Vertigo

My ticket for last night's San Jose Sharks game cost me only slightly more than my allowance had been as a teenager: $24. We sat dead centre behind the Sharks' goalie, 847 rows up, and I had an overwhelming urge to dye my hair blonde and dress up like Kim Novak.

There was me, épanouie, LBF, LBF's husband, a Mormon, a Brit, and an Australian. They're all science nerds. Real science, you know, like, with test tubes and mice and bits of intestines. I'd just met them all, because épanouie had only given me one hour's advance notice. Lucky for her I'm a hockey slut.

I'd worn my Toronto Maple Leafs jersey so that my people could recognize me. Not épanouie and her friends, I mean Canadians. I also own a red Montreal jersey (Chris Nilan #30) and a white Pittsburgh one (Mario Lemieux #66), but I figured those would be complete non-sequiters. Worse, even, than palm trees outside a hockey arena.


I had walked to the HP Pavilion along Santa Clara Street, where I joined in the parade of sweaters.


Two guys about my age, one short, the other tall, fell in beside me at a traffic light. The tall one had lived in Toronto, and expressed sympathy at the Belfourness of my sweater.

We chatted about hockey, and how it is done here in San Jose, as we walked. They explained that there's free parking in the direction from which I'd come, and that this pre-game westbound parade is therefore part of the festivities.

"Wait until you see the bunny," said the short one.

"The bunny?" I asked.

"Yeah. He belongs to the trumpet player."


"So, does the bunny have a name?" I asked my travelling companions.

"Dinner!" the tall one replied.

I bid my companions goodbye at the entrance to the Pavilion. They were anxious not to miss the opening ceremony, during which, they told me, the home team skated onto the ice through a giant shark head. Miss it I did, however, as I had to wait outside for LBF to come out with my ticket. Epanouie was still on 280, but LBF was already inside with the others, watching the players being vomited through flaming sharks' teeth.

She found me easily enough. I imagine épanouie directed her to look for the Amazon in the Toronto hockey sweater.

When the Sharks scored their first goal, two minutes into the first period, the giant dismembered shark head, now suspended from the ceiling, flashed its red eyes and blew smoke out its neck.


"I don't see anyone drinking beer," I commented to LBF, after scanning the crowd for plastic cups filled with amber liquid. "Are we not allowed to?" Then I noticed the people beside me had beer bottles in their hands. "Holy shit, they let you take the bottles to your seats?"


"They're probably plastic," says LBF.

"No way, beer bottles aren't plastic!"

"They make them especially for sporting events," LBF insisted.

I had to buy one. Turns out she was right, they are plastic:


Then I bought another one, you know, just to be sure.

Epanouie was late arriving, so in the mean time I answered LBF's questions about hockey. This was her first time at a game, and she wanted to know, for example, what the rules were for taking the puck from another player.

Um, are there rules for that?

Instead, I explained offside.

After the first period, while waiting in line for a $7.25 beer, an enormous young man wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with FRISCO asked me, "Is there a break after every part? I thought it wasn't until after the second."

"Can I have a beer, please?" I asked the service person behind the counter, an older Hispanic woman.

"What kind?"

"You mean I have a choice?" I was excited now. I'd only seen Budweiser; I hadn't realized there were other kinds available. "What have you got?"

"Budweiser," she said.

The beer was insanely expensive, but the steak burrito was awesome. Burritos are big here in California. I know, I'm surprised, too.

Back inside, bad metal was playing, and I felt very at home.

When the Sharks go on a power play, the theme from Jaws plays, and the fans in the audience extend one arm and move it up and down, imitating shark jaws opening and closing. It's ridiculous, silly, and cheesy, and I loved every minute of it.

With only 12 seconds left in the game, Bill Guerin took a penalty shot, making the final score 7-1 and earning a hat trick for himself. The fans threw hats — baseball caps — onto the ice.

Just before that spectacular final play, during a musical interlude, I heard the familiar honkey hokieness of Stompin' Tom's "The Good Old Hockey Game." My sinuses got all pluggy and my eyes got that weird welling up-edness and I made a joke about it to épanouie and she giggled but it was all I could do not to bawl.

In the next story, Postmodern Sass learns that it's OK to be impolite to Jehovah's Witnesses.