5. Going sledding in Delaware park with my family. Sat there shivering... Dad notices the only thing I wore under my winter coat was a flimsy t-shirt... Dad says, "Jesus. Are you stupid or something?" as he takes off his own sweater and puts it on me.
4. Getting a ride home in my friends' cold mini-van and convulsing to the point that it felt my guts were being wrenched.
3. Walking, sans gloves, with my brother to buy milk from a vending machine, circa 1977, and coming home crying. This prompts my mother to rush me to the sink, running water over my hands and rubbing to re-vive my frozen digits.
2. Being stranded in Buffalo General hospital during a snow storm eight years ago. Cars are buried under a couple feet of snow. While watching everyone dig their cars out, I get an epiphany - I turn to my brother and say, "Dude, we can take the subway home and walk to my apartment." Probably the only time I found that subway handy.
1. Walking home in 5th grade with a wad of Bazooka Joe chewing gum in my mouth. I blew a sizable bubble... it falls from my lips - I watch the bubble fall and shatter on the sidewalk into a thousand pieces as if it were a light bulb.
Chapitre Un I always sucked at sports as a kid. My dad told me so at around age 16... which is why I don't set unreachable standards for Le O-Dog to meet. Every time I throw him on the ice, I tune out all the screaming idiot parents, yelling "Shoot!" or "Skate!" to their youngster every time they near the puck. I'm content in watching my boy learn to skate, have fun and keep his *ss off the couch.
Every once in a while, he does something to make me particularly proud.
O-Dog:That kid hit me on purpose. Prego:Make sure you've got the right number, and go give him a quick glove on his face.
The O-Dog spent the last two minutes of the game chasing this little thug around the rink. He never got him, but he had a smile on his face the whole time.
This past weekend, the O-Dog gave me another "Proud Pop" moment. Anybody who's watched 5-8 year olds play hockey knows it is at times a big clumsy cluster of bodies chasing the puck. I watched as another little guy careened into my O-Dog, sending him to the ice. He falls often, so I didn't give it a second thought... until I clearly saw tears streaming down his face.
I tapped on the glass to try to get his attention, feeling helpless that I couldn't get to him. O-Dog kept skating around. He finally got his coach's attention, pointing to his helmet and getting sent to the bench.
I kept thinking to myself, "Please get back out there..." thinking he might have been too scared to continue.
Four minutes later, the O-Dog is back on the ice for the next shift.
I asked him after the game, "O-Dog, I saw you were crying."
"Yeah. I hit my head."
"You kept skating, though. That was good. What were you doing?"
"I was going after the puck. My team only had one goal and the other team had like a thousand."
All of a sudden, I had visions of Ron Francis, stumbling & crawling on his hands and knees across the ice after a Scott Stevens hit, demonstrating cobbles the size of bowling balls. Regardless of what 'pain' he might have been in, his resolve never lapsed.
"I love you, Odie." (Puzzled look) "I love you, too, daddy."
Chapitre Deux Les Putains find themselves in the Conference Semi-Finals again... (Afinogenov just made the score 2-1 as I write this. Yes!)
I find that I turn into quite the idiot this time of year. Ordinarily, I'm a pretty grounded individual, however, playoff hockey turns me into a bundle of nerves. The emotional peaks and valleys are dizzying, and I frequently wonder why I do this to myself. Then I see video clips like this -- a vintage Theo Fleury goal and the spontaneous celebration that still makes my glass eye fog over:
What's it got to do with me? Not a goddamned thing, yet I find myself sporting this ungodly and uncomfortable mess on my face. When I was a kid, I'd watch the Sabres of yore grow these "playoff beards" once their teams entered the post-season. Once Les Putains entered the playoffs, I began to grow this follicular talisman on my puss, as if it's really going to do them any good. From what I see around town, I can at least find some comfort in knowing I'm not the only dumb-ass.
Last year, I stuck to the same brand of beer (Blue Moon) & watched all the games with the same person (my neighbor). Think of the horror, when my brother threw off our mojo when he showed up with his fiancée and a 12 pack of Saranac. My neighbor and I looked at each other with apprehension as our unexpected guests came in. 'What's the worst that can happen, after all?'
The death knell tolled when our doorbell rang again. My neighbor's father came to join us for the third period and the Sabres subsequently shat themselves out of Cup contention. I don't think my neighbor talked to his father for about a week. I was a little more forgiving and talked to my brother after a couple of days.
This year's taken a different tone. My neighbor is away at college I haven't been pounding the brews -- bedtime is testy enough, without being half in the bag.
(Lydman ties the score at 2! Hecks yeah!)
My juju instead has been these cookies from local dessertery Sweet Tooth:
(The two humping buffaloes at the top of the picture are inadvertent, by the way)
I don't expect a good game from Jochen Hecht, since a) Fletchmonster dropped the cookie after a couple of bites and b) the dog ate the lions share of it off the kitchen table.
Incidentally, Hecht is nursing a groin injury and just took a sh*tty cross-checking penalty.
Anyway, I've been watching the bulk of the games alone, prepared to kick anybody out of the house if things ain't going our way... especially my friend Skip. When he and I get together for important games... Sh*t. It's like throwing a hat on Bob Hughes's bed.
Tonight I asked Mrs. P to pick up a sixer of Blue Moon for old time's sake. It may or may not work... Actually, I'm thinking of switching to Magic Hat's #9.
Another couple weeks of facial hair and its accompanying discomfort is a small price to pay to be part of what might hopefully be a Stanley Cup season. Sh*t. I've been relishing these moments for thirty years. And as irreligious as I am, I'm playing all my cards.
You don't know how desperate I am. I'm willing to give the Dalai Lama a reach around if it'll get us past the Ottawa series.
Allez Putains.
Addendum: The Wh*res shat themselves tonight 5-2. Series is 1-0 Ottawa. Note to self: Ixnay the No. 9 swill. Get Dalai Lama's number.
Thanks for the minor inconvenience last week. I'm sure you're proud of your accomplishment. It's the craftiest heist since D. B. Cooper's. I realize I made your 'crime' a bit easier by leaving the door unlocked, but the way you managed the door handle? Now that was some adroit sh*t right there. Masterful. I don't know what you were expecting to find in the O-Dog's hockey bag: $38,000 in small bills? Bootleg DVDs of Spiderman 3? A complete set of Funk & Wagnalls from 1973? I can imagine your disappointment when all you found was tot sized hockey gear.
There are two scenarios I envision in which you tallied up your haul. One, you cart the satchel off to your squalid little hovel, unzip the bag (I'm sure you were able to handle this task after the way in which you worked your way past the car door) and utter a long "Faaaaaaaaaahhhhhhkkkk" after pulling out tiny skates and and a youth M sized jersey. I hope you at least managed to take the goods in to a used sporting goods store and used the $40 or so they'd give you for a carton of smokes and a case of PBR.
The other less likely scenario assumes you have a little wretch at home. "Look, Jr. Christmas came early this year." In which case, I hope the bastard son of Scott Stevens catches your kid skating with his ugly-*ss head down through centre ice. On second thought, I shouldn't wish ill upon your spawn. It's bad enough it's got you for a parent. Besides, somebody's got to grieve your smack-addled corpse someday.
Either way, my congratulations on your cunning and guile. Maybe next time you can help yourself to the 43¢ in pennies and nickles I had in the ashtray.
Disdainfully yours, Prego
PS I replaced the O-Dog's gear. Perhaps you'd like to take it from us mano a mano? I'd love to have you try. I'm sure they'll be able to surgically remove the hockey stick from your rectum.
I took the O-Dog to school on Wednesday and, as we approached, we saw the familiar faces of Mr. G and Ms. M greeting kids out in front. There was an unfamiliar figure coming up the street. What's cool about my neighbourhood is that once you walk south on Elmwood Avenue and pass Bryant Street you start seeing more and more people with missing limbs and teeth and sh*t. It's quite entertaining. Most of them are regular fixtures. This guy wasn't.
He seemed to have all his appendages intact.
All the visible ones, anyway.
Our 'hero' approaches the two teachers and asks Ms. M to hold his coffee. She politely complies, as our protagonist begins to pull up his shirt. I'm sure at this point she's thinking, "Aw, @*$#. He's going to take out his mangy, street-person unit and take a leak all over the side of the school building." But, no.
While the O-Dog and I came closer, I saw that the gentleman was in fact doing was 'tightening' a white fabric around his waist. I couldn't conceal my amusement as I walked past Mr. G and commented, "I love this town." Mr. G kept rubbing his face, looking off into the street to avoid laughing. I overheard the homes, saying something about losing weight and something about a belt.
I dropped the O-Dog off in his classroom and headed back outside, and our resourceful paragon of destitution had disappeared in the distance.
Prego: Sorry about that. I didn't make it any easier for you to keep a straight face. Mr. G: That's all right. I wouldn't have been able to anyways. Prego: What the heck was he using for a belt? Ms. M: A sock. Prego: That's rich. I was kind of hoping it was an extension cord.
I cinched the dog leash tightly around my waist and bid my adieu, as I headed to the dumpster to find my breakfast.
Three days later and there are still hundreds of thousands without power locally... We've been lucky on our block. Sh*t. I even got my cable back today. Some households will be without power until next weekend.
I ventured out today to take a peek around town. I think these pictures speak for themselves. We're hearty bastards here in Western New York, so a little bit of snow doesn't stop us. The storm wasn't too kind to the woodier residents, though. I actually felt sad taking these pictures. Multiply this scene by sh*tloads upon sh*tloads of city streets. It's going to change the 'look of the land' for sure.
Snow days f*cking rule if you're a teacher. You get a short but much needed respite from the urchins. Usually we get thrown one or two during the mid-winter jicker, but the gods of winter decided to give us a surprise reach around.
Usually the "snow day" routine is to wake up at 5 am on a snowy morning in February, turn on the news, wipe the rice krispies out of the corner of your eyes in hopes of seeing your school on the news.
Most of the time we get just a teasin':
BUFFALO SCHOOLS CLOSED - Staff Report.
That usually gets a resounding "Faaaaaaaaaaahkkkk!"
The school district actually called us last night and gave us the heads up, though. We got to sleep in here at the Prego household. That is until the in-laws called us up at 7am and the Fletchmonster woke up. Oh well... At least I get back to back "three day weekends."
Ordinarily we brush off a two foot snowfall without batting an eye, but since the trees still had most of their leaves on them branches were snappin' off all around town. In the process, cars were damaged, power lines were yanked and the morning drive was made quite treacherous.
Here's a few snapshots of my neighborhood this morning. I'll start off with a picture of an ominous Red Cross billboard that's been up for a couple weeks: Something tells me this f*cker didn't go to work either:
A couple of barflies presumably walked home:
So much for a cozy sidewalk cafè table at Le Metro Bistro & Bakery:
This branch spanned our street, thus cutting off traffic.
I like this f*cker's appropriately emblazoned sweatshirt.
Elmwood Avenue is usually bustling at 9 am.
Here's one of the Prego family sh*twagons:
And some unfortunate soul's ride:
And here's your hero bringing home some emergency supplies from the local gas station.
There are two avenues to traverse to the Prego household. One, a heavily trafficked, pedestrian friendly thoroughfare with plenty of shops and plenty of attractive 'shoppers.' The other? A quiet, tree-lined residential street with less congestion and traffic signals.
The following is a conversation between my 'almost five' year old son and myself.
Prego: O-Dog, where are all the 'hey now-hey nows'? O-Dog: ELM-woooood! Prego: So which road are we taking? O-Dog: ELM-woooood! Prego: So... which way would we take if mommy was in the car with us.
