff, come back up at 8:45. Collect my BLT and fries and a drink and go find BJ on the patio.

Seriously, have I worked at ALL tonight???

Munchmunchmunch.
This boy D. is there. He laughs because the first thing I say to BJ is that I've felt like crap all day.
She asks why.
"My boy asked to be traded."
"What, Dany?" she demands.
I nod.
SHE EFFING FIST-PUMPS!!! (the bee-awtch)
Then she slaps her hand over her mouth.
"That was probably the least supportive thing I could have said, eh?"
Yes BJ, yes it was.
D. is mildly confused.
"Your boy?"
"Dany Heatley." BJ explains. D. raises an eyebrow.

This is the beginning of a saga. I can just feel it.
...


And that's when I fell asleep, apparently. What a lovely night to relive...

4 comments:

Val said...

Now that was beautiful...in fact, I have to say EPIC.WIN.

ali said...

It is pretty sad that when you mentioned Mr. Della Rovere 'what' face I could picture it in my head like I saw it yesterday.

Well... it was *only* 13 days ago.

I'm hopeless, and all of you (you know who you are) are no help... whatsoever. Thanks for nothing.

Oh... Do I get cookies because I understand fully the way coal is made into diamonds? haha

Like Val said... this post was WIN.

Kylie said...

@Ali
You're hopless? Everytime I read Mr. Green my inner-fan girl squealed "MIIIIIKE GREEEEEEN!

Yeah, that's hopeless.

Holy crap, that took me right back to Game 6. Man, I miss hockey.

Lauren said...

How do I not remember you getting punched during Game 6? I suppose it's possible that in all the excitement of that time period, that story slipped through the cracks. Anyways, this made me laugh a whole lot.