The other day I had the opportunity to attend a marquee minor-league hockey match-up between the Idaho Steelheads and Bakersfield Condors, and I was pleasantly surprised at the quantity of enjoyment I derived from this experience. Because Americans stopped caring about hockey about the time the United States seceded from Canada in the late 19th century (citation needed), I’ll spare you the actual details regarding the game itself and give you only the pure, unadulterated particulars that made the night worthwhile.
About midway through the first period, I became afflicted with a profound urge to drain the proverbial dragon. After the deed was done and I was pondering whether or not the highly viscous pink substance I had just smeared all over my hands was soap or a pureed urinal cake, some guy walked in and, with the wild look in his eye suggestive of a man who had just strangled a kitten, asked me, “Is this the men’s room?” Initially amused by the man’s ostensible attempt at humor but slightly nervous that he may have been packing a bayonet, I said, “Gosh, I’m not quite sure,” as I noted the five other guys in the room, the row of urinals (which are traditionally a defining characteristic of male restrooms), and the multiple signs emblazoned with the appellation “MEN” around the entrance. Apparently he wasn’t sure either, because he walked out. Or maybe he was supposed to meet the chain-smoking hottie in the Calgary Flames jersey at the ladies room…
For those who care about such trivial matters like the score of the game, there is a massive scoreboard keeping track of the goals scored by both teams located in a prominent place in the arena. This is helpful in determining a winner at the game’s conclusion. However, if one is blessed with the eyesight of a ravenous osprey, like my friend Greg, you can sometimes, just barely, if the lights reflect ideally off of the Papa Murphy’s Pizza stand, make out a smaller scoreboard without the aid of an electron microscope keeping track of shots-on-goal. So about 3 minutes into the game, Greg commented, “Wow, we’re already way ahead.” The rest of our posse, having observed zero goals and corroborating our keen visual data collection by looking at the non-microscopic scoreboard, simultaneously stared at Greg with identical looks similar to that of the guy in the men’s room. After my other buddy whipped out a pair of binoculars he had used on a recent Safari expedition to Tanzania, we realized the source of Greg’s confusion and proceeded to satirize the moment the rest of the night even when it really wasn’t funny anymore.
It happened to be Family Friendly Friday night at Qwest Arena, which is not only a quaint exercise in advertising alliteration, but also an opportunity for discounted group rates and a venue for little kids to wear their hockey jerseys. Or soccer jerseys with your personalized nickname on the back, or Michael Vick jerseys if you’re really lucky and your parents enjoy taking advantage of your ignorance to amuse themselves. With this cozy atmosphere in place, I was a little surprised to hear Akon’s “Smack That” repeatedly blaring from the loudspeakers throughout the game. They at least should have played something with a positive message, like 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” or Juvenile’s “Slow Motion.” “Smack That,” that’s just tasteless.
At a critical juncture in the action in which testosterone burbled over like the hailstones of saliva that are ejected every time Bill Walton says a word containing the letter S, some guy with the last name Chernobyl unleashed a haymaker on an unsuspecting Steelhead. The crowd roared with delight as the grappling continued and eventually Chernobyl bit the other guy’s ear off before one ref intervened. Then, right as the ref appeared to have everything under control and Ian Johnson showed up to crochet the Steelhead player’s ear back on, the other ref leaped into the melee, knocking the cluster back to the ice, and commenced vigorously rubbing against the other referee. Somewhere, former Senator Larry Craig was smiling.
The Steelhead is a colloquial slang moniker for a species of rainbow trout. Knowing this, it makes perfectly logical sense that the Steelhead mascot is…a bear in a blue sweater. In related college news, Boise State University has concluded that the longstanding Buster Bronco mascot is “too mainstream” and “squelches the innovation and ingenuity spawned by the institution’s academic programs.” To remedy this, the Bronco athletic program is in the final stages of ushering in a mascot that they feel more accurately represents the people and culture of Boise State’s student body. There is strong speculation that the staff is leaning toward Pat the Androgynous Armadillo for the new face of Bronco Athletics, borrowing strongly from the Idaho Steelheads “bear with blue sweater” prototype. Rumor has it the armadillo will wear a fuchsia leotard and volunteer regularly at the Boys and Girls Club.
So that’s basically it for the night. If you follow minor league hockey and want to know who actually won the game, I’m sure they’ll have a website up with that information within the next few years. If you want to know who had more shots-on-goal, I’d be happy to give you my friend Greg’s phone number. And if you’re not sure if you’re in the men’s room, just ask. I’m sure someone will be able to help you out.
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