Oh, Puck!

When my brother Mark and I were 12 and 14 or so, we would hit the Golden Eagles hockey games at the Salt Palace. We bought tickets but rarely sat in our assigned seats. We’d run up and down the aisles doing things like tormenting the organist on the mezzanine or marveling at the players sitting on the bench.

Every game, we’d find ourselves rinkside putting our faces against the chain link barrier shouting at the action—and wincing as the players as they came crashing into the boards. 

One game, a referee made a particularly bad call and the fans really let him have it. As he skated toward us Mark loudly taunted him with some sort of snottiness. The ref looked none-too-pleased at the two of us little brats.

The next morning as we sat at home watching TV, the doorbell rang. Mark went to the door and opened it to see the ref from the night before looming in the doorway. Mark nearly crapped his pants dreading the grisly fate that awaited him. They engaged in another stare down.

Then the ref asked if our parents were home. His side job was selling Cable TV.