Ever had a flying hockey puck bounce off your head? No? Then let me take you on an adventure. Just know I might stray off course.
I haven’t thought of this incident for years, but thanks to mon ami over at Promethean Times and his recent baseball post, the memory came rushing back and my mind went a-wandering.
The first stop on this cerebral journey was my mental pet-peeve bin. Sadly, this storage depot is jam-packed and will soon need a mate, which I can probably pick up at Wal-Mart.
I will only burden you with one pet peeve, but I warn you, it’s a heavyweight. And while I won’t get too political, as I’ve promised not to do on this blog, there is a teensy chance you might end up taking sides. That’s okay. Everything you say can and will be held against you.
Most of you know I’m currently plaguing Northeast Ohio with my presence. This lands me close to the Cleveland Indians, which is the area’s professional baseball team. The team name itself disturbs me, but I can live with that. What makes my skin crawl, however, is the logo.
Friends, enemies, weirdos who are still looking for Will Smith nude, allow me to introduce you to Chief Wahoo:
Yeah, you got that right. You’re not seeing things. This is the actual image displayed on T-shirts, hats, blankets, mugs, bumper stickers, big foamy fingers, and probably the obese bellies of many of my male neighbors. And. It. Drives. Me. Bonkers.
Am I American Indian? No. But I don’t think one need be Native American to find this hideous, debasing face offensive. I mean, really? Can they not find something better? In fact, if the team is dead set on a goofy looking face, they can use this one.
I’ll leave the ranting at that. I think you get where I’m coming from. Back in the over-stuffed storage bin Chief Wahoo goes.
Which takes us on the final leg of my thoughtful journey (yes, as is often the case, it was a short trip): Hockey. The leap from baseball to hockey was made because, as you also may remember, I originally hail from North Dakota, where anyone familiar with the state knows that the final line of the American national anthem is not “…and the home of the brave” but rather “…and the home of the SIOUX!” This is because the University of North Dakota is known for two things: its aviation program and its excellent hockey team. And yes, without reentering my mental pet-peeve bin, I realize that the Fighting Sioux is also a Native American name. Please don’t get me started again. I finally returned to a normal shade.
Of course, thinking of the Fighting Sioux transported me back even further, back to when I was a homely, permed-headed, fourteen-year-old girl. At least I didn’t have braces. No, I saved that pleasure for when I was thirty-three. Awesome.
As I, a pitiful lass in Target clothes and big-framed eyeglasses, innocently watched the Sioux on their way to hockey championship, spindly arms raised in victory with each passing goal, a hockey puck, freshly airborne from a slapshot and whizzing faster than a bullet train, crashed into my right frontal skull.
The crowd went silent.
I looked around in a dazed stupor. Who me?
Oddly, I wasn’t injured. A few inches laterally and I could have had a nice epidural bleed. But the most I suffered was hurt pride, as only a teenage girl torpedoed in the head with a hockey puck could.
No lasting damage, you ask? I’ll let you be the judge.
Cartoon hockey image from Microsoft Clip Art