Some thoughts on fans

It’s down to two now. The two best teams left vie for the Stanley Cup. It was a long road to get here, and lots of pain and suffering endured just for this reason. All the other series are a memory. It’s all about Vancouver and Boston for most hockey fans and that’s the way it should be.
But I can’t stop thinking about the Western Semi Finals between the San Jose Sharks and The Detroit Red Wings. Man did I love that series. And I learned some stuff too. Weird stuff.

The Detroit/San Jose series was the best hockey I’ve seen all season from both clubs. Real edge of my seat drama for every game. I hated it when San Jose won Game 7 with a seamlessly perfect effort, because I didn’t want that amazing hockey to end. But I have a short attention span, and I tend to drink a lot during the games, so I often find myself looking at stuff other than the on ice action. For instance, it became clear to me during this series that while I am and will always be a diehard Red Wings fan and Detroit Defender, San Jose has really attractive fans. Really attractive. For instance, the smoking hot blonde who sat behind Todd McLellan for every one of the Sharks home games made sure her hair was perfectly artfully tousled, had flawless makeup, and wore her eye poppingly deep vee Sharks jersey like a second skin. Maybe even a first skin, or more properly, skin. It was that snug. When it comes to attractive women in revealingly ripped jerseys I come down strongly pro snug. The women sitting next to her were similarly geared up. They had obviously put some concerted effort into this. I noticed the cameraman seemed to stay on them even after Todd had walked out of the shot. I make no assumptions on their hockey knowledge. They seemed to be following the game with a rapt attention that indicated familiarity and knowledge.

The rest of the Sharks fans that I could see were styling it as well. Lots of dapper men in V neck sweaters with just a touch of grey at the temple even though they looked too young for grey temples. Men who looked like they doubled as the guy on the ‘Just for Men box’. They even had that weird ability you only see in commercials where they cock their heads slightly towards their companion and point at something off camera and smile, and immediately make you wish you could see what it was they were pointing at because it had to be incredibly interesting. I'm certain they were wearing expensive cologne.

The crowd at the Joe, on the other hand, were mostly guys who look like me. Our jerseys are snug too but they’re all size XL so this is not a good thing. We have grey at our temples too, as well as on the rest of our head, beard and legs. San Jose fans won the Men’s event hands down.

It was closer for the Women’s event. There were lots of hot women at the Joe, but they didn’t seem to put any real thought into how to artfully shrink, cut and tear their jerseys to achieve maximum classy sluttiness. Of course it was still spring in Detroit and after enduring a Michigan winter, even hot women want to be warm in Michigan in spring. I’ve never been to San Jose but it looked balmy to me. That could have been the difference. I'd say that one was a tie.

The intensity of the two crowds was equal, but dissimilar. In Detroit, you didn’t have to be a master lip reader to understand what the fans wanted to do to Clowe. The old two word phrase that sounds a lot like ‘puck view’ that the sports world has come to know so well was repeated over and over. I believe it even got on the air a couple times. In San Jose, the fans were equally engaged and vocal, but they seemed a bit more, let’s say restrained in their epithets. You sensed a lot of ‘I say Kronwall, that’s just not cricket!’ or even 'Dash it all, that Datsyuk is a slippery fellow!' rather than the Detroit refrain of ‘Go F*** yourself Thornton! Yeah, you heard me! Go F*** yourself! And your dog! Didja hear me Thornton? Go F**** your dog after you F*** yourself!’ I could go through all the phrases used for the first 3 lines but you get the point. Now I’ve been to games at the Joe, and can honestly say Detroit fans are not a foul mouthed bunch. Certainly not as bad as many other NHL fans (are you listening Nashville?). I believe it was the intensity of the series that made them drop a filter or two from the brain to mouth circuit and go to the adult material. But San Jose folks seemed to be a strongly worded PG crowd even in their enthusiasm. I did notice something that I welcomed. Detroit fans never stopped screaming. It was as loud when they were down 3-1 as when they scored to go ahead. One long sustained raucous cheer from buzzer to buzzer. You can’t feel sad when that is going on. It’s like a wave of emotion buoying you. San Jose had lots of fan noise as well, but it came in peaks and valleys.

Even the food seemed different. Dogs and beers in the Joe. Occasional nachos, with the odd pizza box thrown in. Good solid hockey fare. There were several guys with a beer in each hand and a nacho tray balanced on their knee. A classic case of someone bringing them a beer before they had finished the one they had. This is a dangerous situation and only the most skilled fans are capable of surviving it unstained. There is a ballet like procedure that must be employed to successfully resolve this sports crisis. It’s a skill developed over a lifetime of practice. If you're right handed, it goes like this. 1. Thank the bearer of the new, cold beer and take it in your left hand. 2. Pound the old, warm beer in your right hand and immediately put the cup down on the floor. 3. Use your now free right hand to eat a nacho with 2 jalapeños to take your mind off the throat spasms from pounding warm beer. 4. Sip the new, cold beer in your left hand to take your mind off the jalapeño burn. 5. Transfer the new cold beer to your right hand. I actually saw one grizzled veteran of many a rink side beer quandary perform this ancient and risky move when the second period was about to start. I raised my glass in silent tribute.

But HP Pavillion seemed to have a whole different food system. I saw a woman eating what for all the world appeared to be a salad. At a hockey game. I couldn’t determine if it was a house, Caesar, or even possibly Arugula. It could have been a wedge for that matter. My point is that someone actually decided it would be a good idea to eat a salad at a hockey game. For all I know this could just be the tip of the food iceberg in San Jose. There could be caviar vendors with a warming pouch full of toast points. Asparagus hawkers with molten vats of Hollandaise sauce bubbling at their sides. Sweaty carnie style lugs with trays of Crème Brule on their heads weaving up and down the rows. Jittery espresso jockeys racing around in caffeine frenzies with multi handled urns strapped to their backs, batting people out of their way with enormous biscotti clubs. Honestly it boggled my mind.

All in all these two cities are about as different as two cities can be. One a former glittering gem now fallen on hard times, the other a new and shiny jewel with a bright future. One an Original Six powerhouse with a rafter full of legends, the other a young team on the rise, hungry for a sip from the Cup. One in the flyover Middle, one on the dazzling Coast. Blue collar versus New collar. It seemed on most nights that hockey was all they had in common.

But Hockey is enough. In the end, the clothes, the trash talk, the food, none of that mattered. Neither team made it out of the West, but even that didn’t matter. All That mattered was that two groups of passionate fans converged on their favorite barn to will their teams to win, and it was all about the hockey. Masterful coaching, stars playing like stars. Rookies playing like vets. Goalies making us gasp with their gymnastic brilliance. Role players raising their game to dazzle with skill they didn’t know they had. Everyone giving more than they thought they had to give in order to keep playing for the prize of a lifetime. That moment when time stops. That moment when you are handed the heavy, awkward, glittering embodiment of everything you have worked for your whole life. That’s why they play. And that’s why we watch.