Page 17 of Penalty Shot
Pint House’s parking lot, it turns out, is not only walkable to the arena—it’s twenty bucks cheaper than any of the parking garages we passed as we strolled from the bar to the game. After picking up our tickets from will call, Lily and I take in the scene of our first hockey game.
The air is electric, the view colorful, and a buzz of excitement fills the expansive lobby area. We explore the wide oval walkway, which follows the shape of the ice rink itself. Although we’re somewhat out of place amidst the sea of jerseys, everyone is festive and friendly.
Navigating through the crowd, we find our seats in a section that requires us to descend a steep flight of stairs. As we approach the ice, it becomes glaringly obvious that I’m badlydressed. Just looking at that glacial stretch under bright lights makes me shiver. I’ve got a spring coat when what I need is a winter parka.
“This is exciting! We’re so close to the ice!” Lily exclaims. We are three rows from the barrier separating the spectators from the rink’s edge.
“Are there going to be people standing in front of us the whole time?” Lily stage-whispers. We can’t see beyond the folks with posters pressed on the plexiglass.
“The practice skate is about to start,” a woman beside me offers. “All the kids and fans like to get as close to the players as they can.”
“That’s cool. Is this the—”Bang, bang, bang.It’s as if thunder entered the arena at the same time that players begin skating.
Lily and I screech in surprise at the staccato onslaught of loud pounding. The rock music and continuous thudding are so jarring, my heart rate spikes. Unreasonably, it makes me think of bullets hitting the boards in front of us.
“Oh shit, we’re too close!” Lily yelps, jumping to her feet in a state of panic. “We’re gonna get hit! I don’t care how much you like Randall, I did not sign up for this.”
The woman beside me chuckles warmly. “There are a lot of pucks during practice but only one during the game. Everyone on the ice is a pro. You won’t get hit.”
I pull my friend back to her seat. “Thanks. It’s our first game, so we’ve got a lot to learn,” I admit.
“You’re shivering,” the friendly woman observes with mild disapproval.
I am. My back is especially nippy due to my ill-informed wardrobe decisions. “I’m fine,” I manage, despite clattering teeth.
“You can borrow the jersey I bought for my son.” She lifts a giftshop bag and hands me a massive blanket of a shirt with the Mavericks logo in front and the name Jefferson on the back.
“Oh, but it’s brand-new. I don’t want to ruin it.”
“You will not ruin it. Having you shiver the whole game is going to distract me.” She pats my arm pleasantly. “Put it on and give it back at the end of the game.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
I put on the jersey and immediately feel like I’m not only warm, I fit in. “Thank you. I’ll return it when the game ends. Can I do something for you? Buy you a drink? Beer or coffee?”
“My husband’s grabbing us some dinner. He’ll be here when the game starts. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Thank you so much. I’m Elise, and this is my friend Lily.”
“I’m Kendra. You’ll meet my husband Winston soon. So good to meet you. Let me know if you have questions, although you don’t need to be an expert to love hockey.”
Winston, when he arrives with nachos, hotdogs, and beer, is equally friendly. His sage advice is to “sit back and enjoy the best show on earth.”
That’s what Lily and I are determined to do. Through the opening national anthem and boisterous cheers, we take it all in. Rock music bursts while five players from each team head to the center of the ice. I don’t watch them, though, because I’m focused on the goaltender. I would have liked to wave at Randall when he skated from the bench to the net, but he never glanced our way.
At least I can decipher him from the others. It’s nearly impossible to tell one enormous man from the other because the movement and noise and sheer display of athleticism are overwhelming. In and out of the bench they go, miraculously not falling on their faces. How is all of this bustle happening aroundthe tiniest rubber object? Most of the time, I don’t even know where the puck is.
The tension in the arena builds as three players from the visiting team surge across the ice, a relentless force barreling toward Randall. The crowd’s excitement builds along with nervous murmurs. His teammates scramble to catch up. The puck flies toward Randall who reacts with lightning reflexes, making a spectacular save with his large glove. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar, applause echoing off the rafters. But the puck must have trickled in front of Randall because he dives down, scrambling. Everyone is swarming over his crouched form. I have a horrible twist in my gut, knowing his face is so close to skate blades.
An opposing player shoves his stick into Randall’s chest and, like it’s in slow motion, the puck trickles from under his goalie pads and settles at the back of the net. The arena releases a unified groan and my stomach dips. An especially obnoxious fan of the visiting team heckles in the row behind us. Jerk.
Randall rises to his feet and skates around his net while the other players reposition in the middle of the ice for what I am told is called a face-off. He looks to be shaking off the goal. Bending and stretching in front of his net, he readies himself for the next onslaught. For the rest of the period, he staves off all the other shots that head his way. I cannot believe anyone would choose to be on the receiving end of smashing sticks and flying objects.
This sport is obviously dangerous and possibly homicidal yet also, if I’m being honest, awe-inspiring. Huge men grunting and hitting and speeding is a show of masculinity to the extreme. I don’t understand any aspect of the game’s strategies, yet there’s no denying the entertainment value.
A loud buzzer cuts into the air and all the players leave the ice.
