Comrades in Arms
I pulled out all of the stops last night: Dragged along Dr. Ed, who hasn’t been to a Devils game in almost four years. Wore the same, stinky, crinkled-crest red jersey as Thursday night, since it seemed to bring the similarly dressed boys good luck. And I even managed to make it into the post-game wrap up — directly behind Colin White’s magnifient scowl, and behind St. Louis’ yellow stick, is yours truly, wearing the home reds, sleeves pushed up, with the impeccably dressed Dr. Ed to the right.
What did I miss? Was it failing to knock over another mega-sized soda, flooding the first few rows with sugar and carbonation? Was it making the mistake of touching the goal judge’s hand before the first period, making him trigger happy in our own end? Was it not eating greasy chicken fingers and fries, for as much as I deplore them publicly, they are the gout de vie for those who Devil-worship. Perhaps it was my thought-of but incomplete sign, which involved a rhyming puns on French nicknames, Vern Troyer, and Martin St. Louis?
Now it’s a best of five, with at least one must-win game on the Gulf Coast. I’ll be following as intently as possible while feigning gastro-intestinal distress (how else to duck out of staff meetings at 7-minute intervals for score updates?) on Monday, watching the game at home on Wednesday, and assured of fixing the most egregious of my superstitious mistakes of Saturday night: I’ll have the Bubba with me. Last night was the first Devils’ home game I attended without him, and I missed my comrade in bare arms.