So, it’s off to a sunny vacation after today. Which means you might be blogless without me for a few weeks — however, don’t worry, I leave you in very capable hands:
That’s right. It’s playoff time.
It’s depressing that as I leave, round two is starting and I’ll basically be missing it, but I get notifications from every app on earth, really, not counting my hockey friends that text me in capitals letters when things happen, and oh, yes.
I have twitter.
This got me into a conversation over sushi on exactly what kind of fan I am, since let’s face it, now that the playoffs are in full swing, so are the bandwagon fans.
So, what exactly separates the bandwaggoners from the true fans?
Random Hockey Fan at a game I went to: We’ll get them in the fourth period.
ANYWAY. In no particular order, here are things that probably mean you’re [not] a bandwaggoner.
1. Eye rolls at the band waggoners. (See above comment from Random Fan). I asked twitter exactly what they thought of these fine sports folk, and that seemed to be the general consensus. You grin, and you bear it, or you post it on your twitter afterwards because this chick is legitimately concerned that everyone is upset now that the third period is over.
— Duncan_Keith_KSeeYa (@Luke101988) May 15, 2013
— Peter Fish (@KinFin) May 15, 2013
@la_thegirl I think they are silly. If they genuinely become interested in the team that’s one thing but when they start acting like cont…
— Lisa Prouse (@OrangeSlushie) May 15, 2013
@la_thegirl they know everything about the team and act like theyve always been a fan that’s when I get cranky.
— Lisa Prouse (@OrangeSlushie) May 15, 2013
@la_thegirl And when they insult the team I really have to bite my tongue and refrain from hitting them
— Lisa Prouse (@OrangeSlushie) May 15, 2013
@la_thegirl I don’t care one way or another. I’m passionate and the very defn of fanatic about my teams. Bandwagon fans don’t stir my pot.
— Mic Dangles (@micdangles) May 15, 2013
I have a t-shirt. It got signed by Patrick Eaves (twice, in the same spot, because my Mom washed it and he signed it again for me, announcing, “shoot guys, we have a washer!”) and I’m afraid to ever wash it again. But every game I’ve worn it to — the Wings have won.
I was gifted an epic pair of Red Wing scrubs. I used to wear them, clean laundry providing, on game days. But everyday that I wore them, the Wings would win. So, that last day of the regular season, when the Wings were playing for their play off life? It was jean day in the office. I wore Red Wing Scrubs.
3. You tweet about your sport. You tweet obsessively about your sport. You write about your sport. Your social media friends are fans of the same team, because twitter likes to connect everybody like that.
4. Your closet may or may not look like this:
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) January 28, 2013
5. The following type of conversation:
Dodger: Ah, the Equinox with the Red Wing Sticker.
L.A.: Says the KIA with the Dodgers license plate.
On that note.
Enjoy the playoffs, tweet me to keep me informed, and I’ll see everyone today, tomorrow, because it’s already tomorrow where I’m going.
- Leach’s Lists: Blackhawks/Wings Preview And Prediction (detroit.cbslocal.com)
- Detroit’s Lucky Song ‘Throw Your Wings Up!’ (Octopi HockeyTown 13′ Playoff Edition) (987ampradio.cbslocal.com)
- Twitter: A Baseball Fan Speaks Out (missriki.com)
I’d like to open this post with a letter to Gary Bettman.
Love, Hockey Fans Everywhere
That about sums it up.
I think we all know by now that I’m a hockey fan. If you didn’t know this, catch up, will you? If you’re a hockey fan, or if you like hockey and come to my office regularly for your tidbit of hockey knowledge from me, then you know that the NHL has locked out again, because Bettman was just looking for another reason to add chatch-nugget to his business cards.
Basically, fans, we’re fucked.
Which is really unfortunate, because through all these debates about:
a) who needs to get more money among the owners and the players
b) just how much of a chatch Gary Bettman is
…we still don’t get our hockey fix on.
So, who’s suffering, really? Nightmare on Helm Street wrote a post about everyone else affected by the lockout — the people employed by the Red Wings, the people not making the big bucks, who are not the players or owners but are your fellow average person making a fellow average wage.
And what about the people who just freaking love hockey? You know, the fans?
Well. I have a four year old son now. He’s commonly known as Boo on the blog here, and his birthday falls rather perfectly into pre-season hockey.
So, since I love hockey so much and I wanted him to love it like I do, every year, we’ve gotten tickets and headed down to the Joe for some Birthday Hockey. Boo even learned, when he was itty bitty, to say the entire line up…to a certain extent. I’m sure Zetterberg understood that “Zumberbug,” meant him. Since Boo got to be really into hockey too (don’t know how), we kept this tradition up. Pre-season hockey was much more chill, and so kind of the perfect environment for the little guy.
It’s now tradition. And I am big on the traditions of my life.
Well, as of today, as the lockout continues, I’d like to add to that sentiment at the beginning of this post:
Boo turned four yesterday. This is the first year that I won’t be able to take my Boo to a hockey game for his birthday. And while, yes, I know, he’s only four, and he is distracted by other things like OMFG, Cake and Candles, I still am a little heart broken that our ritual will have to be postponed.
Maybe the winter classic can serve as his birthday…since they better get things sorted by then.
How about you, out there in the interwebs world? How are you affected by this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, lockout?
I’m so sorry. This post is technically from last March. But it’s such a strange story that I’m sharing. That, and I’m sure you’re all wondering if GoldDust and I pulled a Thelma and Louise and drove off a cliff to escape you all. We didn’t. We still exist. Believe in us.
Lately, if you’ve been keeping track, I’ve been asked out on a number of occasions. Not really, I’m completely lying. I’ve been asked out thrice, and all the occasions were by young’ns with peach fuzz and vertical driver’s licenses. I never had a vertical license. It’s bizarre, really. My quarter life crisis is that I don’t look like I’m a quarter century old.
I have issues.
All this youth in my life made me remember this tale from last year. And reminded me: I need to stop dating down. Granted, I never actually dated this guy. I hung out with him once. That doesn’t count…right?
Originally posted March 12, 2011.I texted Poof last night, probably midway through the second period of the Wings/Oilers game. I really wanted to be AT the game, but just couldn’t bring myself to dish out the required $90 that would have gotten me there. A girl has limits. Scratch that. A girl’s bank account has limits.
So, I text Poof midway through the 2nd period. The wings are down by one. We’re losing to the Oilers. That’s not right. My fingers are crossed. I believe in the Wings. But I’m in a bad mood. I need good things to happen.
L.A.: Should I go hang out with a minor?
Poof was pretty adamant on this. So I listened, for part of the night. LeBebe was occupied with showing off for BabyDaddy’s parents so I instead escaped to the wonderful world of Buffalo Wild Wings for some old friends, hockey talk, and the third period.
I arrived just in time for Lidstrom’s equalizer.
I ate some boneless wings, drank a tall beer, talked about topics involving my high school playing hockey at the Joe for the State Championship or something like that. LET’S GO COUGARS, etc, etc.
Before long, however, I found my compatriots heading out following the OT win (Datsyuk!), and leaving little L.A. with nothing to do.
I’m sorry, Poof. I saw the minor.
His house ended up being fairly close to where I was at, and being that it was only around 11, I stopped by to say hi.
Now, the minor isn’t illegal. He’s 20. He’d need me to buy him alcohol and he couldn’t come hang out with me in a bar. But it’s not illegal.
So things could be worse. We talked about high school, and about my high school being awesome in hockey. We came to the conclusion that when I was a senior, he was a lowly freshman. Weird.
Minor put on SportsCenter and we watched the highlights from the game. He put his arm around me, because in case you didn’t know, hockey is really romantic.
Seriously. You can propose to me at a hockey game. Especially if you’re Darren Helm.
In this case, however, it was kind of weird. This young boy just put his arm around me, and then his mom brought us brownies. She warned me to be careful, because they were just out of the oven, and we didn’t want anyone getting burnt.
At this point, I’ve realized. Holy Shit. I’ve time traveled back to 2005.
At this point, it’s time to run. It’s moderately early, but I’m freaking out. Isn’t this why I have friends my own age? I’m debating how to plan a smooth exit when this happens.
“You know,” Minor tells me. “I’ve got this old jersey, and it just doesn’t fit me anymore.”
“You should save it,” I tell him. “Give it to your kids someday [when you’re old enough to have sex.]”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think guys do that. I’ll probably throw it out before then.” He then gets up and leaves momentarily.
Five minutes later, he comes back and he throws a jersey at me. It’s a legit jersey, not one of the crappy fan jerseys. It even has the Konstantinov patch (see picture at top) on it. It’s definitely too small for him.
“It’s yours if you want it,” he tells me, sitting back down.
I pull out my phone and text Poof at a furious pace, which is actually about how quickly Poof’s dog can text. Poof’s dog has no thumbs.
L.A.: Can I take a hockey jersey from a random minor? Is that taking advantage?
Poof: Yes and no.
It doesn’t take more convincing. I take the jersey. I hug Minor goodbye. I leave with a Shanny jersey, my morality [mostly] intact, and a zip-lock baggy filled with Ghiradelli brownies.
I think his mom liked me.
Then, I hopped into my DeLorean and drove back to 2011.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe there is something in my DNA that attracts people far out my age range to ask me out and put me into awkward situations that I can later blog about.
Or maybe it’s because I went to a high school with a motto that pretty much designated that I’d be asked to prom at 25. The world may never know.