My mother bought a quarter-season season-ticket package for the Columbus Blue Jackets so she could see the Pittsburgh Penguins when they come to town. Last night Columbus hosted the New Jersey Devils, and I took Crazy Jane to the game.
We got to our seats and sat down with our hot chocolates and tried to tweet this picture:
However, Twitter doesn't work for me inside Nationwide Arena, even though lots of signs and announcements suggest I tweet all game long. It also didn't work on opening night, but the arena was full then. Last night, it was not. Two hours after I began trying, the tweet finally went through.
In the meantime, we discovered that we were sitting one row in front of the Arch City Army, a group of ignorant hockey fans brimming with irony and self-awareness, who are there to be as loud as possible not to support the team as much as to get seen by others supporting the team. Whether Columbus wins or loses, the Arch City Army considers the night a success if they have made everyone in their section look at them for half the evening.
First the referees came out to warm up and the Arch City Army booed them. At this point the refs have done nothing to demonstrate their competence or incompetence. Evidently the Arch City Army thinks there should be no refs, even though this means there would be no hockey game.
Next, the New Jersey Devils came out for their introductions. I expected booing, but one woman behind me yelled, "Go back to Jersey!" If the Devils took her advice, there would be no hockey game. I began to sense a pattern: extreme ignorance trying to pass for overwhelming passion. "I care too much to yell things that make sense!" would be their watchword.
The game began. Thirty seconds into the game, New Jersey scored. And one of the members of the Arch City Army cheered loudly. Evidently he cared too much to notice which color jersey his team was wearing. The first rule of the Arch City Army is to be loud, and in far, far distant second is the rule to be correct.
Perhaps you're thinking what my wife thought when I told her this story later: they were drunk. But they weren't. They didn't smell of alcohol and they didn't have slurred speech or incoherent thoughts. They were odorless, articulate, and coherent in their boorishness.
It wasn't just their hockey observations that they yelled to the entire section. I also heard about bacon on a stick (they are in favor of it), the new Hobbit movie (they disagree that it's a Lord of the Rings movie), and the age of Jaromír Jágr (they strongly suspect he is a grandfather). They also liked to use the word "hockey" as a verb, shrieking out, "Hockey better, boys!" And then, because they were especially proud of their wit, they did it again and again and again and again and again.
Before the opening face-off, I was looking for empty seats elsewhere. However, it was full-season-ticket-holders-all-you-can-eat night, and the lines in the concourse were massive. I didn't want to move into other seats only to find out the rightful occupants were about to emerge from a food line. Also, each concourse portal has an usher who checks to make sure you have a ticket for your seat. We were right next to an usher and couldn't move until she left or was distracted.
I would have liked to have talked to Crazy Jane and explained some hockey to her, but it was impossible to do anything but sit in silence and plug our ears for their loudest chants. At the first intermission we made a break for the concourse. We made our way around the arena, looking in each portal for an usher. Finally, we found one that would allow us to turn and head up some stairs before we reached the stationed usher. We found some guys in the section sitting near a few empty rows and explained, "We're trying to escape from some horrible fans; are these seats taken?" They said no, so we sat down.
From then on, we had a great time. We could talk to each other. We could notice things around us beyond the ignorance of our neighbors. I explained the rules of hockey to her. She asked, "How did the old form of icing exist at the same time as the two-line pass rule?" For which I had no answer.
Columbus came back from 3-1 down to take a 4-3 lead. I said, "These must be lucky seats." Then New Jersey tied the game. I had jinxed the seats by talking about their luckiness. So I said nothing about the lucky seats and Columbus took the lead again, then held on to win.
Crazy Jane enjoyed the game. This morning when she was watching the Screamapilar she found a replay of the game on TV and watched it. Shockingly, it appears attending a game can help you become a fan, provided the other fans don't create a terrible experience.
via oneofthebest
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