Take Me Out to the Hockey Game

James was pretty excited.

He knew we were going to a hockey game this week, but I think Friday sort of snuck up on him, but by the time he woke up from his nap ("Whaa...? is it time to go to the hockey game? Hey, I'm hungry!") he was beginning to get excited. Or, as he pronounced it, recited.

"Owen, are you recited to go to the hockey game? I bet you ARE! You've never been before! Mommy, are you recited to go the hockey game? I bet you are TOO. You nebber been ei-ber! Mater, are you recited to go to the hockey game?" (Mater voice) "Oh yeah, James, ah am!"

"James, do you know that we're probably going to leave everything in the car except George and Steven?"

(Mater voice) "Ah, okay. Ah'll jes' wait in the car for you, James!"

James talked about the hockey game all evening.This is no exaggeration. While he was shoveling lemon poppyseed pancakes into his mouth at dinner, he was still talking about the hockey game. While I was pulling his sweater and hockey "jersey" onto him as we got ready, he was talking about the hockey game. And while we were swatting around a puck in the living room just before we left, he was at fever pitch, talking about the hockey game.

Owen's outlook on the hockey game was just about the same as his outlook on the everything else in life: "I'm very happy, I love everyone, let's find things to eat in the kitchen trash!" He might have slightly resented being bundled up in his big winter coat as we loaded him into the carrier and prepared to walk up to the arena, but I could tell that James' excitement was infectious and that he knew something great was coming too.

J was excited also, although I could tell, after a few blocks, that her enthusiasm for the hockey game was slightly dampened by an economics problem she was working out, something about the expense of paid parking vs the cost of a longer walk to the arena while parking for free on the street with a heavy baby on your back in January.

We rounded the last corner and the arena came into sight, and James practically shrieked with excitement. We got in line, acquired our tickets, and made our way in to find our seats. Both teams were out warming up on this ice, loud music was pumping through the sound system, and other fans were trickling in around us. I looked over at James.

He was completely silent. He was staring unblinkingly down at the ice.

"Do you want me to take your coat off?"
"No."
"Do you want to go down to the ice and get a closer look at the players?"
"No."
"Are you okay?"
"Yup."
"Are you sure?"
"Yup."

That was about the extent of the conversation that we got out of him for the next two and a half hours. He asked, over the course of the evening, three unprompted questions:
1) "When is the zamboni going to come out?"
2) "Can we get some crackerjack?"
3) "Can we get some ice cream."

Turns out that we had to wait a bit for the zamboni, because we were there over a half-hour early. But when it finally did come out to clean the ice right before the game, James was, if possible, even more transfixed. He did get some crackerjack at the end of the first period, and as he watched the zambonis take another run at the first intermission, J remarked to me "I think he's the happiest kid in the world right now."

He was munching on crackerjack, bundled up between his parents, holding George and Steven, watching the zambonis go over the ice with an intensely focused expression but an undeniable hint of a smile tugging up at the corners of his mouth.

"James, are you having a good time?"
"Yup."

Owen, on the other hand, enjoyed the game in a much less focused way. He got bored pretty quickly waiting for the game to start, so J walked him down to the glass beforehand and he waved wildly to each hockey player that skated by him in warm-ups. He got walked around the arena and grinned at all the noise and milling crowds, and then when the game started he danced on our laps to the music that was pumped through and applauded enthusiastically for any signs of excitement in the crowd. He made multiple attempts to break free from parental guidance, and did manage to crawl all the way into another section over the course of the five seconds that it took me to get James' crackerjack open. He munched happily on the fries that we offered him, and once they were used up he stood up on my lap and looked expectantly at the strangers sitting behind us eating burgers. He nodded impatiently to them, then signed for "please" and "more," and, still having no success, ultimately resorted to just reaching towards their food and attempting to grab it. (He also tried to steal a hat off of a kid who was sitting in front of us.) He quieted down by the second period, obviously sleepy, and was mostly happy to be held for the last 20 minutes we were there.

I asked James, who was also up past his bedtime, if he was ready to leave yet.

"I wanna see the zambonis again."

We stayed through the end of the second intermission so that we could see the zambonis again, and then bundled back up and made our way out of the arena back towards our car. As soon as we were out the door, all the words that James had been saving for the past two hours torrented forth.

"Mommy, did you see the teams hitting the ice with their sticks? That was SO siwwy! And there were two zambonis and there was a blue zamboni and a yellow zamboni, and I think one of them was the first zamboni IN THE WORLD!!!! Did you like the hockey game, Mommy? You've never been to a hockey game before!"

When we got back to the car he retold the entire evening to Mater:
"...and then, Mater, we went and we got ketchup and fries and crackerjack!"
(Mater voice) "You got ketchup n' frahs n'crackerjack? That sounds yummy, James!"
"Yeah Mater, it WAS yummy!"

Both boys went to bed pretty easily. And both slept well.

But not as well as their parents.