My life as a psycho hockey wife

First off, I have 1 more letter en espanol that I am keen to write; however, it is moving week for the Lindsays and life is a little chaotic. So, given that I will require knowledge of past tense verbs (ACK!) in order to confess to Ricky Martin that I was ready and willing to jump his bones at his concert 6 years ago (prior to his "announcement") and the fact that I'm presently preoccupied with wiping the cold, hardened jam off the inside of the fridge in our rental house (How the h did that happen?), I am making a public promise to complete the letter...next week. Fair? I will also be announcing my fabulous goal for the month of December. This one is mucho outside of my current skill set! But that doesn't mean that I'm unable to post something moderately interesting this week, right?

I received an interesting question from one of my numerous (26 to be exact) "followers" this week, "Does it embarrass your husband when you write about him on your blog?" Fair question. I'm the one with "only child (look at me!) syndrome." Not Ev. Unfortunately, when I draw attention to myself, he's often caught in the spotlight as well - whether he likes it or not. Prime example: this blog. Does Ev really want all 26 of you to know that he's hoping for a pair of Salma's panties? Maybe. Maybe not. But Ev knew what he was signing up for when he married me 6 years ago. So to answer your question, I don't think so. It takes a lot to embarrass Ev. I did embarrass him once. Well, actually, I embarrassed myself. It was bad. Really bad. You're curious, right? Ok, Ok. You've twisted my rubber arm.

This would be so much more fun if that
 pesky hockey wasn't in the way!

Recently acquired  friends have mentioned that they can't picture me in my former role as "hockey wife." For those of you who actually knew me as a "hockey wife," I would like to take this time to apologize. For everything. With my Master's Degree in hand, I dutifully followed Ev around for a few years, sunning myself on beaches, drinking cocktails by the pool, and dragging my sunburned ass to hockey games. Pretty rough, huh? The "life" was fantastic. I mean, you know you're chill when you have to set your alarm for 11am to ensure that you are awake before your husband returns from practice. Wow. The hockey; on the other hand, was tortuous. I HATED watching the hockey. Not for the reasons you probably think. I wasn't that bored oblivious blonde, twirling my hair, sipping my wine whilst exclaiming, "Did they just score or something?" (Trust me, these wives exist). I was the frazzled, sweaty, jumpy, swearing, pepto-bismol chugging goalie's wife whom no one wanted to sit with. I was a nervous wreck. Obsessed with the shot clock, I constantly re-calculated Evan's save percentage, snapped on shitty defensemen ("Where was our crap defense on that goal?") and heckled the opposing goaltender ("Nice goal, sieve."). I was a psycho. Ev occasionally found me in the crowd during whistles and provided funny faces in an effort to calm ME down. I was a mess. To be fair, a "bad" game could and did occasionally result in a trade. Imagine returning from a crappy day at work only to receive a call from your boss, "Yeah, your speech therapy was sub par today and we've moved you to the Kelsey Trail Health Region. Yeah, you have 24 hours to report to Melfort." Brutal, right?

What's that crazy biatch yelling now?

One particular game was especially unnerving. Ev was still under NHL contract, which meant...well, I don't exactly know what that meant. But it was important. He was playing in Roanoke, Virginia, and I was there as a "visiting girlfriend" (not to be confused with "official hockey wife.") There is a very systematic food chain in the hockey wife world. "Hockey Wife" commands much more respect than "Hockey Girlfriend" who commands much more respect than "Visiting Hockey Girlfriend." And, of course, "Hockey Wife with Child" (preferably if child is donning father's hockey jersey) trumps all. Complicated, right? I intend to write a book about it someday.

The score was 2-1 for Evan's team and there were 3 minutes left in the game. Evan's backup goaltender was sick that night, so an emergency back-up (definition: some old dude who occasionally drives the zamboni and owns goalie equipment) was sitting on the bench. It was imperative that Ev stood his ground in the net tonight. I, as usual, was a disaster. Flailing my arms in the air, shouting obscenities, attempting to stop the puck from my seat, I was desperately willing this game to end. Plus...I was a little drunk. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off. Like this much (gesture of 3-5mm with thumb and pointer finger).

A fight broke out between 2 defensemen, sparking more fights between the players on the ice...a line brawl. The crowd was going nuts! As the fight dissipated and the refs began clearing the shrapnel from the ice, I noticed the opposing goaltender inch a little closer to Ev, gesture "let's go" with his hands and proceed to remove his gloves. Ev noticed and responded by skating a little closer to center whilst (I'm on a roll) verbally abusing the opposing goaltender. The crowd could see what was developing. They began chanting, "Goalies Goalies."

I lost it. I completely and totally lost my mind. Evan couldn't fight! There were still 3 minutes left in the game and they were only up by 1 goal. He had NO legitimate back-up. This could not happen! Who better to tell him than...his loving, buzzed girlfriend. So, I stood up, cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed (in my best "mom" voice),

"EVAN LINDSAY! DON'T YOU DARE!"

I have no idea who that crazy blonde is.

I'm not sure exactly what happened next. But I picture the rink falling into sudden silence, with the exception of the chirping crickets, of course. I do know that Evan skated back to his net. I do know that Evan did not fight. I do know that Ev's team won 2-1. I do know that the other wives/girlfriends began inching further away from me. I do know that I felt shame. On the bright side, in my insanity, I had inhibited myself from inserting his middle name. No. This was bad.

After the game, I waited sheepishly outside the dressing room for Ev to appear. He did. He was the last player out of the dressing room that night. "Great game, buddy!" I smiled and gave him a hug.

Ev quickly pulled away, "I heard you. Actually, ALL the players heard you. EVERYONE heard you."

Hmmm..yep, he was a little pissed (and not the good kind of pissed that I was rockin' that night)

Right. I really wanted to ask Ev if he actually intended to fight because you know, if he was intending to fight then I was like his conscience and essentially I pretty much "saved" the game. Best to keep that thought to myself.

We never spoke of it again.

If I could write a book on "Making Your Way Up The Hockey Wife Food Chain," I would highly dissuade others from behaving as I did during hockey games; On the other hand, Ev and I were married 4 years after the "incident"... so perhaps he felt sorry for me admired my boldness?

So to answer your question, I don't think I've ever embarrassed Ev on my blog; however, I think I may have just embarrassed Ev on my blog.

Moving day tomorrow! Here we Go!
Ole Ole Ole! ;)