I don't have much will to talk about either of the weekend hockey games. I don't think that either is a sign that this big gay Wings train is slowing down en route to the playoffs, but I just can't make myself type up 10 bullet points on officiating and Daniel Carcillo's rat face. On top of that our Spartans lost a game that was both unwatcheable and heart-wrenching, and it will probably still take a few more days to get over.
I'd rather tell you about how we were face to face with Zetterberg, Kronwall, Cleary and a few others after Saturday's game (...because it feels relevant, not because I'm bragging. Honest.) Thanks to a special friend of a friend of a friend, I had my first in-person experience with a Red Wing. I'm sure a number of you have stood in lines for autographs, or you see them now and then at the local deli, or maybe you are Kris from Snipe Dangle and your lucky ass got to meet Steve Yzerman that one time (I fucking hate you, I'm dead serious). I, however, blog from my mother's basement 19 hours a day and do not resemble any of the above. And thus, seeing the likes of Mike Babcock standing five feet in front of us made me turn 6 years old.
We stood in this area where it appeared visiting teams gather to see friends and family. We saw just about every Predator, but nearly overlooked Jordan Tootoo because he's so stumpy. Conversely, Wade Belak is bigger than an ox. He looks like he should be Franzen's brother.
Most of the Wings were rushing out, in all likelihood because they were leaving immediately for Philly and/or because they had kids. Speaking of which, Homer's kids look so Swedish it's hilarious. Like impossibly Swedish. It was sort of cute ... but I swear to god if you tell anyone I said that, I'll kill you. I will fucking kill you.
Cleary came out and gave away a couple of signed sticks. Brent somehow happened to have a Dan Cleary card on him and got it signed. (True story: Cleary paused just slightly before signing it, almost looking surprised that somebody was actually carrying a card with him on it.) Desperately trying not to say anything that I would regret for the rest of my life, I failed and said, "So, are you playing tomorrow?"
"Yeah," he replied. Then I wondered if he thought I meant him or the team. Then I wondered if he gets asked that all the time since he gets injured every other week. Then I felt kind of sad.
Kronner also stopped to sign. He was very soft spoken; I'm not sure how different it would've been had the Wings won, but he has always seemed like a guy who really doesn't like losing. I've always admired him for that, and I'm going to pretend that's why he didn't come running up to me with his arm extended for a high five. But whatever. He could've told me to eat shit and die and I wouldn't have cared, because that's the type of surly behavior I like to exibit after my favorite teams lose. (Side note: For somebody who makes a living by turning guys like Martin Havlat into dead bodies, he looks almost small in person without pads on. While standing within dry humping distance of him and wondering if he'd accept an invitation to the prom, I realized that I was noticeably larger -- although he's probably 185 pounds of lean, chiseled muscle while my goofy frame is made up mostly of Cheeto fat.)
When Z started walking toward us, I almost ran away. How does one stand in the presence of this perfectly dressed man? Right or wrong, I felt like a lower form of being. However, if I did run away I wouldn't have been able to smell him. That's right. Z's post-shower smell was tangled up in my nostrils. He then signed Brent's hat and my program and said "Pleasure" after we thanked him for autographs. Loosely interpreted, this means we pleasured Henrik Zetterberg.
Nothing this cool will probably happen to us ever again. Maybe it's for the best. I was so nervous that I was breathing weird, and my mouth was hanging open like Evgeni Malkin after a 90 second shift. Once was plenty and we owe it to our friend John and his brother James for a great trip. Thanks bitches.