My roommate had taken to shouting, full volume, at the television every time anybody did anything.
"Icing, you Doofer sonofabitch!"
Icing, you see, was the only term we had learned as we attempted to watch Game Five of the NHL Finale. Normal TV had already scorned us with reruns and the News was still stroking out its huge erection it still had over Scott McClellan's new book.
So we were stuck. Stuck watching a league of bearded Canadians slap each other around on a sheet of ice for what would become double sudden death overtime - or something like that.
Red Wings vs. the Penguins — you remember, the team that blue balled the entire Kansas City metro area with the promises of sweet kisses and a new hockey team?
You would think we would be drunkenly cheering against the damned fools, but instead we found more joy in pretending the Penguins offered that reach around when they finished last year and actually moved to our fair city. Living a lie turned out to much more fun.
Well, it was when we could understand the what was going on before us.
"Where is the puck? Why are they going backwards? Who is this doofer with no hair?"
Wikipedia, in all its research and nerd-bearing glory, became our lifeline as we attempted to educate ourselves to this bizarre display of what equates to a back ally brawl.
Trust me, it's math.
Icing - I can see it. Interference - sure, I think I know what it looks like. Fleury - He's my favorite.
It did not take long for us to begin disturbing the neighbors and creating a scene as we would shout randomly, "ICING, goddamnit," or "That's interference, I think." or "DIG!" When a Russian or corner a Canadian against the wall.
What did it mean? Nobody honestly knows. Maybe we should have researched the Wiki a little more.
Why did we care? Probably the same reason any guy anywhere can turn anything into a sport and become enthralled for hours on end.
Dinner in the Hole, anyone?