I realized a few things while watching Tuesday’s game against Nashville: one, I probably shouldn’t have kids; two, I should not be around kids while watching hockey; and three, I still hate Jason Arnott.
My epiphany came, while holding my eight-week-old goddaughter (who is just a homemade ray of sunshine) when Radulov brought the game to 2–0.
“(Expletive deleted) Oh come on! What was that? What the (expletive deleted) are they doing out there??”
My rant was brought to a halt by the bug-eyed, jaw-dropped looks of my dear friend’s in-laws. And in grand tradition of some John Hughes-esque movie, the little ray of sunshine began to screech right on cue.
Panicked (as many childless people are when a baby cries) I searched for her mother. When asked what happened I replied, “Alexander Radulov just made it 2–0… Right through traffic… Right over Garon’s shoulder. I can’t believe it!” Again, faced with looks of disbelief and perhaps a bit of sadness, I thought it best to keep quiet.
Needless to say I was not given “baby privileges” for the remainder of the game. I might be paranoid but I believe their two-year-old was avoiding me as well.
I behaved and was exhilarated when Marty “Party” Reasoner gave us our lead of 4–3. Twenty-some seconds later, rage returned. Jason Arnott *shudder* swept in to tie the game. I don’t hate Arnott for that. He’s a hockey player and that’s his job. Although he’s a jackass, the real reason I hate him dates back 10+ years ago: I saw him at Cowboys and he was wearing socks and sandals.