Hockey is a great sport. While my partner, T, appreciates the puck handling and strategy of the game, I'm grateful for the stunning array of sexy, rugged faces made more endearing by the occasional black eye, puffed lip or row of stitches. While T sits transfixed by the television screen, I smoulder with anticipation for the Chippendalish moment when a shirt gets provocatively ripped off and cast away. How realistic is it to expect some one-on-one action during Hockey Night In Canada?
The play-offs have stirred fond memories. T is wearing a peach-coloured terry cloth robe and has assumed the hockey-watching position in the La-Z-Boy. What really matters to me is the equipment under the robe, but Mr. Hockey refuses to budge. Except for bathroom breaks, the peach-coloured bird remains in his La-Z-Boy nest for the next several hours.
The Habs are playing the Leafs, and by late night everyone is scoring except me. The sight of those hockey hunks is getting me so hot I'm leaving a trail of melted ice. I badly need a penalty, preferably in a private room with Yzerman, Recchi or even Thornton, if he shaved, with sticks out and sweaty helmets in full view. I picture myself about to get a sustained body check from a skating beefcake and then, afterwards, as long as his teeth are in, he can dive into my net of love.
I've never competed with Sundin and Kaberle before, but it's time to put on my uniform - a white beaded thong, see-through teddy and tickle feather. Suddenly, the evening is filled with a new kind of competitive spirit. I take a swig of Upper Canada Dark and plot my offence.
Like Mogilny, I have a chance to score, but my pass is broken up by the booming voice of Don Cherry. During Coach's Corner, T is out of reach and we're unable to hook up. I circle the room, picking up speed. I muster a terrific hustle, the feather a silver streak in the dark. A rush is on.
The La-Z-Boy tilts backwards under our combined weight. Domi drops his gloves on the ice and T drops the remote. The whistle blows, and there's definitely a power play in the La-Z- Boy. Saku Koivu slams a wrist shot through. My wrist is getting sore. I hang on. The puck is almost in the net, but then the net gets knocked off its moorings and I fall from the La-Z-Boy. The white teddy has flipped up over my face.
I've gotten a piece of it, but T has played a strong defence. We have words. To hell with the instigator rule! The gloves are off. Domi delivers a face-wash to Zednik. I rip the teddy off, dance the dance and deliver a between-the-thighs face-wash to a powerless T. He grabs my thong with his teeth and lets it go, snapping me like an elastic band into our cappuccino-coloured art deco chair in the corner. Two minutes for roughing. What does it take to score on this rink? I have the skill. I have the talent.
Then I remember. Great players like Gretzky or Lemieux often make it look like they just happened to be in the right place at the right time. They make themselves available and magic happens.
Patience. I take a big swig of beer and spit it out in T's direction. That gets Big Bird sitting up in his nest. The residue dribbles down my heaving chest. I towel myself down suggestively and make sure my protruding buttocks are illuminated by the television light. I circle and wait for the commercial break. Guy Lafleur starts talking about Viagra. Timing is everything. With the quickness of Mike Modano, I pounce. T is way out in front and he goes in deep. It's a wicked one-on-one. There's a hush. The buzzer goes off and the red light flashes again and again and again!
Game over for now, but I'm going for the best two out of three.