Healing Through Hockey My Ass

CNN's never-ending quest to Oprahfy the world has resulted in a feature called "Healing Through Hockey". That's just wrong. Hockey is the only arena left where wild animals can howl at bearded, toothless cavemen clubbing each other with sticks. Hockey isn't new-agey; it's stone-agey. So, by all means save the orphans and heal the wounded, but not with hockey, and not on my watch.

We guys love you ladies for all the beautiful softening touches you bring to life. We even appreciate the aesthetic value of those throw pillows you strategically place wherever we want to sit or lay our bodies down. Really, we do. However, if a man accompanies you to the ballet, he should not expect to inhale beer, swallow hot dogs without chewing, or organize an audience wave. Likewise, hockey isn't Ice Castles; it's ice wrastles.

The correct approach to a hockey game for a man or a woman is to put on a military-gray sweatshirt or Scotch-plaid flannel that hasn't been washed lately and puts off a musky scent to the opposite gender but a feral warning to breeding competitors. Don't golf clap. Feel free to holler or pull hair. If you write about the event for CNN, call it hockey reportage not hockey reflections.

I fondly remember a great hockey match I watched in Chicago. The Saint Louis Blues were playing the hometown Blackhawks. There were no teams called the London White Doves or Manhattan Easy Listeners. There was almost as much hugging as on an Oprah show, but there was also back slapping that could turn a just-swallowed bratwurst into an intercontinental ballistic missile. Communion beer was served regularly to the worshipers by leggy high priestesses of the tattoo and navel-ring cult.

At halftime, a voluptuous Polish blonde attempted a long shot for a big cash prize. Just as she made contact with the puck, the camera broadcasting to the jumbotron took a dive toward her cleavage. Not one male attendee had the guts to ask another whether she scored. Perhaps, no one knew. Some female readers may find all this juvenile, but I warn you, it gets worse. When men engage in hockey followed by sex, there is a 75% chance of them yelling, "He shoots, he scores!" in a tender moment.

On the Chicago elevated train home in the middle of the night, seating was still divided into two teams. Not Blues and Blackhawks. Crips and Bloods. The brothas and I had a wonderful time of fellowship, until I asked them for the sistas' phone numbers. Suddenly, I was relegated to the back of the train, where I sat mumbling under my breath about Rosa Parks and humming We Shall Overcome.

Arrived at the station nearest my hotel, where the wind was brutally cold. I called a number that was supposed to summon immediate transport. No answer. A cop car pulled up, so I started over to ask for a taxi dispatch number. Another police cruiser rolled up behind, then a uniform with curves got out. She eagerly jumped into the front seat with the male cop and soon disappeared down around the spot where the vehicle's (and officer's) stick shift should be. Seems more serving than protecting was going on at that moment. I decided my info request might not be well received.

Walked back to my hotel, arriving frozen and totally wasted at sunrise. That was a true hockey night. I guess you could say it offered a certain type of healing to a wild animal spirit trapped in a dull urban jungle, but not the kind Anderson Cooper would appreciate.