Sometime around 5:30 yesterday I was pretty certain my heart was going to give out. I'd been sitting in front of the TV since three, watching Team Canada play the American Olympic Team.
Alex was cheering for the Americans (albeit very quietly because he also had his snout in a book) and I was cheering for the Canadians. I can't help myself. I was born there, my uncle played for the NHL and when I see a hockey game, my blood turns from Ohio Scarlet and Red to Canadian. (In other words, it becomes cold and slushy, craves Tom Horton's coffee and wants to fly to Florida until spring comes...around June 15 in the southernmost parts of Canada.)
When the American team pulled the goalie I just knew there was going to be trouble. And I was right. It was such a bold, gutsy move that they HAD to get the goal to tie the game 2-all. Aggghhhh! The mounting pressure was unbearable!
By the time the sudden death period started, I really did think the sudden death was going to be my own. Maybe I've gotten delicate in my dotage, but I was really feeling the pressure. Even now when I think about it, my pulse begins to race and I start to hyperventilate.
Thank goodness we didn't have to go into a shoot-out because that would have made Alex miss his dinner while he answered a few brief questions for the coroner.
To my great relief some little boy who I'm sure is no more than 10 or 12 years old got the winning goal and saved the game for Team Canada. Exhausted, and exhilarated, I could finally relax. But I wondered, "Who's that little boy and what's he doing on the ice with all those grown up men?"
In my day, hockey players were great, big brutes, all of them about 400 pounds and 40 years old. And they possessed not a full set of teeth amongst them. Or perhaps my memory fails me.
But I can tell you this: they sure didn't look like this cute little Sidney Crosby with his perfect white teeth, straight nose and scar-free face. Or like any of those other players who, once they removed their helmets, I was convinced were no more than 16 years old -- about ready to enter Junior B.
But there they were on Team Canada and the announcer insisted they'd come from the NHL.
Is it me? Or did the world suddenly grow very young?
You don't have to answer that question. The surprise delivery of a "Baby Quasar" wrinkle-removing device was a pretty good clue that I'm no longer the spring chicken I used to be. And who among you doesn't think it was awfully sweet of Alex to secretly order a wrinkle-removing device and have it delivered to me at the office last week...as a surprise? I'm serious! And -- get this -- he's still alive!
Okay, back to the game...
I really felt badly for the American team because I think they were formidable competitors and the goalie did a terrific job. He deserved the gold medal, too, and I was happy that the Canadians attending the closing ceremonies gave him a really big cheer because they, too, knew he had played a great game.
And speaking of the closing ceremonies, what a hoot! I love it when Canadians make fun of themselves...because I'm the sort of person who sees no reason why 60,000 people should not be forced to wear moose antlers.
On every planet you need at least one goofy tribe who'll make all the others laugh. Sure, you force 'em to live in a frozen tundra beside a Superpower who'll keep their eye on them in case they get really nuts. But it's great to have bunch of loons who reminds the world that even with all our problems, there's always something silly to laugh about.
And one of these days, I'm going to find the humor in receiving a wrinkle-removing device from my husband...as a surprise...at the office.