One
Hockey Fans are Special
Forest
December
Hockey fans are special. For example, they believe that yelling at a TV screen helps their team score more goals. After five years of serving drinks on game nights, it’s a miracle I don’t have permanent hearing loss.
And yet I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else tonight. As a bartender, I appreciate fans’ energy, their loyalty to the Colorado Cougars, and their lofty bar tabs. Not necessarily in that order.
Unfortunately, tonight’s contest against the New York Legends isn’t going so well.
“Holy hell! We should trade Stoneman!” one of our regulars yells as the boys fail on another turnover.
“Dude, you don’t mean that,” I argue, because Stoney is a rainmaker, and I know this fan pretty well. His name is Fred, and since he’s in here all the time, we call him Fregular. Also, he’d lose his ever-loving mind if the Cougars’ management ever traded Stoney.
Fregular burps. “Maybe. But they should get him some skating lessons! Can I have another beer?”
“Sure, pal.” Although, every beer I serve him makes him a little more certain he could do a better job than Clay Powers, the best coaching talent Colorado has ever seen.
“Need two more margaritas, boss.” Izzy, our cocktail server, approaches the bar a second later.
“On it.”
Suddenly, I’m hustling again as more drink orders roll in. That’s how it goes on game night at Sportsballs. I’m a co-owner of the queerest, least pretentious sports bar in North Denver. If the Friday night crowd wants to get loud and sloppy, I’m here for it.
I open a row of beer bottles, slide one to Fregular, and then shake up those margaritas. Scully—the other co-owner—works the opposite end of the bar, making drinks and talking smack and tapping credit cards. The Cougars are down by two goals at the second intermission, which means everyone’s drinking faster than usual.
When the order queue is finally empty, I wipe down the bar, and Scully checks his phone. “Ah, shit,” he says, looking like someone just kicked him.
“Donny drunk texting you again?” I ask. His ex-boyfriend just doesn’t know when to quit.
“No, it’s worse. Chen has a problem making one of our games.”
Oh shit. Scully and I are co-captains of a beer league hockey team. “Which game?”
His shoulders droop. “Tuesday after next.”
“Fuck. Is he going to be late again?” We almost had to forfeit a game when he got held up at work.
“Worse.” Scully rubs his chin. “His boss is sending him on a business trip.”
The glass I’m bussing stops halfway to the dish bin. “No way. We have no goalie?”
“Not unless his dickhead boss changes his mind. There’s some client dinner in Chicago.”
I’m just processing this when I notice Quiet Kid, who’s seated right in front of me at the bar. He comes in once a week, always alone. He orders a single beer and then tips like he’s trying to make up for something. Tonight, he’s wearing a faded Cougars hoodie that looks soft enough to sleep in.
And he’s listening in on my conversation with Scully with unusual interest. Like he’s trying to catch every word.
“Next Tuesday?” Fregular bellows from his end of the bar. “That’s your game against the Plague, right?”
Quiet Kid drains his beer. Without asking, I pour him a diet soda, which is all he ever drinks after his beer is gone.
“We could put Marcus in the net,” Scully suggests, not sounding convinced.
“Seriously?” I snort. “Last time he played goal in street hockey, he got scored on by an eight-year-old.”
