On Thursday, John called me at work.

I answered. “Hi, what’s wrong? Is everyone okay?”  John does not call me at work often.

“Yes,” he said.  Then, “do we have plans for Saturday?”

“Well, I’m supposed to be going to Dark Lord Day,” I said.  “And we’re running that 5k.”

“Do you have to go to Indiana?” he said.

“No, I guess not, what’s up?” I asked.

“Well, what if I told you that I had tickets to the Blackhawks playoff game?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I just got invited by [company we work with] to go as their guests because we’re good clients.  Actually, they invited [coworker], but he can’t go.  The tickets are in the first row, on the glass.  Do you want to go?”

“Why is that even a question? Absolutely.”

So that’s how I ended up here:

That, my friends, is a non-zoomed photo of Patrick Sharp, standing against the glass about 6 inches from me.  It was nuts.

That Sharp is a class act, too, let me tell you.  A little kid a few seats down from us was wearing a Sharp jersey, and was following Sharp’s every move during warmups with the wide-eyed adoration that only a six-year-old can have.  Sharp saw him and skated over, grinned, and gave the kid a fist bump through the glass.  That kid will remember that for the rest of his life.  Good people, that Sharpie.

The game, for those who may not have caught it, was absolutely ridiculous.  The Hawks dominated for 2 periods, but somehow the Predators tied it and then went ahead in the 3rd period.  Hossa got called for a ridiculous boarding penalty with one minute left so the Hawks were down one goal AND playing short handed.  With FOURTEEN SECONDS LEFT, Patrick Kane scored a goal to tie it and send it into overtime.  Hossa had to sit out the first four minutes of overtime, which caused me to have excruciating nervous tummy.  The Hawks managed to kill the penalty and Hossa skated out of the penalty box and scored the winning goal about fifteen seconds later.  Seriously, it was like something out of a movie.

I have very little interest in or grasp of things like finance and banking, but I must say: I am glad that I am married to someone who works for a company that is a client of such places, because I can tell you with 100% certainty that there is no way my ass would have ever sat on the glass at a Hawks game, let alone a playoff game, otherwise.

Some other observations:

• John has a total mancrush on Patrick Kane.  He insists that he and Kane locked eyes at one point during the game.  I’m trying not to worry that my husband might leave me for an underage be-mulleted hockey player.
• At one point, the Hawks goalie stopped a goal with his gut.  The puck disappeared somewhere into his gear.  It took them over FIVE MINUTES to find it.  That’s a lot of gear, my friends.
• A startling number of women appear to believe that appropriate gear for hockey fans includes sky-high heels and full makeup.  I felt woefully underdressed in my jeans and sneakers.  I’ll know for next time: stripper heels are in!
• Speaking of strippers: the female “ice crew” is an insult to women everywhere.  The end.
• At the first intermission, I told John I think it would be great if our kids play hockey instead of, say, football, because it’s still rough-and-tumble but in a less brutal way.  Then I looked at my program and noticed that the Blackhawks official roster includes four team dentists.  Is competitive youth croquet a thing?  Or perhaps badminton?