Our Thursday

Month: June 2012

  • One Girl, One Cup

    One Girl, One Cup

    Due to my mom’s hatred for wild and ruthless confrontation, she never exposed me to the toothless sport of hockey.  The one time I attempted to watch it, I experienced so much trouble following the puck on our 32” rounded screen TV, I gave up instantly and turned on another competitive activity, Iron Chef.

    For me, I liked other easier-to-follow sports and simply stuck my thumb up at any band wagon that would pick me up on its way to the playoffs.  You see, growing up we moved plenty and clicking my ruby slippers to take me to a “home” meant Maui, Albuquerque OR Simi Valley. Try picking a football team with those choices.  It’s impossible!! But eventually the fair weather way of fandom became embarrassing and my reluctance to settle down turned lonely.

    The solution: place two quarters into a dispenser holding NFL team stickers and whatever team slid out had my heart.  I’ve been a Philadelphia Eagles’ fan since.  Ugh.

    Many many hockey seasons passed before I took another shot at watching a game and when I started dating a guy who lived for it I needed to lace up and learn to love it.  It took grave patience to teach me the rules, point out the fast-moving black speck (“or is that a bug?!”), and tell me the deep-rooted traditions of the coveted Stanley Cup. Stanley…What a namesake.  He helped me turn over a new leaf (type: maple) of embracing MY OWN HOME team from inception.

    The team: “under major construction” Los Angeles Kings.

    Winning never seemed so out of reach and the reality of becoming a true fan to something backhanded me right in the face. It pained me to follow a “rebuilding” team…

    “How long does it take to rebuild?!” I questioned after every loss.

    “Years, Danielle…YEARS!”

    Slowly, after grasping the intricacies of this new sport and also an understanding for the necessity of forgiveness, I developed an emotional attachment for the team…as individuals.  When someone got traded, I shivered at the image of him in some other uniform.  When someone got checked, my heart cringed and my body coiled.  When someone made a horrible play, I shuddered.   Suddenly, I found myself punching the air when they won and punching a pillow when they lost with actual sentiment behind each follow through.

    As they rebuilt their team, I built my loyalty from the ground up in a different way than the Eagles because Los Angeles was home now…and the Kings, my home team.

    My new investment once took me to Costco where I opened a membership in order to get Bob Miller’s book signed; it drove me to Fan Participation Day to watch the players skate around casually for their fans; and after my boyfriend and I broke up, my journey with the team continued and sat me behind Alexander Frolov’s family at a game.  They made me drink with them.  I don’t remember that game, but I do remember it being warmer than usual.

    Now, as we are all aware, the Kings brushed off the dirty ice and transformed into a polished team that made it to the 2012 playoffs as the 8th seed.  If you don’t know sports that means there are other bandwagons with far more appeal.

    I watched every game either at a dumb sports bar (the sports bars in the West Hollywood area are actually dumb) or my friend’s house, where we made salads, punched the air, a pillow or on occasion, each other’s fists.  As the wins tallied up, the dream of a Stanley Cup Championship became a tangible reality.

    “Ok. So each player gets the cup for a day or two if their team wins,” I recalled this particular tradition to a friend.  “They do whatever they want with it.  What would you do?”

    “Hmmm…My uncle got me into hockey,” (everyone has a reason for loving a team or a sport, don’t they? It’s incredible.)  “I would visit his grave with it.  Then I’d drink ’61 Monfortino out of it.”

    “Oh, that’s a good one!! I think I’d find a way to wear it as a hat and go to the races.”

    During the finals, my anxiety boiled for many reasons:

    1)    The need to be around a large group of like-minded fans who will chant and hug

    2)    The thought of losing

    3)    The thought of winning

    4)    The debate of whether or not to contact my ex-boyfriend.  We are and will always be on good terms, but he’s married now.  Is it necessary?

    5)    I plucked three chin hairs and immediately after, they lost.  Everyone blamed me for getting rid of my playoff beard.

    6)    The absolute desire to go to a game ..but tickets? A FORTUNE

    Once it came to game four the city KNEW the Kings would win the cup.  We knew it.  We felt it.  We tasted it. I began googling how to create a fastener out of a 34.5 lb trophy. (Note: it’s not possible.  Also note: I bet it is. Also note: I’m bad at googling.).  I left work early to bare the chaos and met friends deep in the rumble of LA Live and suffered numerous anxiety attacks, for I figured the celebratory riots would end my life.   After the forgivable loss we all agreed that if they make it back for Game 6, we would not endure downtown Los Angeles again.

    Game 5, I watched with my friend Lauren and her dedicated family whose 5-yr-old grandson became my student.  I taught him how to yell at the TV during crucial moments.  He later asked, “Do you sleep alone?”

    They lost and an insufferable stress tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me of the pressure to watch Game 6 somewhere spectacular.  Good god, it’s the last thing I wanted but if they won the cup, it would be history.  First time for them.  First time for the fans.  First time for an 8th seed to hoist the damn thing above their banged up heads before gently kissing it and passing it along from player to player…

    The day before game 6, I received a text.

    “Would you pay $500 for a ticket? Let me know, I’ll try.”

    My heart stopped, then very rapidly started again and I ran straight to mommy for advice.  She recalled the time she witnessed the Angels take the World Series.

    “It is something I will never forget.  No other event I’ve ever been to can match the energy in that stadium.  I hate hockey, but I advise you to go to that game.”

    My mom is the most frugal person on the planet.  If she says yes, so do I.  I texted, “YES!”

    The day of the game, my ticket fell through but my friend was still going.  I HAD to also go.  My face burned with adrenaline and my heart pounded like the glass bordering the rink being hit by fans during a fight.  I refreshed StubHub all day until prices began to drop…As they did, so did my heart because I had feelings of buyer’s remorse before the purchase even happened.

    “MOM! They’re $600.”

    “BUY A TICKET,” she kept strangely encouraging.

    I had ten minutes to decide after a day of the most unrefreshing refreshing.  While reading a piece by Bill Simmons I was touched by the line, “Of the 75 greatest moments of my life, sports were involved in at least 20 of them” and made a deal with myself to buy a ticket. $565 later, I had a single seat  in the premiere section. “I am sitting alone but will make lifelong friends tonight,” I figured as I packed my purse with pepper spray and deodorant, held my relentless heart and headed to the Staples Center with a Kings’ fan of 30+ years.

    I entered the venue in a tizzy, my smile anything but toothless, and took my seat.

    I sat next to Greg, also alone but gregarious and open to hugging and high-fiving.  I know this because I asked if he minded my embrace during moments of excitement.  Unfortunately, he moved down five rows to hug his friends instead and I had to force high-fives with the twerps surrounding me.  After the Kings’ second goal, and tapping my heels with jittery delight I joined Greg, who almost knocked me down with enthusiasm.  “SIT BY ME!!!!!! YES!!! DANIELLE!! YES!!!”  I felt at home. At home.

    Payton, my new buddy to my right bought me a cocktail to calm my nerves and the man behind me dictated the entire game with the emotion of a proud mother and the passion of a man who’s watched this team for years without regret. As the goals pelted the scoreboard, the crowd realized we all were about to witness something special.  Edges of seats remained occupied only on the rare moments when it wasn’t a standing room only.  My hands shifted from my cheeks to the top of my head to the shoulders of my new friends all in a state of shock, joy and craze.

    We held nothing back.  Sports do that to people.

    View my video of the 16-second countdown to the Stanley Cup win…

    I witnessed a sea of grown men’s tears drip to the floor when that buzzer sounded.  They patiently supported, forgave, questioned, and watched this team for up to 45 years with a hope that they would someday hold a magnificent trophy called the Stanley Cup.

    As the team handed the glorious goblet from one to the next, I watched a room of boisterous dreamers melt into silence:  the players, once young boys, chose to devote their whole lives to vie for this cup.  And the fans, dedicating this phenomenal energy to them in hopes of one day feeling overwhelmingly proud.

    There is something about sports that brings out the best and worst in people.   Lauren and I morph from dainty ladies to foul-mouthed sailors, spilling beer and obscenities everywhere when we watch games together.  Other people cry, fight, break tables or won’t date someone because they like the Red Sox.

    I live for the palpable and addictive vitality of sports and although buyer’s remorse can be fixed; it’s the “what ifs” that can’t.  GO KINGS GO!!!

    Greg and Payton
  • Once Upon a Dangerous Mind

    Once Upon a Dangerous Mind

    Little Danielle

    My rocket scientist father and my social worker mother produced me, a rocket brain social idiot.  People could blame it on “middle child” syndrome or the fact that I ride on the cusp of Leo/Virgo, but judging on predisposed factors isn’t fair, right?  Until a quick Google search determines that “middle child” attributes to identity issues and empty feelings, which sums me up nicely.

    During grade school these qualities affected my academics and focus, leaving my dad with a child who never cared for –brace yourselves– science or Star Wars or Space Camp.  My third grade teacher caught onto my scattered brain and taught me vocabulary, like “nuisance” and “be quiet or I’ll throw this eraser at you.”  With words like these, I excelled at homework!  One evening, while my dad cooked grilled cheese, I sat on the countertop with my 3-year-old sister, Michelle.  Poor thing waited giddily for her sandwich, while I bounced at the site of the tempting flesh on her right shoulder.  As she watched the sandwich flip from pale white to golden brown, I pounced and gnawed into her skin, glaring while it transformed from pale white to a supple punctured purple.

    She wailed as I sat shocked that my action could result in such a reaction.  I felt so bad, but I also felt so good.  My father punished me, but not enough to stop me from my spiraling conduct- I grew out my finger nails and started deep pinching, learned how to chuck objects in honor of my fast-pitching teacher and dabbled with psychological abuse.

    Like most siblings, I hated mine and did anything to make their lives miserable.  Michelle had a pink stuffed rabbit she creatively named, “Rabby.”  She lived her life attached to this toy- in family pictures, Rabby sat; at family dinners, Rabby ate; on family road trips, stupid Rabby fastened in.  The thought of destroying this inanimate family member filled me with fabulous anxiety, yet posed as quite the challenge due to their annoyingly unbreakable bond.

    In my first attempt, I snatched the fluffy idiot while Michelle slept and hid it in the laundry room behind the machines.  The next day, I heard her wailing that tearful tune I loved immensely, as she wondered what happened to her best friend.   Unfortunately, I got dragged into the search and rescue effort, and had to perform as a worried search member, which felt like a chore.

    “It’s not in the oven, dad! Or underneath the couch! Where would Michelle put that thing?  I’ll look in the backyard, next,” I yelled and ran outside to sit in my playhouse while everyone continued the search.

    An hour later, Rabby and Michelle reunited after everyone tore the house apart.  They lived merrily together until the next month when I noticed our neighbors had a moving truck in their driveway.  I asked my mom for details and she explained that The Wilsons were moving to Arizona.

    “Oh, that’s sad.  I liked them.  Mom, can I play outside?”

    “Sure, but don’t cross the street.”

    Immediately, I tiptoed into Michelle’s room where she napped.  When I reached for Rabby, she moved and I kissed her forehead carefully,  gently whispering “I love you, my sweet sister.”  I snagged Rabby, stuffed it under my shirt and proceeded to the front yard.  For a few minutes, I danced around in the grass and waited for the movers across the street to return inside.  I looked back to my home with a smile that ensured my mom’s careful eye everything was bright and sunny.

    The second the working men vanished, I ran across the street, pulled Rabby from under my shirt and pushed it deep inside one of the boxes.  I ran back with a rush of nerves because I forgot to look both ways before crossing, but once I arrived I commenced my solo dance routine until Michelle woke up.  Her cries upset me so much this time because I knew they wouldn’t stop, for Rabby had moved to Arizona.

    Bye Bye Rabby

    We banned together once again to find the bunny, but to everyone else’s shock it never resurfaced.  I acted as surprised as they did and snickered to myself in bed, prideful as Ursula after stealing the voice of Ariel. Michelle’s recovery took a long time, but I offered up my Rainbow Bright doll I named Bucky D to appear as innocent as possible.  She attached to that thing quickly because she had to hold onto something for comfort, and it wasn’t going to be me.  I sure felt guilty about that…Sorry Bucky D.

    On my way home from school three months later, my mom mentioned she received a phone call from Mrs. Wilson.

    “Danielle,” she said.  “They found Rabby in one of their garage boxes.  Do you know anything about this?”

    “The WILSONS found Rabby???” I was utterly shocked and lost the ability to conjure up an excuse and rather than acting innocent, I wailed the way Michelle always did, begging for sympathy.

    In light of the pinching pain of getting caught coupled with the strange new feeling of regret, I chose to relieve my sisters from torment and focus on subtler abuse, like making them refer to me as “Danielle, Queen of the Universe” or using them as slaves followed by empty threats like, “I’ll murder you if you’re not back with my water in 30 seconds.”

    In fourth grade, we moved to Hawaii and acquired two cats from the previous residents of our new home.  Cats are the worst.  They infiltrate fresh air, clean furniture and walking paths everywhere.  Although I acclimated to living on a rock, I never quite adapted to living with cats.  I hated them the way I used to hate my sisters and decided to victimize one of them…Shoopa, our black cat.  I heard a tale once that no matter what, cats always land on their feet.  Shoopa loved and trusted me, probably because my heart matched the color of its coat, so I knew when carrying her to the second story balcony she did not suspect a thing.

    As we approached the ledge, my petting became very attentive, assuring her of the nonthreatening situation to come.  With each careful stroke, I calculated the time I had to catapult the cat before she realized her fate AND how to toss her without compromising my safety.  I understood that if I didn’t chuck her quick enough her reaction would result in clawing.  I also understood that if I didn’t flip her while tossing, the experiment would be deemed useless.

    While holding her hind legs close with my left hand and petting her head with my right, I suspended her from the balcony and just like that pushed her head down and her hinny up with quick enough and hard enough force that she flipped wildly on her descent.  Her wailing cry, reminiscent of my past repertoire of activities, satisfied me.  However, she landed on her feet, which made me hiss.

    I tried that experiment several more times throughout the years until we moved again, leaving the cats to the new residents.  With each move and each birthday, my cruelty became more sporadic but still remained… like the time I threatened to push my eldest sister, Melinda, off the Hoover Dam with a face of burning fury or when I told the youngest, Nicole her birth was a mistake.  I mean, my mom had her tubes tied and bang!  Out came baby.

    Ah! It hurts me now to think I once had a black heart that pained my sisters so dreadfully. But like my rocket scientist dad who once buried his brother next to a red ant pile like the Indians used to as torture and Joseph’s brothers who sold him to the Egyptians, I matured and my siblings eventually pardoned me, despite the scars. And after years of wildly flipping out, I turned to endless afternoons with Oprah and therapy to help me land on my feet on some solid ground ..like cats do..  God bless cats.