Potvin Sucks

The Scottish Parents are in New York for three weeks on an extended holiday.  As Scottish Lass and I were discussing last night, it's hard to have her parents in Australia as any visit has to be quite long to make the 24 hour flight in each direction worth it.  One great thing about her parents is that they are obsessed with New York and love it, so having such a long stay to wander around is a real treat.

Last night, Scottish Dad and I went to the Garden to see the Rangers beat the Lightning, 5-2.  We were joined by my own Dad.  Now, bear in mind that Scottish Dad has a thick Glaswegian accent and can sometimes be difficult to understand.  And my own father has a fairly noticeable New York accent.  It's not quite Goodfellas, but let's just say that the words with a pronounced "r" sound at the end are few and far between.  This made for a fascinating listening experience as Scotsman and New York got on like a house on fire.  It kind of sounded like this:

Scottish Dad: AYE MGHRMGN  AYE MGMRH  AYE URGHG

Cavalier Dad:  Dollah Yawk Dollah Yawk Dollah Yawk

Scottish Dad, a former hockey player, got a solid NHL experience.  We got a decent fight about 5 minutes into the first period, a hat trick out of Chris Drury and an even better fight in the third started by Tampa Bay's goalie.

And, of course, Scottish Dad got to hear the immortal chant, "Potvin Sucks."  Hearing this over the course of the night reminded me of the days when my Dad would take my brother and me to Ranger games as kids.  He had a connection that sometimes got us great seats (back then, the red seats) and sometimes got us nosebleeds (the blue seats).  I think I learned more about swearing in the blue seats than I learned anywhere else in my childhood.  And I will never forget the enormous open air urinal that was 32nd Street between 6th and 7th after every game.  Literally hundreds of people would just wander into an abandoned lot and deposit the remains of their watered-down, overpriced Budweiser.

So I have to admit that I got a little nostalgic as I watched my Dad, now approaching 80, get himself up and down the stairs to his seat.  He's got some knee problems now and his gait is much slower; certainly slower than his high school days, when he was called "The Gazelle" as part of his New York City champion high school soccer team.  I also look at his hands, now starting to curl a bit from rheumatoid arthritis, and remember how comforting they were when I was a kid.  

I remembered one game when I was very young, maybe 8.  The Rangers were playing the St. Louis Blues and we had great seats behind the bench.  Between periods, my Dad walked us up to the glass as the teams were filing back in from the locker room.  Suddenly, one of the St. Louis players said to me, "Hey kid, you want a hockey stick?"  Then he handed me a stick he had broken at the end of the previous period.  I was excited, to say the least.  We got back to our seats and the game began again.  I think it was a playoff game or a late-season game to determine if the Rangers made the playoffs.  The Garden was packed and rowdy.  At some point, the Rangers scored a goal and the entire arena went apeshit.  I was still small and the noise scared the hell of me.  I started to cry.  (Give me a break, I was tiny.)   At any rate, my Dad put his big hands on my shoulders and I felt totally safe in the midst of the screaming crowd.

Dads are awesome.  Call yours today and tell him you love him.