You do it.
I do it.
Generally not in a crowded plane and DEFINITELY not immediately upon landing when your phone syncs with the closest cell tower
It’s that evil “da NA nun, da NA nun” sound that gets me every time. The hockey tone that tells me there is big Blackhawks vs Red Wings news. That’s going to tell me how much crow i’m about to eat – or how much shit talking i’ll be able to do.
So many FEELINGS.
I so totally now get those words. Baited breath as i risked a glance down at my NHL app text message to see…
Two days earlier:
My hockey nemesis (also known as “Val”…if that IS really her name) hockey shamed me hard.
What is Hockey shaming? When you can’t immediately rattle off the next three games your team is playing AND start shit talking at a minimum at least a week out if said Hockey team is playing a rival. If it’s a really hard core rival, timeframe for shit talking generally starts 15 seconds after the buzzer of the last game went off.
The basis of our bloody friendship (outside of the whole “we shared war together” thing) was hockey. I’m Detroit. She’s Chicago. My team has more Stanley Cups than hers. She has more recent wins. I have Datsyuk. She has…well, arrogant Canadian pip squeaks.
Our teams, original six rivals, the basis of our friendship, the EVERYTHING to our EVERYTHING were playing each other AND I WAS GOING TO BE ON #!@!%#@# PLANE.
To add salt to the hideous, putrid, smelly wound – i was flying through @#!@! CHICAGO of all places for like a 40 minute connection back to DC.
Which translates to – i will likely be sprinting in betwixt terminals trying to grab my connector. While simo out running the BlackHawks fans in the terminal as i screeched shit talking to them at the airport “irish bars” (if that is what they REALLY are) about their lame ass team.
Or that was the plan.
The day arrived.
The text messages were quiet.
In Detroit, the best fans in the world started to slowly enter the Joe Louis, loudly singing their support (hey, it’s my fecking blog, i’m sure they were doing the Haka war chants on their way in to the joe).
Me boyo’s were suiting up. The BlackHawks were probably giving each other sensual swedish massages. I stepped on the plane, tearfully sent a text message to Val that United didn’t have an NHL channel, and somberly shut off my phone.
And the waiting began.
Touchdown at Chicago O’Hare.
Cell Phone fires up – looking for signal…looking for signal…
still looking for signal…
FOR FECKS SAKE I WILL BUY A FECKING CELL TOWER – SYNC ALREADY
…da NA nun da Na nun…..
And then, on the runway, i started to get my text messages filtering in…
That last line was perfect.
Even sprinting across the airport at 830 at night had me grinning like an idiot.
Landing back home in DC was even better.
I love me boyos.