Throughout every hockey game I find myself locked in an internal dialog that pits my new-found-hockey me (my masculine self) against my girl me. Kind of like when you see a little devil on one shoulder of some poor conflicted soul and then a little angel on the other.
*******
Girl me: Oh no, that tri-tip must be a gazillion calories.
Hockey me: Frick! Is that horseradish mayonnaise?
Girl me: Is anyone going to clean up that blood on the ice? Someone is going to slip and fall...
Hockey me: Drat! Blood? I missed it, what happened?
Girl me: That's it Perry, playing well is your best recourse. Nice shot.
Hockey me: Make them pay, Perry!
Girl me: I think I will ask this nice gal in line at the women's restroom about the last call.
Hockey me: I think I'll just react with the crowd--scream insults, look peeved and motion fiercely toward the ref--find out what the deal is later on Adam Brady's Blog.
Girl me: Oh, I hope his wife isn't watching.
Hockey me: He totally deserved that body check.
Girl me: I don't want Ben (our four-year-old son) to ever play hockey.
Hockey me: I want Ben to be the best hockey player that ever lived!
It can be an exhausting night, as you can imagine, with all the quarreling and posturing.
