You'll Go Down in History...

Sometimes have to wonder if I have the power to curse sports teams merely by genuinely hoping they will win. I seem to have an uncanny knack for watching losing games or associating with losing teams.

I played soccer and T-ball as a kid, and I can assure you that my teams played strangely better when I was benched. Even with me benched, we were not championship material by a long shot. I didn't even make the basketball or volleyball teams in junior high, and, out of deference to my wounded pubescent pride, I couldn't watch the teams play that I had not been allowed to join, so they managed to avoid destruction by association.

Fast forward to high school. When I was attending La Serna, the school's football team won one game for each year I was there. Only one game. Per year. Total. I began to sit in the stands on the side of our cross-town rivals (one of my friends was the sister of their star quarterback), but my genuine hope that my team would rally was their undoing.

By then I had given up on making any teams, so I played sports only in P.E. class, and even my modest involvement there created fireworks. One of my few soccer matches in high school was also the occasion of suspension for one of my opponents. She kicked me in the (unprotected) shins three times before I got mad enough to return the favor. She then promised to visit revenge on me with her friends Maria, Maria and Maria, at which point I hightailed it to my guidance counselor's office. I was deemed faultless. She was suspended. Still, I think that soccer match had a rather abortive and not-at-all-satisfying ending.

I went to two sporting events while I attended UCLA: a football game lost to USC (and if you know California college politics, you will understand why this was particularly painful) and one basketball game, the outcome of which I can't remember (I was on a date with my husband-to-be, so I think I have an excuse).

I've been to a handful of professional sporting events in my life, and while my Dad, who was usually along, may have a more faithful memory of the outcome, I mostly remember requisitioning the binoculars so that I could watch fans on the opposite side of the arena. My lack of interest in the actual game, therefore, may not have brought the curse of the Nikbino to life.

Why bring up this topic now? Well, since moving here, I've noticed it flaring up again. We managed to watch the local professional soccer club lose (or at least not win) three matches in person. Then, since I have developed a genuine interest in hockey, every team I have adopted as a favorite has lost the game when I watched any portion of it on TV or in person.

It started with my first Hurricanes game. That one was lost decisively. Since then, I have watched about 10 hockey matches on TV. I adopted Dan's favorites where I didn't have one already, and the Kings, Ducks, Bruins, Senators and Hurricanes have lost every game I have watched in part or in whole. The Hurricanes have won one in that stretch of time -- the one that I couldn't watch because I was at choir rehearsal.

It's only a matter of time before someone in the Hurricanes organization discovers the truth. I can only hope they are feeling generous and offer to pay me lots of money to find a new hobby. I'm not sure I like the other alternatives... after all, a very traditional and important part of hockey is fighting, and I don't have a guidance counselor to run to this time.

For your reference:

SPORTS CURSES A Andretti Curse B Buffalo Sports Curse C Crucible Curse Curse of 1940 Curse of Billy Penn Curse of LaBonte Curse of Muldoon Curse of Rocky Colavito Curse of the AstroTurf Curse of the Bambino Curse of the Billy Goat Curse of the Black Sox Curse of the Colonel E Ex-Cubs Factor M Madden Curse

N

• Nikki Wants You to Win Curse
  

R

• Rainbow jersey

S

• San Diego Sports Curse
• Sports Illustrated Cover Jinx

Hooked

There have been many firsts in my life, but it seems I have rarely (since I was an infant and everything was new) had so many firsts in the space of a few months. Of course, the new things seem to have multiplied some when I got married anyway. Daniel had plenty of interests that I didn't yet share and together we have found reasons to go new places and try new things. He took me to my first opera. He has been with me for my first trips to London, Dublin, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia and other fun places. He was with me for my first soccer game. And, tonight, in the midst of my first "real" fall, I had another first: my first hockey game.

Mind you, I have never even watched a full hockey game on television before. I have watched a few minutes, yes, but not a full game. I didn't know what high sticking was, or what power plays were, or that goal tenders seem to enjoy turning themselves into pretzels at the first hint of an incoming puck. I couldn't have told you that a double minor was a relatively major penalty, that the linesmen (the referee-types without orange armbands) were known to do graceful leaps to avoid becoming obstacles, that players hop in and out of the game like they might get hit by lightening if they stay on the ice more than 25 seconds at a stretch, or that hockey fans are at least as fanatical as their counterparts in other sports.

I knew so little, in fact, that I asked a friend who had attended a hockey game a few days ago to tell me how cool it is in the arena. He informed me that it is a little cool by my standards (he's used to sub-zero temps where he's from and has been seen wandering around in short sleeves when it's 35F outside and I am bundled up like a blizzard may flatten me at any moment). He assured me, however, that if I stood up and cheered properly, I would be fine.

Cheering properly? Well, maybe I could get that right. I *did* know enough to cheer for the home team. Still, at the beginning, I sometimes wasn't sure why, exactly, in that I couldn't have told you why whatever acrobatic or violent thing had just occurred on the ice was laudable. Nor did I understand precisely why I was chanting "Ref, you suck" with all of the black-and-red clad folks around me.

We were 8 rows from the ice and plenty close to the spot where the players repeatedly slam into the glass when they are trying to keep the opponent from passing the puck out of the corner to a teammate out in front of the goal. That was a sight, and sound. But there were other sights and sounds right there in the stands. We were also one row and an aisle from some of the people I will refer to as "donkeys" who were rooting for the wrong team. They even managed to make the otherwise cute and intelligent children in front of them root for the wrong team. This provoked silly comments from the fans behind me and was more than mildly annoying when the other team scored. But why should I care?

I was giggling at "Come on... we all know Philadelphians don't have sticks long enough to grab onto" from the die-hard fans behind me, directed at the guys across the aisle, when the woman on the other side of Daniel asked, "Is this your first hockey game?" I had to admit it was, and I was promptly informed by three of the fans around me that it gets worse (or better, depending on how you look at it).

Well, it got better. And it got worse. The better part was that I began to have a clue and even found myself spontaneously standing and yelling at the right moments. I even understood why the man behind me yelled "Get your head out of your a**, ref... you are missing a good game here." The "it got worse" part is that the good guys played badly. Very badly. Even I could tell it wasn't working.

As the game drew to a close, I leaned over to the woman who had inquired about my newbie status and said, "I am not even a real fan yet and I have already lost my voice." She smiled and replied, "It doesn't take long to get hooked." She's right. I think I may be hooked. Daniel smiled when I said as much as we were leaving.
I left wrapped in a cozy oversized Hurricanes sweatshirt and in possession of a working knowledge of the Hurricanes lineup. Cullen, Wallin, Williams, Brind'Amour, Ladd, Staal, Ward, Stillman, Walker ... Don't you silly hockey players know that hooking is a penalty? To the penalty box with all of you! (But thanks for the rather costly lessons in cheering properly -- and please have the decency to win next time!)