 In my mid twenties I fashioned myself quite the hockey fan, specifically a Boston Bruins fan. While no one in my family had ever played the sport beyond squaring off with neighborhood kids on the frozen pond down the street from our house, we did live in Massachusetts. As such, I had been constantly exposed to the sport via friends, supporting the team from whatever school I was attending or playing floor hockey in gym class. Add to the fact that being an adult fan expanded the sport to include fun social nights out consuming beer and bar food with fellow fans, and I was smitten.
And so it was that I did not hesitate when my friend/boss asked me if I would like to drive up to Montreal to catch a Bruins vs Canadiens playoff game one Spring weekend in the mid nineteen nineties. It was an easy 5 hour drive, with a brief stop at the border to flash our U.S. driver’s license and head on into Canada. The money exchange at the time, made our suite at the Ritz Carlton cost only $99 for the night, which we split between the two of us, and David slept on the pullout couch. Meanwhile “standing room only” tickets were a cheap way to see the game at the last minute. With beer in hand, I nodded toward David in approval of how we had pulled off the perfect impromptu playoffs trip. Now if the Bruins could hold up their part of the trip and win the game, the weekend would be truly exceptional. David was almost 6’5” tall and had strategically moved to have me stand in front of him. This left me standing in the “front row” behind that last row of those who had tickets with actual seats. I noticed as the section started to fill in, that the vast majority of those standing with us were Bruins fans and men. This was not at all surprising, as most hockey fans were men and “Boston Boys” were known for their road trips to see their team play on the road. The game started and the Bruins were playing well. Unfortunately the Canadiens had Patrick Roy as their goalie and none of our team’s shots had managed to find a way past him. Regardless, our section cheered loudly, which was not appreciated by the Montreal fans sitting in front of us. To this day, I am not sure if the tension boiled over or if someone just accidently pushed someone, but before long a fight had broken out behind me. David’s protective instinct kicked in, and he lunged to the side to try to break them up. Unfortunately, the scuffle had grown to include several fans now, and he suddenly got pushed backwards and directly into me. My right arm, holding my almost full cup of beer shot forward and splashed onto the heads of a couple of the sitting fans. They both jumped up and started yelling at me in French. Now concentrating on trying to protect the rest of the beer in my cup as well as myself from the steady jostling that was coming from the still growing fight around me, I quickly apologized “I’m so sorry! It was an accident,” as I pointed toward the Boston Boys pushing and shoving all around me. If I had thought that apology would appease them, I was wrong. One of them, the woman, quickly changed to English and started yelling insults at me that I could understand. The last of which was how I was an ignorant American that could only speak one language. Well, I did not feel I deserved that, so I spat back, “Well at least we’re smart enough not to make things unnecessarily confusing and just picked one language to speak in our country.” Before she had a chance to respond, there were two strong hands on my shoulder, and I was being yanked backwards and out of the section. As I went backwards, I realized there were several fights raging now, and I panicked that whoever had me was trying to beat me up. But I turned around and realized the person whose arms were around my shoulders wore a “Security” vest. He did not smile, but instead barked the order, “Come with me.” He marched me down the steps between the section where I had just spilled my beer and the section to the left of it. After going about halfway down, he pushed me down into a seat and said, “Stay,” and he turned and ran back up the stairs. Slightly in shock, I took in my surroundings. Sitting in the last seat of a row, no one around me seemed to have any idea what was going on above them in the standing room only section. I swiveled in my seat and my mouth dropped open as I took in the glorious view of the ice. I had just scored a prime seat behind the Canadiens net. Smiling, I noted my still half full beer cup and relaxed into my seat to enjoy the game. And there I sat. Did I wonder where David was? No. Did I have a phone to text him and check in on him. Of course not, cell phones had just started to be used and texting was definitely not a thing. No, I chose to appreciate my incredible luck, keep my head down and enjoy the rest of the game in my free seat. I knew David would have done the same. After a few minutes, I snuck a look over my shoulder to see the status of the fight that I had been removed from. It was quiet. Smiling to myself, I concluded that the security guard had forgotten he put me here, and I was going to get to watch the rest of the game in peace. As the first period began to wind down and the level of the beer in my cup did as well, I was trying to work out how I could get another beer from the concession stands and make my way back to the seat. And, then the answer came to me quite suddenly from a familiar hand on my shoulder. “Ok, Miss,” said the security guard, ”time to go.” “Go where?” I asked innocently. “Sorry, but you have to leave the game,” he explained. “Leave!” I cried, “But, why do I have to leave? I wasn’t fighting.” He tilted his head to the left, gave me a smirk and explained, “You dropped that beer on the head of a season ticket holder. No one gets to stay if they do that.” Dammit. She speaks two languages, AND she's a season ticket holder. “Yup,” I thought, “She wins.” And just for the record, so did the Canadiens that night.
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If I was a kid today, I would be labeled “disabled.” But when I was growing up, those labels did not really exist unless you had mobility issues or a handicap that anyone walking past you could see. But, my disability was invisible, so I lived in the luxury of both looking and being treated as “normal” by strangers and even acquaintances.
In college, despite not having this designation, my file did have a record of my heart defect. As such, Junior year when I moved off campus and suddenly needed to fight for a parking space on a campus that did not have enough for all its students, my lifelong disabled mindset kicked in. I have known for quite some time that I am not much of a gardener. You might ask what gave it away? Was it how my few attempts in the past resulted in my dedication to planting, pruning, watering and weeding lasting for only a short period of time? Perhaps it was the number of dying or wilting plants in my garden and around my house? It might also have been the dreading of the heat and mosquitos that always eventually accompanied any amount of quality gardening work ethic. Quite probably it was a combination of all of the above.
The memories are jumbled, and I am afraid, fading. I know I was twelve. I remember many months after her passing being startled awake from a deep sleep and having an overwhelming feeling of loss. I ran out to the living room, where, luckily, my parents were still awake.
“Sheila?” my mom asked concerned, “What’s wrong, honey?” I ran over to her on the couch and kneeled and lunged for her all in a rush. As soon as my arms encircled her chest, the tears came in a tidal wave. “She’s gone!” I burst out. My mother worked hard at Christmas. It was a fulltime job for her for a minimum of three months, every year. She had a running list of gift ideas that she was constantly checking twice. She picked up presents months in advance and had an elaborate system for hiding them in places where no one would accidentally stumble upon and ruin their future Christmas morning. She knew when all the sales were and had stock piled the necessary coupons. Her plan was for there to be a big load of presents under the tree on a small budget.
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AuthorA former corporate online marketing and communications professional, in 2021 Long Covid redirected me. I am revisiting my passion for writing. You are the unfortunate witness to that journey. 
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