Surly and I are a couple of years apart. A couple by dog standards. A couple like that term is defined in Utah…times two. But either because of his maturity (it isn’t his maturity) or my lack thereof (it’s partly that), we click.
Tonight, he called me up to chat and chat we did. He asked me what time I am planning on getting there on Saturday for the game.
Him: “Holy shit, why so early?”
Me: “Game is at noon and I will not let anything get in the way of me ODing on hockey. I plan to be there when the Yard House opens, I plan to get drunk and have an amazing time. And you should be thanking me because that means when you arrive, you have a table.”
Him: “Thank you”
Me: “You’re welcome. What time will get you there?”
Him: “Ten thirty or so.”
I may be alone in this but I consider Saturday to be more than just a hockey game. It’s not even the game when the banner will be raised, even though it is and will be. It’s not the start of the 2013 season (which sounds weird without a year preceding it) even though that is factually correct.
Saturday is a 14-year-old boy whose pants are unzipped by the senior cheerleader, a devout Muslim who dies and actually gets to hook up with 72 virgins, it’s Nirvana, validation that three decades of unconditional love was not for not and for the die-happy moment for which we have lived.
It’s for me.
It’s for you.
It’s for the story we will tell our children, by which time we will have won a few.
No dry eyes. No sober heads.
Maybe it’s me. I hope not. I hope it’s you. I know it’s Surly, it’s just the fuck can’t wake up before 10am unless there is a threat of imminent physical or financial harm. They haven’t made an English word to describe it. Unless the word for Iamgoingtofuckingexplodefromexcitementandmaygetsomeonyou is out there.
It’s less than 72 hours away.
I may lose it.
I may be drunk by 9am.