He Shoots, He Scores

For years my son has had season tickets to the New York Rangers games. His four daughters have all grown up going to hockey games with him and understand the sport pretty well. The other night my son offered two tickets to his oldest daughter, Teagan, 20, but she could not find anyone to go with her on short notice. I was standing by when I heard her complain to her father that she was going to have to go to the game on her own. “I’ll go”, I said, thinking it would be a pleasant diversion to a night of T.V. watching. “O.K., Nana”, she answered. “Are you sure you want to go? Do you know how the game is played?”

I was insulted. I was born in Canada where every Saturday night was hockey night in Canada. I can remember my father and his father, sitting, first in front of the radio, and then in front of the T.V. listening to and then watching the Stanley Cup games. My Mother would get so nervous she would have to go into the kitchen, set up the iron, and do some ironing just to relax.

But I had not been to a professional hockey game in Madison Square Gardens for a long time, perhaps only once before. However, I was looking forward to it as my granddaughter said she would do the driving. We drove into the city and found a parking spot on the street around 37^th and started walking down to 34^th to the Gardens. Everyone seemed to be walking in that direction. I could barely keep up. New Yorkers really do seem to walk fast. Teagan is tall and has long legs and I had to stretch my own not to be left behind.

Many of the young men and women who were walking around us were sporting Ranger jerseys with the names of famous players emblazoned on the back – Messier, Richter, etc.

We hurried into the Gardens and up innumerable escalators to our section. The seats were pretty good and as we got settled in I looked around to see what was going on. Seats were filling quickly, mostly with men between the ages of 18 and 40, a few girlfriends, but not many older women such as I.

There was a lot to see. Lights seemed to be flashing everywhere; brightly lit neon signs telling us not to get too close to the boards as pucks can ricochet. I saw four jerseys that had been hung up in the rafters – numbers lifted up, never to be used by another Ranger hockey player. I recognized all the names – Messier, Richter, who was the little baby-faced goalie, Giacomin, and Gilbert, legends of Ranger history.

The game started on time. I vividly remembered that hollow echoing sound of the skates on the ice and swish of the puck, not to mention the bruising sounds of bodies against the boards. Hockey is a fast game and the action swirled from one end of the rink to the other. Suddenly the Rangers scored a goal and the crowd went wild. I found myself the only one who was sitting down. I jumped up quickly and sang along with the rest of the crowd, once I figured out what they were singing, “Go-oh-oh-al, Go-oh-oh-al. Then we all shouted “Goal, Goal, Goal” and punched our fists into the air. As we sat down another chant began, “Let’s go Rangers, Let’s go Rangers”. The big organ kept up with the crowd, playing louder and louder until the rafters reverberated with the sound.

Ah, but wait, Atlanta scored. Dead silence, not even a sportsmanlike clapping for the opposing team. The organ quietly played “When Johnny comes Marching Home Again”, or some such southern ballad. We sat in glum silence until the Rangers scored again. This time I, too, jumped up with the crowd and shouted as loud as the rest of them.

Vendors came and went, selling hot dogs, popcorn, beer, sodas, candy floss, and Dr. Seuss hats in Ranger colors. Teagan ordered a hot dog for herself and popcorn for me.

The gondola above us had a series of never-ending electronic signs pulsing away with upcoming games, scores from teams playing in the West, times of the goal, who assisted, etc. The different segments were constantly bombarding us with news of one kind or the other.

Every once in awhile I would hear a faint whistle – faint to me but loud to the crowd as all at once they would shout in unison, ”Potvin Sucks”. Not a very nice chant, I must say, but I had to laugh. Years ago the Islanders won a series of Stanley Cups to the envy of the Rangers. The one player the Rangers hated more than any other was the Islander captain, Potvin, as he led the Islanders to victory four years in a row. Even to this day, 28 years later, the Rangers still deride Potvin in no uncertain terms. But, to quote the Times, “The big difference now is that people yell it with a smile on their face as opposed to the hatred that once was”.

The game was getting exciting. The score was 4-4 at the end so we would have to go into overtime. I hate that as I always think the other team is going to win. Teagan was really into the game and said her heart was pounding as the action all seemed to be in the Ranger net. And then Atlanta scored and the game was over. Teagan was depressed. I wasn’t. I still had the fun of driving home with my granddaughter, discussing the game, talking about what we both had coming up, what she was buying her friends and family for Christmas. To me, being with my granddaughter was more exciting and more fun than the hockey game.