The Hockey Game

So, I went to a hockey game last night.   

The mover: She sits right in front of me.  She's tall.  She's in motion perpetually, rocking back and forth in her seat at the first sound of music, foot-stomping, thigh-slapping, shoulder shaking motion.  She chews gum to the beat of the organ music, jowls moving in counterpoint. She claps her hands together, apart, together, apart, fingers splayed, palms turning red.  She's probably  been to Jazzercise once too often.  She shouts with a voice deeper than a Dothraki king's on a moonless night. Woooo.  C'mon.  Let's go!! Move it.  She jumps up, sits down, jumps up, sits down.  Foot taps, thighs slapped, arms clap, point, wave, shout. 

The lovers: They sit very close together, the thin and beautifully tanned blonde with her hands always somewhere on her escort - the beautifully tanned and well-muscled guy with a Miami Vice beard and pressed jeans. His head swivels as the puck moves from end to end; hers stays in sync with his face, whispering something into his ear.  Her arm on his head, his neck, his shoulder, his thigh, his hand.

The eaters:  pizza and beer, nachos and beer, cotton candy without beer, Outback 'shrooms and fries and beer, popcorn, pretzels, Dippin' Dots, hot dogs and beer, BBQ sandwich and beer. Topped off with a little beer.  And an occassional spill.

The Parents:  Two rows down are the parents without babysitters who bring exceptionally young children, who sit most of the night with their fingers in their ears or over their ears to drown out the zillion decibel sounds of the arena.  Their eyes following the Disney-like costumed mascot and the cotton candy vendors.

Oh, and did I mention that I miss almost every goal or near goal as the perpetual motion machine in front of me jumps up as soon as our players approach the visiting team's net? 

That's hockey!