She bought me socks.

Yesterday I turned 39 years old. Not quite 40. And not quite 25 either.
39 is in fact "just a number" but why then is it that this one feels like it is looming over me like some sort of consequence or sentence?
The old grey mare - she ain't what she used to be....and neither is Kirby. Both my ego and my body bruise easy. At least, easier than they used to. Rest and recovery become a month long hiatus after my back goes left when my mind goes right. The closet door that hides our medicine cabinet may need to be replaced soon. Daily visits to the Pez Dispenser that feeds me Advil have worn the hinges out.
Michele has encouraged me to stop watching TV and ride bike more. I enjoy that and it's easy on my joints if not hard on my bum.  Money and the absence of it has changed some of my typical summer plans that have included Ontario & fishing but I've come to grips with that a little better now. There's fish in the lake outside my door and the time that I've spent with Emma and Logan lately cannot be matched.
Oh, I'm not so much as depressed. I'm just stuck worrying about things that have to happen next week or next month. I wish life was full of vacations, scratch offs and tater tot hotdish. But it's not.
Life requires work. Life requires schedules and swimming lessons. Life requires volunteerism and more meetings. The laundry isn't going to wash itself and the grass just keeps growing.
And now I'm 39.
Maybe for my next birthday I can go to Chuck E Cheese or ValleyFair... I think I'll look forward to doing something really childish this time next year.
Not this year though. Yesterday I put in another "day in the mine." A cold, wet and gloomy shift at the pool. I couldn't even follow that up with big dinner plans with the family because my Hockey Dad duties called and I shuffled off to another meeting...

But not before I got to spend a few hours with the 3 most important people in my world.
Earlier I said some junk about life not being full of Tater Tot Hotdish... That may be true but supper last night sure was full of it. A double dose of hamburger and tots, heavily covered in cheese. Our usual dinner table conversation was shortened and sometimes muffled because everyone was going back for second and third helpings. The kids skimmed their drinks right from the drinks their mother and I poured and that made me smile. Logan drank my lemonade and Emma drank Michele's Pepsi. With the dogs underfoot, we visited, laughed and ate in our messy dining room. Hockey bags, skates, laundry baskets all evidence that our house is lived in. Just the way we like it!
For a moment I was left alone while the kids and my wife disappeared into the other room. They came back with a cake, a candle and song. My heart began to melt.
You see, at times I've been guilty of moping around a little this summer... I know we're in a transition time in our family and things aren't right where we thought they'd be but then something like my birthday rolls around and reminds me just how happy I really am.

I got Ranch Flavored Corn Nuts for a gift. You know me all too well. I got a Heath Candy bar...I don't eat a lot of candy but man do I like Heath bars! For my birthday, I got a bag of Dill Pickle  sunflower seeds - perfect for tonight when I get to watch Logan play ball and tomorrow for Emma's game! I got a giant bag of Swedish Fish - because a when I lied about not eating very much candy, I had forgotten for a moment about my addiction to Swedish Fish.
And then there were socks.
I got a package of tall, black socks.
I am so completely happy with my wife and everything that she does for me. The list is long and not the least thing among them but just added to one of many thousands of things that she tirelessly does for me is.....she keeps me in socks.
I cannot remember the last time that I purchased a pair of socks of any kind. I would have to go back a decade or more to the last time that I needed to think about underclothes for my feet. That's how much she loves me.
Michele knows more than just my obvious interests in hunting or fishing. She knows all my favorite snacks. She knows my favorite restaurants and music...she looks out for me more than I do for myself. I'm so lucky that I have her to love me like she does.

I'm 39 - I guess it's time for me to grow up but at least I won't have to buy socks for a while.

 

Make Love not War.

I stepped out of my comfort zone once.
It happened at Grandma's Restaurant in Canal Park.
While dining amongst Duluth's finest, those that wear North Face clothing and pretend to know about marathons, I ordered from the  left side of the menu.
I thought a Wild Rice Burger sounded "earthy". Maybe even "healthy". I thought I would get a balanced concoction of ground beef and what the Ojibwe refer to as "mahnomen".
I got a meal on a fancy bun made from some fancy bread that I've long forgotten. I got a decent sized patty dressed in grasses and leaves, grains of rice magically held together with sprigs and twigs. By all accounts, it was actually a pretty good burger except they left out the ground beef part.
Apparently I assumed wrong that a Wild Rice Burger would have burger in it.
I missed the fine print that no doubt stated...
"this delectable entree given by Mother Earth contains no MEAT and although its taste is bound to hypnotize you into thinking you've discovered another conquest to add to your bragging board, this baby will have you running for the closest Biffy in urgent need to flush out the inner workings of you digestive tract."

I gambled and lost.
I am not a Vegan. I am not a Vegetarian. I am not a Hippie.
I am a red-blooded, flag waving, gun owning, meat and potatoes guy.

But I recently stepped out of my comfort zone...Once more.

Michele and I unplugged from the television world.

MidContinent Cable no longer "bundles" my money all the way to their bank. The only Dish Network that I'm interested revolves around our dining room table and good family conversation. Direct TV has left their satellite dish on the southeast corner of my house just in case we decide to give them another shot but that thing might as we'll be placing Carry Out orders with Marvin the Martian because I'm not turning it back on any time soon.

We've had good intentions to unplug for a few years. Every summer it seemed as if we watched less and less TV.  Yet the bills kept coming and we kept paying. If the TV was on, it was usually only just white noise in the background as we were passing through. But invariably there were times when we'd be sucked in to the allure of zoning out and tuning in. It is an addictive and bad habit.

So we pulled the plug.

The last official day with cable happened while I was escaping with the other Kirby men to the Boundary Waters. To test my resolve, I slid back in to family life and wondered how the culminating series of the Stanley Cup was unfolding and if I would miss those late night, double overtime games.
I didn't.
I haven't watched ESPN or their awe inspiring Top 10 in 29 days and somehow I am still breathing. I have not watched local, national or even galaxy news in close to a month and I DON'T CARE! A Roku box was brought in to ease the transition and wean our kids off of the tube and I have not dialed in to that bad boy once. For 8 American dollars a month, Netflix has kept my children in constant supply of such Disney classics as "Austin & Ally" and "Pair of Kings" but I think the novelty of that is wearing off too.

No more land line telephone either - saving all the more of my money that Midcontinent Cable "bundled" right out of my pocket.

I am proud to have finished 3 books already this summer - we'll on my way to achieving the Jacobson Elementary "5 over the Summer" goal. (I hope I get a Gold Star!) That's 3 books before the corn was knee high in July!
I'll even admit it. I may have learned a thing or two about "Love Languages" from the book my wife suggested. I read a decent collection of creative Outdoor Essays called "Haunting Reverence" and just finished the biography, "Woman of the Boundary Waters." (Wow- next trip to the library, I really need to "BUTCH" up my reading selection.)
As I was saying, I've peddled more road of southern Pine County in the last 2 weeks and put on more miles behind the handle bars than I've done in years. I shoot my bow in the evening. I do more laundry. I visit with my wife and kids. I go to bed early.
So far, I like life without TV.

But I'm not a Hippie.

“Sit down. I have something I need to tell you.”

The ink on my Bemidji State diploma was barely dry that horrific September 11^th morning that we remember all too well. Alan Jackson would later ask us in song, “Where were you when the World stopped turning on that September day?” His reply in the next verse brings tears to my eyes still to this day, almost 13 years later….

…“Teaching a Class full of innocent children?” …

It’s as if Mr. Jackson stood beside me that Tuesday while 27 6th graders returned from their early morning Phy. Ed. class. “Sit down. I have something I need to tell you,” I said. I can only imagine the look on my face. 27 kids sensed the severity of the moment. 27 kids sat and waited. Just over a week in to my rookie year of teaching 6^th grade at CE Jacobson Elementary, I was faced with a heavy load. And we LIVED that moment TOGETHER.

Looking back, I’ve grown close with a lot of those kids from my first year. Understandably so, I mean, aren’t we always supposed to have a special place in our hearts for our FIRSTS? Of course that year had its ups and downs, full of things that are typical of any and every 6^th grade classroom from any generation and from here to there. We, though, had to navigate the school year amongst unfamiliar emotions and uncertainty of what was happening to the World around us. In our Social Studies books we learned that “shared experiences” help bring groups of people closer together. Like a small community surviving a tornado or a group of workers unionizing and picketing against the boss – we would be forever tied to each other because of where we were when four airplanes fell from the sky.

As adults, I’ve heard stories from those kids that mine is the reaction that they most remember from 9/11. A 4-year veteran of the United States Marine Corps, I participated in a few mild skirmishes in Africa and the Middle East in the mid 90’s. However, that morning on September 11^th, I suppressed a reflexive response to return fire and head for cover. Instead I tried to be confident and speak from truth. While the smoldering towers showed on the TV behind me, I assured those darling little faces looking up at me for guidance that our world was about to change, but for now they were safe… safe here at school- with me.

Years later I can look back at their class picture and see young adults that are now college graduates, small business owners, Moms & Dads. One of those girls is currently serving in the Peace Corps in Africa while another young man is set to canoe the Mississippi River from start to finish once the weather breaks. They’ve grown to become personal trainers and familiar faces at the town grocery. Some swing by the pool in the summer for a quick visit or we meet in passing at a ball game. Social media has been a godsend as far as keeping up on “my first year kids”.  Facebook has let me witness the births of sons and daughters and graduations from officer academies and nursing schools. I’m proud of those kids.

Chelsea Peterson was in my class in 2001. She was a stellar student, genuinely interested in whatever it was that we were learning about. Her positive attitude was contagious. The following school year, I got to coach Chelsea as a 7^th grade basketball player. As a testament to her talent, Chelsea was playing hockey at the same time and when schedules conflicted, we made do because having her around was worth it. Even when she was just 12 years old I knew that her ability and drive would take her far.

It was a joy watching her mature in high school both academically and athletically. The oldest of four children, Chelsea reflected very well on her family’s morals and convictions. And it came as no surprise to me when I learned that Chelsea had enlisted in the National Guard. While I often saw her parents and siblings, I rarely saw her. With similar interests in hockey and hunting, Facebook allowed us to stay connected. And through her family, I admired her young military career from afar.

And then she was put on active duty.

Times have changed since I served in Kuwait and Somalia. Back then I was afforded 2 phone calls over a 6 month period and only lucky enough to connect on one of them. I’m thankful that times have changed though. New technology has potentially softened the blow of long-term separation for our countries soldiers and their families. Through social media and even text messaging, I have followed the deployments of several of my former students and athletes. Chelsea was one them.

Chelsea would routinely pop up a picture or update a status from Afghanistan. Her family beamed with pride and I joined them in watching her service in the eye of the storm. It must be comforting for those serving now to have sporadic technological access – allowing them to keep up on the happenings of friends and family back home while they do their duty abroad. Equally comforting for those of us stateside is the opportunity to see the day-to-day life of loved ones in a foreign land play out on our computer screen.

From my observations, Chelsea is a good soldier. Her “can do” attitude is obvious in photos and updates just as it is in person. Serving with the 8th Engineer Battalion on the other side of the world though has no doubt taught her things that cannot be learned in a textbook. We all eagerly awaited her safe return.

A couple of months ago I tried to RSVP my spot at the “Welcome Home” party but when it was rescheduled I, unfortunately, wasn’t able to make it. Shortly after that I got an instant message one night from Sgt. Peterson. Miss Chelsea wondered if she could catch me at school some day. She said she had something to give me. I let her know that I normally get to school around 7:30 a.m. and would be happy to see her anytime. Apparently reveille in the Army is a little later than my old Marine Corps days because Chelsea replied that it’d have to wait for another day. That was just too early!

And then, just last week she hit me up on Facebook and mentioned that she’d be in town. Again, pressing that she had something she wanted to give me, I reminded her that she is always welcome and she could drop in whenever was convenient. We agreed that Wednesday at about 11:00 would work.

I suppose I expected a trinket of warfare - maybe some funny money or a pin. What I got blew me away.

Sgt. Peterson, that same 11-year-old Chelsea from my first class- now just a little older, interrupted my Social Studies class and presented me with a box. Inside was a formal document and a ceremoniously folded United States flag. My face became flush and after a hug, I stammered through polite conversation. This was more than just a trinket! For a moment I forgot about the present day 6th graders hanging on our every word.  25 kids sensed the enormity of the moment. 25 kids sat and waited. Once we realized that we were being watched, Chelsea and I turned it in to a teaching moment. We pulled down maps and shared a couple of war stories. Sgt. Peterson easily commanded their attention with her smile and genuine ways. Given the opportunity to fly a flag in honor of someone “back home”, Sergeant Peterson chose me. I beamed with pride that this young soldier had not forgotten about a crusty old grunt back home.

Chelsea left with another hug but, to be honest, that was before I even got to read the accompanying document. My new 6th graders wanted to know what it said and asked me to read it aloud. 

The official paperwork signed by the Sergeant Major and Lieutenant Commander reads,

"This certificate is presented to Mr. Kirby's Class"

“These Stars and Stripes were proudly flown on 13th of November, 2013 over Task Force TROJAN HORSE, Forward Operating Base Shank, Afghanistan at the request of Sgt. Chelsea Peterson for view of the enemies of the United States. This flag represents the American resolve following the attack on the World Trade Center and Pentagon on September 11th 2001, and bears witness to the destruction of terrorist forces threatening the Freedom of the United States of America and the world."

I struggled to make it through the first part before I lost my military bearing. It wasn't long until I was in full-fledged tears. Here I stood, 13 years later reading through a present day gift of sacrifice from one of those innocent kids that looked to me on that September day. Most, if not all, of my 13th year students were not even born the day those planes changed the world but I've got reason to believe that they'll remember the day a soldier stopped by and made their teacher cry.

Thank you Sgt. Peterson. You've done us all real proud.

Respectfully,

Paul Kirby

Corporal - United States Marine Corps

6th Grade Teacher - Jacobson Elementary

And then some... The principal thought this was quite the deal....contacted Local Paper...they put it on the Front Page....Social Media & Facebook ate it up. If you're interested in any more the link follows...

http://ecmpostreview.com/2014/04/16/solider-flies-flag-in-honor-of-her-teacher/

BTW - I didn't teach them how to spell "SOLIDER".  ; ) 

Golf Balls & Hockey Pucks

Although my grandfather passed away in 1994, I will forever be known to my Mom's side of the family as "Little Paul". My namesake, Paul Sempsrote, was an old school carpenter of German descent. Grizzled and rough on the edges, he was equally known for his bib overalls as his sharp tongue. But deep down, we all know he was a caring and loving man that cherished his family. Especially his grandkids.

Some of my fondest memories of my grandfather are time spent with him at the ballpark and playground at the end of his block, collecting aluminum cans and turning them in at the convenient, nearby, recycling center. Grandpa Paul was a "Picker" before picking was cool. He was the guy that would be up and at it early on the garage sale route, looking for any and every little deal that he would no doubt be trying to sell later at the Flea Market for a reasonable profit.

"Big Paul" played the ponies and if ever there was an anecdotal example of what my grandfather was like..... he found a winning ticket - in an ashtray....not just some small bucks turnover.... a winning ticket to the tune of - "Time to buy a new car!"- and then some!

He was Fred Sanford without the TV cameras.

Another favorite past time of the old man's was to take us grandkids golf ball hunting at the Phillips Park course. I remember climbing in to his old 2 wheel drive pickup and heading out to Aurora's finest public course in search of treasure. The quality time with my Grandpa probably came with a little ulterior motive on his part. Ya see, I'm not sure Paul Sempsrote EVER swung a golf club in his life but one thing's for damn sure, he knew all there was to know about golf balls in the 1980's. Why, you ask...because he sold them as Flea Market fodder, that's why.

That's the thing about these old Pickers - they see value where others don't. They know how to find those hidden gems, items of value to someone - somewhere.

*********************************************************************************

Saturday morning after hockey practice I sent my boy next door to the outdoor rinks and told him to take a lap and keep his eyes peeled for any long forgotten pucks. With our recent warm up and subsequent snow melt, I had a hunch that the kid would stumble upon a few hockey pucks leftover from an outdoor winter season of practices and games. What I didn't expect was for him to come back with his hands dirty and pockets full, unloading a number of pucks on me and asking to go back out because there were spots that he hadn't yet got to.

After round two Logan had amassed a collection of 18 hockey pucks - to include a Green Biscuit (Retail $10+) and a blue and a green puck to go along with his 15 slightly used discs of destruction. In 20 short minutes my son had found close to 50 dollars in once lost treasure.

And he was good at it too. To illustrate, a teammate had joined him and only mustered 2 lonesome pucks to my boy's 18!

Later, proud of his bounty, he sprung in to the house to tell Mom and pose for pictures. I told Logan about how he reminded me of my Grandpa Paul - a man he never got to meet but had no doubt inherited his nose for value. Later that evening, still high from the hunt, Logan begged to go back and look some more. I'm glad that we did. Not only did we find 5 more pucks but we had some quality time together and it reminded me of Grandpa.

Yup...I did.

Being a hockey Mom ain't easy. 

(and cringe at the use of the word-ain't)

A few years ago, Logan and Emma started their first year of hockey. Gulp.

It took me awhile to admit that this volleyball/basketball loving Mom was going to have to learn the game of hockey.  

But, being a good parent, I did.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm not a fan of cold weather or cold feet or hands or ice?

And now, this volleyball/basketball loving Mom has evolved into a hockey Mom and has accepted her role.

I tie skates.

I know how to put all protective gear on and can have kids dressed in no time.

I know what icing means, off-sides, and where the 5 hole is.

I've bought hockey nets that  now take the place of my dinning room table.

I've come to accept that during hockey season, hockey sticks are a part of my living room décor.

I specifically shop for appropriate clothing to wear in the rink and will pass by a pair of boots that would never keep my feet warm there.

Yes, I've accepted my role.

 

Last month-a fellow hockey Mom posted on our Team FB page for our daughters team...."Anyone want to play in the pond hockey tournament this year? I think the Mom's should have a team."

 

And anyone that knows me well, knows that I am quick to respond and quick to say Yes cause I'm a people pleaser.

 

Pretty soon the banter went on and in the blink of an eye we had sponsors, jerseys and everything paid for and enough Mom's to make a team.

 

Sh*t just got real!!!!

 

Practice times/dates were scheduled.

 

Emails/Texts with requests to borrow equipment were sent out.

 

Trip's to the local small town sporting good store increased.

 

One trip to get skates sharpened for the kids and Kirby also produced a new hockey stick for me. (Justification: Emma can use it in a few years.)

 

The next trip to get skates sharpened resulted in a new pair of hockey gloves.

(Justification: Kirby's were too big and if I was going to have a new stick, I needed new gloves. And Emma can wear them in a few years.)

 

Now-I can skate.

(not fast, but enough to stand up and not fall)

I just can't stop very well.

(Okay, can't stop at all)

And for those of you who read Brady-Brady books I am the Twirlin' torpedo.

Thankfully my background in roller skating and roller blading would come in handy.

Who needs to stop in order to score?

 

As the tournament came closer...I admit-the nerves started to flare up. 

Flashes of myself breaking my leg....or an arm.

Glimpses of myself flying into a snowbank....

Images of a broken nose or black eye from a high sticking hockey stick.

 

As luck would have it...the tournament was on the same day as my 37th birthday.

Happy Birthday to me!

 

To make this long story short.....

We played-We skated-We survived

 

 

Don't mess with a hockey Mom........or a group of them for that matter.

 

Here's what I learned:

-You're never too old to try something new

-I have a whole new respect for the game of hockey

-I have a whole new admiration for my kids who play hockey

-I look good in a hockey jersey

 

Stats: 9 goals in 5 games

 

 

 

"I have a bad feeling about this..."

Found this unfinished essay in the Archives from back in October.... ohhhhh the memories....   ; )  - kirby

"I have a bad feeling about this..."

Those were the words my wife muttered as I walked out the door last night for the 3rd Annual "Dodge Out Hunger" - charity Dodgeball tournament to benefit the Pine City Food Shelf.

Andy, my buddy from church, sent out an exploratory text message in the middle of last week wondering if I would be up to join a team for a little dodgeball. I have been as busy as a beaver this fall with everything from coaching to carpeting. All I needed was one more reason to fill in the smallest of empty spaces on our organizational refrigerator calendar. But Andy had been reaching out to me often over the past few years and rarely are we able to connect. We've had good intentions to take the boys for a walk in the woods or for a launch trip on Lake Mille Lacs but nothing has ever seemed to come of our intentions. Andy is a good guy and it was hard for me to say "No" - so with nothing scheduled for Tuesday, I agreed to play. Besides - it was for charity!

I knew nothing of this little local competition.

I didn't know that Pine City folk had been coming together to hurl squishy balls at each other for the last two years. I didn't realize that teams representing a few small town businesses had matching jerseys and deep rosters. I couldn't tell if the "Prison Team" consisted of employees or inmates. I didn't know that local softball legends clung to their summer triumphs by taking this childish game serious as if Gold Medals and Hall of Fame ballots hung in the balance. After signing the obligatory "Release of Liability", I began to see that this was no small potatoes. I was about to enter the coliseum of competition as a gladiator defending his honor.

*********************************************************************************here is where the story was abruptly cut short....no doubt more important things came up - more important than documenting my dodgeball heroics.

CONTINUED.....

Andy had pieced together a team of 4 old duffers - so old that although unofficial, I think it was pretty obvious that we held the highest average age of teams in attendance. Actually one short of a full squad,  meant we would start every game a man down. We lost our first tilt just getting some of the squeaks out; oiling up the joints; sizing up the competition; playing possum. But from there we went on a terror. It seemed like the old dudes could play. Down went the prison team and their matching Under Armour headbands. Down went the potpourri of City Workers. People started to take notice of the only team playing with only four "athletes".

You laugh?

Finely tuned athletes that through years of experience and battle have learned when to attack and when to play defense. Andy had some how magically crafted our old timer team to be a perfect mix of mind and muscle. We worked harder as the crowd cheered louder. Before you could dodge a wrench we were posting a record near the top of the heap. With only two games left to play, we had only lost once. In the Food Drive bracket only the top two records would advance to the "ship". And for that second to last game we drew the all women's team..... mint!

To open up the game with a gentlemanly offer, the four of us backed off on the initial rush to mid court to get the first supply of squishy balls. Perhaps it was a move of machismo but I honestly thought that the first volley would be one we could withstand. I was wrong. One man went down in the first 5 seconds, as we scrambled to return fire. The ladies on the other side of mid court wearing eye black, chucked it with all their might and seemed to be targeting ME. All that service to their children in local youth soccer and hockey teams and you'd think that they'd take it easy on me but that was far from what was happening. I ran back and forth, in and out, up and down as fast as my formally fit body would take me. I nailed an unsuspecting mother, right in the hip to even things out....grabbed the closest rolling ammo I could find and charged ahead. With two women bearing down on me, I reversed fields and backpedaled as they simultaneously fired. Wingggggg..... Whizzzzzz.... I was in the clear. As I planted my right foot and leaned forward to begin the charge - SNAP!

I honestly thought that I had been stabbed from behind in the calf, reminiscent of the 1993 stabbing of Monica Seles when a psychologically abnormal fan rushed from the stands to stab the young tennis star between the shoulder blades. I immediately looked over my shoulder in disbelief that someone was threatened enough by my DodgeBall skills that they felt necessary to cut my calf wide open. No attacker in sight. As a matter of fact, there wasn't another person standing within 15 feet of me. I clutched at my right leg, expecting to see a gaping wound and flowing blood. There was none. I skipped and hopped to the sidelines, calling for a substitution as spectators and competitors alike knew that something had gone amiss.

An athletic trainer (Yes - and athletic trainer at the Food Shelf Dodgeball Tourney) met me near the bleachers as my calf muscle coiled in to a nice little ball. We headed right for the training room and the immediate diagnosis was easy - A pulled calf muscle. Elevate, Ice and Rest.

My team of three went on to loose to the women without me. With one more regularly scheduled game before the decisive playoff, I assured my team that I could stand at the back line and play defensive dodgeball. I avoided being hit without moving as much as three feet left or right. I threw no attack balls that round yet we won playing now with 3 and a half men. I crawled my way up the bleachers and wretched on my aching calf. I could barely stand the pain but would not let on to anyone in the gym the agony that I was in. Most everyone thought I had rolled my ankle. We waited with baited breath for pool play to finish and the announcement of the championship teams... there I laid....across the bleachers, bag of ice on my calf, kneading my leg like a batch of lumpy dough...

One loss away from contention!
One lousy loss away from being in the top two!
And to add insult to injury - we had beat the two teams playing for all of the glory.
What would my wife say???

"I had a bad feeling about this..."

Craving Entertainment

I have been put on notice.

There is a following of this Blog that wishes it were more like the days of old. A following that expects to find a fun-to-read story of no consequence here at least somewhat periodically. Periodically enough that they could expect to fill in some of the time lapses while stuck in their own cube farm.

I have failed our readership.

For that, I apologize.

Speaking of  “Craving Entertainment”, I was lucky enough to take in not 1 but 2 Minnesota WILD hockey games at the Xcel Energy Center the first week of December. Two distinctly different trips to the Minnesota Mecca of sticks and blades followed. Those of you that are familiar with my tight financial ways know that the highbrow, big city life is not something that I venture in to frequently. That is of course unless it involves HOCKEY, made all the better with words like “free” and “inexpensive family adventure”.

Monday Dec. 2, 2013 MN Wild vs. Philadelphia Flyers :

Mid-morning I received a text message from the artist formerly known as Coach Dillon. This beer swilling, softball playing, father of two simply asked if I “wanted to go to the Wild game that night – Free Ticket?”

He had me at “Free.”

Via text messages, I sought approval from the Missus and wondered how Coach acquired the tickets. More texts flew asking who’d be joining us for the 7 o’clock game. Excitement built throughout the day as the season’s first snowfall started to mess with central Minnesota. With sufficient spousal approval I had to change a few things around in my evening schedule. I left junior high basketball practice a bit early and managed to safely return my own kids home in spite of the snow blanketed interstate. Michele bid me farewell on my hockey journey letting me know just how crazy she thinks I really am.

To conserve on gas mileage, I unwisely chose to drive into the mouth of the blizzard in our Pontiac Grand Prix, taking no note of its poor ground clearance and inability to swiftly handle accumulating trenches of snow pack. At one point 25 or 30 miles south of my house, it had become impossible to distinguish one lane from the other on southbound I35. I questioned my own sanity. Free or not, I wondered if the game could meet my expectations and make this hellish commute worth it. Still I pressed on, gripping the steering wheel like it owed me money.

I did, in fact, make it to the hustle and bustle of St. Paul in one piece. Found a place to park and waited for my friends. For an evening of NHL Hockey, I would be joined by: Matt Dillon (the chew spitting, ticket man), Chris Carroll (A funny man with an aptly appropriate name given the current Holiday Spirit) and Frogman (A poignant fellow of few words). The 4 of us held tight to $90 dollar tickets while an over-anxious security guard waved his magical wand around our nether regions.

The Club Level at the X is a unique setting in which the extravagant hockey elite act like they somehow are more knowledgeable of the game than the savages of the lower deck. Don’t get me wrong, the Club Level folks aren’t as recklessly wasteful with their money as the fans in the costly suites below but my friends in current company had no problem dropping 9 bucks for a cup of tap beer. As a matter of fact, before I even found my seat I lost my three obscure named friends to the procurement of sweet mead.

Shortly thereafter, the four of us squeezed in to our adjoining seats at which Dillon proclaimed, “I need skinnier friends.” I didn’t exactly know if I should take the gentle ribbing in stride as he was the one that scored complimentary game tickets at work from a Latin American vendor or if I should remind him that he was lucky enough to conjure up 3 men willing to admit that they were actually his friend. Nevertheless, we took in the awe-inspiring sights and sounds of this cathedral dedicated to the beautiful game on ice. The fastest 1^st period of hockey ensued. Fast paced, back and forth hockey went on without a whistle. Under the scrutinizing eye of 4 other Bemidji State University Alums from above, number 24 of the Philadelphia Flyers, Matt Read, played scrappy hockey for the visiting team.

ZERO –ZERO End of 1.

At intermission we took to the Club Level causeways in search of more mead. The Frogman abandoned that mission in favor of a more potent remedy. Drinks in hand, we exchanged pleasantries while the zamboni did its work below. I have routinely stayed in touch with the ticket man and have even seen Frog on occasion but CC and I have probably only met up once since college. As guys that once frequented the fine establishments of the Bemidji area of the late 90’s, it was good for old friends to catch up in the air of an arena.

Club Level passes afford the upscale fan a higher selection of indulgent food. As the winter storm pressed on outside, I had a built in excuse not to buy more than one nine-dollar beer. The rest of the crew had no such worries. That didn’t stop me from dropping 11 bills to fill my belly. The sliced roast sandwiches have become a treat that even makes me a spendthrift. Thick, mouth-watering and smooth. Perhaps in a different setting it would be like any old sandwich but here at the X – it’s a delicacy. A delicacy that I savored as the second period was much of the same.

Again - Scoreless at the End of 2.

A revelation was made during the second intermission. Dillon asked about playing the “Clock Game”. I had come with a pocket full of quarters, prepared to defend my honor on the scoreboard, only to be disappointed that we hadn’t started the game at the beginning of the contest. Frogman was in. Double C’s knew not of such a competition. We laid the groundwork so the rookie could join us for a fierce battle on the board.

Each “player” chooses a number 0-9 and each time the clock is stopped, there is an opportunity to either take in or pay out. If the clock stops on your digit – you pocket a dollar from each of the other schleps in your party. On the other hand, if the WILD takes a penalty and the stoppage happens on your digit, you pay out to everyone in the game. In the past the game has been played with quarters but because we were behind, we decided to play a dollar at a time. Case in point, Charlie Coyle took a penalty to start Dillon 3 bucks in the hole.

The Clock Game is a classic fan favorite. Those in the know can recognize the nuances quickly. How else could you explain a grown man cheering wildly for an Icing call? Clock Game = he just took 3 bucks from his mates. For those that have never seen said game, they’re quick to catch on. Trash talk and defense are part of the repertoire of all Clock Game Veterans.

As the digital battle waged in the seats, the WILD fought on below to take a commanding 2-goal lead in the third. Dillon dug deep in to his pocket book paying out more often than taking in. Meanwhile, WILD goalie Josh Harding stood on his head, making a few spectacular saves to preserve the shutout. With the season’s first real snow storm barreling down on Central Minnesota, the four of us scurried for the exits and with a handshake were on our separate ways.

WILD Win! 2-0

Sunday Dec. 8, 2013 MN Wild vs. San Jose Sharks :

6 short days later… the Elf on the Shelf that had been occupying my children’s discipline patterns for a couple of weeks, delivered more hockey tickets. This time the home team was hosting the Sharks of San Jose for a 5 o’clock Sunday game. As my family dressed in team colors, I scurried to find a supply of dimes. It was time for my wife and our brood to learn the ins and outs of hockey gambling. I supplied each participant with 10 dimes. Sista Emma secured the forty coins in a Ziploc bag for the ride in. Excitement filled the air as we recalled watching our boys pummel the Boston Bruins for the kids’ first NHL game 2 long years ago. Up against a formidable opponent on Sunday, I hoped for a similar outcome.

Our assigned seating this night would be at the very top row of the X, but as cliché as it may sound, there’s not a bad seat in the house. We were close to snacks and refreshments. We were close to the biffy. We had room to stand up and spread out a bit. It was great to be in the big arena again. On this night the hard charging San Jose Sharks kept the pressure on and peppered goaltender Josh Harding with 38 shots on net. Harding held strong and only let one squeak by with 1:41 remaining in the game. The WILD played solid defensively and forced most of the action outside for the evening. Only able to muster 12 shots on goal, they did punch in 2 well-earned goals and an empty netter to top off the win.

From on high, Emma kept a close eye on Matt Cooke. The left wing joined the team this off-season and was wearing the number 24 on his jersey. This was hard for Emma to comprehend because #24 was a number that she felt was best left between her and the late Derek Boogaard. Each shift that Cookie took the ice he was under the watchful eye of my darling daughter. Matt Cooke honored the Boogie-man’s memory by playing a solid game. Minnow approved.

Logan on the other hand was a stickler for the rules. Every stick check was a potential Trip. Every two hander was a Slash. Too much body contact and it was Interference. I think the boy may have a future in refereeing. As the NHL’ers flew around the ice, the Bear was on the edge of his seat, hoping that someone/anyone was going to drop the gloves. Ironically, as much of a stickler for the rules as he is, Logan enjoys the time held truths of honor and respect that is commanded by a good old-fashioned hockey fisticuffs. No such luck this night. Nobody “put on the foil.” But we did get to see heroes like Zach Parise and Mikko Koivu pot a couple of goals!

This was a great evening of hockey entertainment. We got to see a few recognizable faces from Pine City Youth Hockey seated in the same general area. We experienced the ups and downs of defending dimes from your family. Mom and Logan were busted broke by the end of the second period. Emma and I each took on another digit for the third but in the end, I walked with $3.40 and Emma took home 6 dimes. I’ll pleasantly remember the excitement and pure emotion on my kids’ faces as the horn blew signaling each of the WILD goals - the high fives and hugs throughout the tilt. And lastly, together singing the WILD anthem that my kids have come to call their own.

“We were raised
 with the stick

And a pair of blades

On the ice we cut our teeth

We took our knocks
In the penalty box

Our mother was the referee...

This sport was here
 before we came

It will be here when we're gone

The game's in our blood

And our blood's in the game

Lay us down under
 a frozen pond…”