The Celtic Storm

It being a preseason game, we naturally assumed it would be relatively easy and cheap to procure tickets and move up into the “good seats” since preseason games rarely sold out at the time. Or ever. I forget which and I’m certainly not figuring it out for you.

I actually prefer sitting higher up in the cheaper seats so I could see the play develop, but there is something to be said for sitting right on the glass, pounding it and screaming expletives any time an opposing player gets within a fresh mile of you. Plus, the bunnies were better looking the more expensive the seat. This was in the time before “ticket agents” or “team sponsored ticket resale websites”. You had to deal with the person who began ticket scalping (at least of fake tickets). After negotiating an acceptable price and obtaining our tickets from a local crackhead, we returned to the car to tailgate. Very few people tailgate at Penguin games. Silly fuckers, you can put me in the minority that does. I got there early so I could swill Molson Canadian beer and cook mass quantities of meat in the parking lot. I made sure to heckle anyone wearing Blue Jacket attire. Which actually turned out to be mostly women and children. And pregnant women with autistic children. And people wonder why I think I’m going to hell.
TreD decided that he was going to refrain from consuming alcoholic beverages, partially because I was guzzling enough for the both of us and partially because he had a formula very similar to Einstein’s E=mc². His was, Sean + (Molson + Hockey) = Trouble³. He had majored in Seanthematics in college and was a secondary character in many of my exploits. Or an unwilling participant who “helped me get the fuck out before the authorities arrived.” The funny thing was, no one would park next to us. I wondered why aloud. “Maybe because there was a screaming lunatic, swilling Canadian beer and hopping around to music loud enough that the entire Hill District can hear it.” Replied TreD, obviously feeling unsuperior.
I noted that it was a rhetorical question and grabbed another plate of meat, with a side of meat. I would’ve made a meatshake, but I had Molson on my side. As game time neared, we began to pack our half empty beer cooler and grilling supplies into the car when two gentlemen in their early forties approached. “Excuse me, son, but I think you would have more fun with this than we would.” he said as he handed me an air horn and walked away.

“Did that really just happen? Did someone really just hand me an air horn at a professional sporting event? Do they realize the repercussions of such an act?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I know, ridiculous, right? Either they didn’t see you drink the first dozen beers, or they did and figured if the game got boring, at least they’d get to see someone get beat by security tonight.” TreD quipped, in what turned out to be later filed under “obvious foreshadowing”. I blew the airhorn in his ear.

As we approached our gate (Who am I kidding, I just drank more beers than I have fingers and I had to use the restroom so bad my teeth were floating. We went into the first gate we saw), the security guard eyed me suspiciously, as if he was doing a risk assessment to determine if he should allow me to enter or not. It was later revealed that I was, in fact, not speed walking, as I thought. Rather, my movement was described as speed walk-stumble-grab crotch-curse-repeat. I suppose he deemed me small enough to be quickly subdued if I got out of line because he let us enter. Or because I sneered at him and threatened a physical altercation if he denied us entrance. You decide which it was (Hint: Number Uno) Upon entering, I made a V-line for the closest restroom and relieved myself in one of professional sports greatest inventions, “the trough”. The trough is, literally, a trough that runs the entire length of one of the restroom walls that allows hundreds of men to urinate at once. Take that women. We gave in on the voting, driving and employing women thing, but we are not equals in bathroom efficiency. I found my favorite beer vendor, the one who sings, “Yummy, yummy, yummy, I got beer in my tummy!” to remind me to purchase more beer, because as we all know, the average period of hockey requires multiple cold, intoxicating beverages. We found our ridiculously cheap seats and settled in for the start of the game. As the game started, I began double fisting watered down beer and heckling the refs and the Jackets goaltender, free entertainment for those who sat anywhere close to me. As the first period wound down, I was practically bouncing in my seat, cross-legged because of the rapid rate that my beers were disappearing. As soon as the horn sounded, I dashed to the restroom, knocking over women and children on the way.

After answering natures call, we stumbled upon the one thing that would always become a source of anger, cursing and threats of physical violence between TreD and I: Bubbleboy Hockey. Those of you unaware of what the incredibleness of Bubbleboy Hockey is, it is the hockey game with the giant plastic dome over top of it and players that are controlled through foosball type rods. It is the coolest thing I have ever played. TreD and I couldn’t come upon a Bubbleboy hockey game and not play. It was a rule of our friendship. TreD and I had a terrific friendship, but those friendships were put aside during a life or death match of plastic hockey players whose play, often times, almost came to blows between us. One time, he spun his center so hard on the faceoff that he knocked my center off its mooring, skated in on my goaltender uncontested and scored stick side. Using my player instead of the puck. He later disputed a save my forward made, while lying in the net and demanded, as per NHL rules, that he be awarded a penalty shot for a non-goaltender covering the puck in the crease. I threw the quarters in and the battle began. Within minutes, we were screaming profanity at each other, threatening to maim each others family members and scaring off anyone else within earshot of us. Parents rushed away, hands over their childrens ears. Due partially to my level of intoxication and partially due to an attractive young lady smiling (or laughing cause I kept calling Doner a “French, cheese eating, surrender monkey”) at me, TreD scored in sudden death overtime and celebrated as if he had just won Olympic gold. I slapped my beer of the bubble at him, stopping his celebration. Disgusted with my players performance, I forgot to obtain liquid libation as we headed back to our seats.

Not surprisingly, most of the seats immediately surrounding us had been abandoned. I wonder if it was because of me. I was reduced to screaming at the beer vendor, who was two sections away from us, to bring me alcohol. The second period was much of the same drubbing the Penguins began administering in the first. As the end of the period neared, I began inquiring why the refs weren’t calling too many men on the ice because each team had 12 players on the ice. TreD solved this problem for me, “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked.
“Fingers? I don’t know, but why are you using both hands.” I answered, clearly seeing a jumble of fingers from each hand.

“Oh, great! You’re seeing double! At a professional sporting event! What could possibly go wrong with that? We’re going to jail tonight. Should I call my parents now and inform them that we’ll be needing bailed out?” he quipped, again omniously.

The horn sounded, signaling the end of the second frame and again, I fled for the restroom like a Mexican across the border. After relieving myself, TreD and I went outside to the smoking area. “If you’re not comatose by the third period, we’ll sneak up into the good seats with about ten minutes left in the game.” said TreD, with a look of concern that had to do with the Penguins not beating the Jackets like they owed them money and not because I was swaying in place and kept hitting myself in the ear when I tried to take a drag from my cigarette.

“Uh oh! It’sh the beer poleesh. Are yoush gonna rest me oshifer?” I replied, obviously not in the Queens English. Reply came in the look of utter contempt.

Once we finished smoking, and I regained enough composure to stumble back to my seat, we started back. I passed on another round of beers after the whole seeing double thing. I collapsed into my seat and began talking to myself about what was later described by TreD as a “theory that was based in neither logic, science or reality. It wasn’t even in English. I think you were speaking Latin and summoning evil spirits.”

The Pens were easily in control of the game and set for an easy end to the game when I decided that I had regained just enough sobriety that we would find seats where the Penguins exited the ice, hoping to encourage the players on their new quest for the Stanley Cup, the most hallowed trophy in professional sports. An usher stopped us as we attempted to sneak towards the exit runway to the locker room.

I pointed out that it was simply an exhibition game and there were plenty of empty seats available. TreD speaks drunk so he deciphered my slurred ramblings for the usher who responded by promising to let us acquire better seats if the Penguins scored another goal. As we stood, watching the game with the usher, I began swaying. “Son, how much have you had to drink?” asked the usher.

I looked at him and started, “Uh oh! Beer poleesh!” TreD smacked me and assured the usher he was taking care of me. I’m not sure but I think I heard him tell him that I was autistic. That fucker.

Not two minutes later, Alexei Morozov buried yet another puck behind the lackluster Blue Jackets goaltender. The usher simply nodded at us and we headed down the steps. We grabbed two seats right next to where the players exited the ice. Unfortunately, we didn’t have our seating charts with us (I vaguely recall hurling mine at him after he won the Bubbleboy hockey game) and we weren’t exactly where the Penguins exited the ice. Quite the opposite in fact. We were where the Blue Jackets came off.

When the game ended, the players began to exit down the runway. The Blue Jackets had acquired former Penguins third liner Tyler Wright and named him captain. I was a fan of his gritty and workman like play, so as he exited the ice, I patted him on the back and assured him that his team had put out a good effort. He shot me a dirty look, mumbled something under his breath and kept walking. Now, did I just stand there and allow a fucking plug like Tyler Wright insult me, especially after I had tried being supportive? Or did I scream, “Yeah? YOU FUCKING SUCK! AND SO DOES YOUR TEAM! BEING CAPTAIN OF THAT TEAM IS LIKE BEING THE SMARTEST KID WITH DOWN SYNDROME!”

I bet you can guess which option I went with based on my level of intoxication alone. He spun around quickly, shuffled back to me, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and started cursing me out. He was trying to pull me over the railing, you know, to easier beat me senseless. Thank God for Tre D, who, in a fit of sobriety, grabbed a hold of my legs and was pulling me back. It was a humorous tug of war, with me playing the part of the rope. Another Blue Jackets player grabbed Tyler and got him away from me while security rushed at me, most likely ready to beat me senseless. I was too stunned to keep cursing him out. I have never had a professional hockey player attempt to assault me. I am sure plenty have wanted to, but none had ever acted upon it. Security escorted me to the exit, apologizing for what had happened. I just laughed it off. I thanked TreD for his spur of the moment save. Now that I think of it, he should’ve let me go over. I could’ve had a nice lawsuit. Say what you want, but drinking my lunch through a straw for a few months would be totally worth half a million.

We got into my car and here’s the funny part (or terribly bad part, you choose), I had been drinking heavily for the past 5 hours, TreD was stone sober. Guess who drove? I never claimed to be an intelligent drunk, an excellent navigator while intoxicated, or remember that police existed after consuming enough Canadian beer to really remember the properties of functioning a motor vehicle. Somehow, I took a wrong turn, like a really wrong turn. If I diagramed what I wanted to do and what I did, you would’ve believed I was autistic. We ended up in the South Side of Pittsburgh, the complete opposite direction I wanted to go. Confused by my lack of navigational skills, I made a turn down a street. A one-way street. The wrong way. With two police cruisers sitting on it. Lights and sirens went off immediately. TreD looked at me and said, “Yeah, I figured it was jail or bust tonight. You’re such a good friend.”

I pulled over to the side of the road, hoping the police officers wouldn’t notice the open case of beer, sitting in plain view in the back seat. Upon seeing it, they asked me to step out of the car. Apparently, driving around with open alcohol is illegal in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania. I asked if they wanted to see my license, registration, proof of insurance, birth certificate, clean bill of health or most recent report card. They didn’t. They were more concerned with a field sobriety test.

I was doing fine until they told me to stand on one leg, put my arms out, close my eyes and touch my nose. Seem unfair? It did to me. I got as far as standing on one foot with my arms out before I toppled over. The police were not amused, nor should they be. I had been an irresponsible drunk and gotten caught. I bet they were going to leave with a “I beat this drunk kid so bad tonight” story to tell back at headquarters. They asked TreD to exit the car. Upon finding out that he had not been drinking, yet allowed me to drive, they became angry with him. What luck! Suddenly, I wasn’t the bad guy anymore. This pleased me as I told them I asked him to drive, but he “didn’t want to.” Then added, “And his center made a distinct kicking motion when he scored that bullshit goal in overtime.” They put him through a field sobriety test. At this point, I figured there was nothing to lose, so I became his personal cheerleader. I began chanting “GO, D, GO! TOUCH YOUR NOSE!”

The police officers couldn’t help but laugh at me. It was exactly as funny and as terrible as it sounded. I thought we were done for sure. If you’re familiar with the South Side, it is a prime spot for the police to nail drunks with D.U.I., as it’s roughly miles of nothing but bars. After TreD passed his field sobriety test with flying colors, they spent a solid 20 minutes cursing him out for letting me drive, when clearly, he should have been the one driving. I played the part of poor, innocent drunkard, whose friend insisted that he drive. I noted that he should be arrested as well for aiding and abbeding. He looked at me like he wanted to kill me. Eventually they turned the car keys over to TreD and told us to go home.

We drove for a little while in complete silence. Eventually I broke the silence, saying, “I can’t fucking believe that just happened!”

“Yeah, me either. I thought we were going to jail for sure, or at least I was going to be bailing you out in a few hours.” He replied.

I stared at him blankly and said, “No. I always thought that Tyler Wright was a better guy than that.”

TreD just shook his head.