Alone in the Wild

Sunday afternoon. I am milling about outside the main gate of the Xcel Energy Center with two tickets to the upcoming Sharks-Wild game in hand.

I was only able to get tickets to the game when a few extras were "released" (whatever that means) a couple of days ago, so there wasn't time for them to be mailed to me. Consequently, my only option was to pick them up at Will-Call. I distrust Will-Call and always have, so I arrived ridiculously early, quite prepared to discover that there were in fact no tickets waiting for me, and ready to call Ticketmaster, my attorney, my congressman, and/or Governor Schwarzenegger, as required. Besides, arriving ridiculously early for things is the habit of my clan.

So here I am, well before game time, dressed in Sharks colors, lingering in the lobby and waiting for my friend, surrounded by Wild fans. I feel a bit like Homer in that episode where he's the only one at work wearing a pink shirt.

Then a man arrives with three teenaged boys in tow. Two of the kids are wearing Wild gear, but the third is wearing a Sharks sweater. And here I mean sweater in the conventional American-English sense of a garment knit from yarn, not in the hockey-specific sense of the thing that is generally called a jersey, at least in the United States--someone has literally fabricated for this kid a teal sweater, complete with a Sharks logo, a number, and a name on the back, from yarn. Did a nice job of it, too. I feel a little less like Homer.

*****

While I'm waiting I see a man dressed in an excellent slate-colored suit. He is entering the arena via the press entrance and I vaguely recognize him. After a moment I realize it's Sharks defenseman Sandis Ozolinsh. Ozolinsh has been a healthy scratch for several games now, and apparently he is tonight, as well.

A short time later I see Jeremy Roenick. Roenick is pounced upon by two young women in Wild jerseys who are tickled to see him. JR is all smiles throughout. I feel a bit proud for some obscure reason.

I am a bit surprised to see JR out of uniform, because he played the other night in Chicago. Maybe he's not quite over that flu, after all...

*****

My friend arrives and we enter the arena and find our seats. He's not a big hockey fan, my friend, but he had a blast the last time we went to a game so I'm happy he was able to make it today on short notice. We are there early enough to catch some of the pre-game warm-up drills, which I always find cool. My friend says that it must be tough to come out and warm up, then have to go back into the locker room and wait while the ice is resurfaced for the game. I admit I'd never thought of that, and I agree.

*****

The puck drops. Forty-six seconds in Milan Michalek scores for San Jose on a shot that Wild goalie Niklas Backstrom should've stopped. I jump to my feet and clap. A murmur of discontent runs through the crowd...Minnesota has not been playing well lately and their fans know it. As the period continues, the Wild continue to look out-of-synch. The murmurs grows in amplitude.

*****

In the latter half of the first period Sharks rookie Tomas Plihal finds himself with the puck behind the Minnesota defense. He is hooked from behind and awarded a penalty shot. The crowd disagrees with the referee.

My friend asks if hockey penalty shots are essentially automatic goals, as in soccer. I tell him no, far from it. In fact I am not optimistic...converting a penalty shot is tough, especially for a young player. But Plihal impresses me, coolly finishing for a 2-0 San Jose lead.

*****

The horn sounds to end the first. The Wild, skidding and badly in need of points in the standings, have not played well. The crowd boos.

*****

In between periods they pull one of the goals to its blue line and a bunch of little kids play hockey. I believe every Wild game I have ever attended has featured little kids playing hockey during one intermission or the other. It's green vs. red. I watch the action but don't pay attention to the score, so I'm ignorant of who won.

*****

Second period. Minnesota still looks fairly ragged, but about four minutes in they get a goal on a shot from the blue line. The crowd cheers, et cetera, et cetera. A gentleman sitting to my left produces a pair of small, rotating red lights (reminiscent of goal lamps) from the pockets of his jacket and turns them on. They flash merrily.

*****

When play continues San Jose continues to control the action. They have a number of chances but are unable to put anything away. I begin to worry aloud about the fact that they are not making Minnesota pay for their many mistakes.

*****

Second intermission. Two couples participate in a race involving pushing one another around the rink in one of those circular sleds.

I tell my friend that I remember, back in the day, when they only used one Zamboni and they didn't have time for any of this other monkey business. I also tell him that I remember back when there was a Prince of Wales Conference and a Campbell Conference and a Norris Division and a Smythe Division et cetera et cetera. He remembers that, too, despite never having been a hockey fan. We both lament the discarding of those great names in favor of generic geographic references.

*****

The third period is tight and there aren't a lot of shots by either team. There are long periods of unbroken, generally neutral play. The Minnesota crowd, somewhat mollified by the second-period goal, grows restless once again. At about the fifteen-minute mark of the period, I tell my friend that as the game winds down I am becoming worried about San Jose's poor play 6-on-5 (and that in fact I mentioned this very topic in a recent post).

With a minute to play, the Wild pull Backstrom. With about forty seconds left, the Sharks gain control of the puck. Torrey Mitchell has it. Even from where I'm sitting in the stands I can see that he has a look on his face as though he's going to shoot at the empty net from his own side of the red line. I have one of those moments where I feel like I'm yelling "Noooooooooooo!" in slow-motion. Mitchell shoots the puck. He misses. Icing Sharks.

The Wild win the face-off and score five seconds later.

I put my head in my hands. The place goes crazy, et cetera et cetera. The guy sitting next to me (different from the first guy who was sitting next to me--seating is pretty casual at the X, apparently) punches me in the shoulder with a giant grin on his face. He wants me to high-five him. Only then does he realize I'm wearing a Sharks jersey. He settles for high-fiving my friend.

*****

Overtime.

The extra open ice provided by the four-on-four format produces some wide-open play, and the Sharks have a couple of good chances. Brian Campbell displays the spin-move, eliciting a gasp from the crowd, but is unable to produce a good chance. As so often happens in OT the time seems to fly by, and before you know it there are only a handful of ticks on the clock.

With time winding down Minnesota is buzzing. A cry goes up from the crowd, which quickly glissandos into a groan--I don't see what's happened, as the fans have leapt to their feet, but I am grateful not to hear the cheer that would have meant a Minnesota goal. I'm glad when the horn goes off.

While the ice is being resurfaced for the shootout, the replay is shown on TyrranoVision, and only then do I see Marleau's remarkable save, batting the puck out of thin air off the goal line.

*****

Shootout.

Minnesota shoots first. Again, the crowd rises to its feet as the shooter bears down on Nabby so I can't see really well, but the disappointed groan tells me that the shot was saved.

Pavelski scores. Minnesota misses. Cheechoo gets Backstrom to bite on a fake, but slides the puck wide of the goal mouth.

Pierre-Marc Bouchard shoots next for Minnesota and beats Nabokov on a dramatic spinning backhand that captures the precise reason why people like shootouts. More delirium &c. The guy next to me tries to high-five me again. I try to explain to him that I'm not that interested in a high-five, because if Bouchard would have missed the Sharks would have won. He insists that I have to admire the move, and states that he is willing to settle for a low-key fist bump. "For hockey," he says, brilliantly finding the chink in my armor. I agree, and we bump fists.

Then Marleau rockets in on Backstrom and ends it. The crowd groans. I cheer.

Nine in a row.

*****

As the crowd winds out I hear a young woman in a Wild jersey say to her friend, mournfully, "We're not going to the playoffs."

*****

I took the bus to the game today, and I'm taking it home. I get to the bus stop, and a short time later a young man in a Wild hat arrives. Many people in St. Paul have Wild hats, so this doesn't necessarily mean he was at the game, although he could've been.

A short time later we are joined by an older gentleman. He is wearing a quilted jacket the color of a dusty robin's egg and carrying an unlabeled white plastic bag. He smokes a cigarette. He is of Asian ancestry, and when he addresses himself to the guy in the Wild hat he speaks with a bit of an accent.

"Did they win today?"

The young man shakes his head. "Nope. Lost. 3-2, shootout."

The man with the cigarette shakes his head. "They can't win on the road, they can't win at home..." He shrugs hopelessly.

*****

On the bus, I encounter, remarkably, another Sharks fan. We high-five. It's a good high-five, too...not one of those lame ones where you barely connect. A crisp, authoritative smack fills the bus.

I'm feeling pretty happy.

*****

Back in Minneapolis, I have to transfer downtown to get on the line back to my apartment. I'm hungry and I don't have much food at home, so I stop at one of few places open on Sunday evenings and grab a bite to eat.

"Good game today," says my waitress. "For you."

I don't have anything with me to read, so I'm content to watch Tennessee and LSU play basketball against one another on the television. I think forward to the evening's blog post, and conclude that although writing in the present tense is a little pretentious, and perhaps even dishonest, in the sense that it gives the impression that I've been "live-blogging" when in fact I haven't, the tone of present tense seems right for what I want to say. So I decide to roll with it.