Humor
I Am the Loyalist Hockey Fan
It can be said with 100% certainty that the event I am currently watching is the peak of human society:
Full-grown millionaires beating the tar out of each other with knives strapped to their feet. On television, of course.
The TV works on satellite, billions of photons streaming through the pristine cosmos from the little tinfoil box travelling 17,000 miles per hour and its mate, the dish on top of the bar. The telecom company keeps 24 of those little cubes afloat, all monitored by a fully staffed high-rise in the heart of the country.
The men and women in the glass tower are faithfully serving at 8pm on a Friday night. Like me, they are intensely studying the big screens. Hockey is nothing but a job to them.
What a pity.
They will never know the true joy I feel right now, spittling peanut chunks across the bar as I announce what I’d be telling those refs if I were there.
There are 12 hockey players on the ice, 4 officials, and 30–40 more guys on the benches. Fans bloom up and outward, numbering 12–15 thousand at least. A goal is scored, and they explode. It’s the player’s third of the game, so someone lobs a dead fish on the ice, as is tradition. The cameras zoom in to catch the twinkle of its scales. Stunning and disgusting. A mackerel, I think. I can see the stripes.
There are hundreds more people below, collecting trash, directing crowds, and flipping burgers. They dispense $14 beers and toss out the fans who can bafflingly afford to get drunk on them. A dozen or so security guards stand sentry to ensure they cannot return. One of them is looking for the fish-chucker who for the next hour will be a fugitive in plain sight.
There are countries with populations smaller than the diffuse army bringing this playoff game to my crusty dive bar. Pure entertainment beamed directly into my glazed, ungrateful eyeballs. A stutter in the feed has caused me to miss two (2) full seconds of gameplay, an intolerable sin in the postseason.
“This broadcast is garbage.” I gripe between mouthfuls of happy hour draught.
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