"I don’t know who you are, but I love you!"
The voice was deep, rough, and heavily infected with the
accent of one of the outer boroughs, and it belonged to the
guy sitting in back of me at Madison Square Garden, home of
the New York Rangers, my favorite professional hockey team.
And the comment, which had been directed at me, was all the
more interesting because I was sitting beside my best
friend, Max, who had slipped her one- hundred- pound frame
into a slinky size-two black cocktail dress, her cleavage
prominently and proudly displayed for all to see. She’s tiny
but she’s got a great rack. It’s a veritable "rack of ages."
Nobody, and I mean nobody, had ever noticed me when Max was
around. And we had twenty years of friendship to draw on
proving this point.
I was not in a cocktail dress, having opted instead to wear
my new Mark Messier jersey (he was number eleven and the
sole reason for the Rangers’ Stanley Cup win in 1994, thank
you very much), a pair of jeans that I had purchased in the
last millennium, and sneakers that had seen their fair share
of painting projects. My hair was pulled back into a
ponytail, I had a smear of ketchup on my cheek and now,
after jumping up to take umbrage at a call, a glass of beer
soaking my chest. I don’t even like beer, but when in Rome .
. . you know the rest. But apparently, when I yelled, "Shit,
ref, you’re killing us! That’s a bullshit call!" after a
bogus hooking penalty, I had forever pledged my troth to
Bruno Spaghetti, as Max had dubbed him when we arrived, seat
4, row D, section 402.
He ran his hands through his spiky black hair and grabbed me
in an embrace, his silver hoop earring brushing my cheek.
Max, who had been standing for the better part of the last
period and who thus had incurred the wrath of everyone
behind her— many of whom had missed said bogus penalty
because their only view was the back of her well- coiffed
head—fell back into her seat, her cocktail dress riding up
on her yoga- toned thighs. But Bruno didn’t notice; he only
had eyes for me. See, we were sitting way up high in
Rangerland, a place that used to be called "the blue seats,"
in which only the hardest- core hockey fans sat. Now they’re
teal, which doesn’t lend them the same menacing air. A
gorgeous woman in a slinky black dress with spectacular
boobs had nothing on a .ve- foot- ten college professor with
a pot belly and beer breath who loved hockey and who could
curse with the best of them.
It was my birthday and my boyfriend had given me the jersey
and the tickets. Crawford—Bobby to the rest of the world—is
a detective in the New York City Police Department and was
working overtime that night, hence my birthday date was Max.
Crawford had stopped by school on his lunch break to wish me
a happy birthday, appearing in my of.ce doorway at around
one; I was preparing for my next class, a two o’clock
literature seminar, and was delighted to be distracted from
the critical essay on Finnegan’s Wake that was putting me to
sleep. I’m a Joyce scholar, but even I recognize that
obscure is not the same thing as exciting, and that makes my
relationship with the subject of my doctoral dissertation
tenuous at best. I love a challenge, though, and had spent
the better part of my academic career trying to .gure out
if Joyce was laughing with us or at us. I was slowly coming
to the conclusion that it was the latter.
I could tell that Crawford was excited by the items in the
gift bag he was holding behind his back. He leaned over and
gave me a peck on the cheek; although he is a seasoned
detective and an all- around good guy, he gets really
nervous around the nuns I work with at St. Thomas
University, my employer. Whenever he visits me at school, he
looks like he’s on his way to detention, even though I’m
sure he never did anything more scandalous than pass a note
in class. He took the bag from behind his back and set it
on my desk, settling himself into one of the chairs across
from me, a self- satis.ed smile on his handsome, Irish face.
I love the guy, but there’s one thing that bugs me: every
time he gives me an item of clothing, it’s always extra-
large. I’m extra- tall but not extra- fat, so this concerns
me. Is this how he sees me? Or does he think women should
wear tentlike clothing? I still haven’t .gured it out. I
held his gift aloft and spread my arms wide to examine it,
full width: a Messier jersey. Despite the size, I couldn’t
have asked for a better present.
"Crawford, I love it!" I said and came from around the desk.
I kicked my of.ce door closed so I could give him a proper
thank- you, sitting on his lap and putting my arms around
his neck. "Now the best present you could give me would be
your undivided attention to night," I said hopefully,
although I guessed this wouldn’t be the case.
He shook his head sadly. "I can’t. I pulled an extra shift
so I could go to Meaghan’s basketball playoff Monday night."
Meaghan is one of his twin daughters; she was banking on a
basketball scholarship to get her through college. I had
come to realize that basketball was like a religion in that
family; what teenage girl would count former New York Knick
Bill Bradley among her crushes if it wasn’t? He reached into
his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "Here. These
are for you, too."
The tickets were the icing on the cake, but I was extremely
disappointed that another Friday night would go by and I
wouldn’t see him. A little slap and tickle in my of.ce just
wasn’t cutting it anymore. The relationship, and Crawford
himself, were everything I wanted but not in the amount that
I had hoped for. I tried to be the good and understanding
girlfriend, but I felt like Crawford’s wife was the NYPD and
I was the jealous mistress. And, in fact, for a very short
while, I had been kind of a real mistress: unbeknownst to
me, Crawford had been married when I .rst met him. But
that’s all in the past; she’s almost married to husband
number two and Crawford and I are still going strong, so
things couldn’t have worked out better for all concerned.
I had two choices for alterna- dates: my best friend, Max,
or my other best friend, Father Kevin McManus. I called
Mc-Manus .rst, but he had a Lenten reconciliation service to
perform and penance to dispense, so he was out. He reminded
me that I had a couple of sins to confess myself—premarital
sex being the worst and most oft- committed of the lot—but I
hung up before he could recount all of them in detail. I
went to Plan B and invited Max. She arrived at the Garden
right before the puck dropped, breathless and a little tipsy
from a cocktail party that she had attended for a new show
that her cable network was launching. She tottered toward me
in four-inch heels and the aforementioned cocktail dress and
I immediately got a sinking feeling. Max is not what you
would call a responsible drinker. She holds her liquor less
effectively than a dinghy with a hole in its bottom, which
has resulted in more than one late- night, four- hour phone
call to discuss the merits of kitten heels versus stilettos.
I thought we might be in trouble. Once I got a whiff of her
champagne- tinged breath, I was fairly con.dent.
Bruno Spaghetti noticed me the minute we arrived and
commented on my Messier jersey. He was wearing a Steve
Larmer jersey, a testament to his hockey knowledge and
devotion. No Johnny- come- lately Jaromír Jágr jersey for
him; he was a Ranger a.cionado and wore a jersey that
harkened back to the good old days when the Rangers actually
made the playoffs and even won a few games. "Lady, you can
curse with the best of them!" he yelled, grabbing me in
another embrace.
He hadn’t heard anything yet. And I was fairly certain I
wasn’t a lady. Dating a cop had increased my cursing lexicon
tenfold. Although Crawford was a gentleman and didn’t curse
at all in my presence, two trips to police precincts had
expanded my horizons. I broke my embrace with Bruno
Spaghetti and sat back down, signaling the beer vendor; he
ignored me. I considered asking Max to .ash some leg so I
could get some service.
The Garden erupted as the Rangers scored their .rst goal,
despite the fact that one of their players was in the
penalty box. I was excited but afraid of what kind of
display of love this might elicit from Bruno, so I did the
old excuse- me- pardon- me into the aisle.
"Bring me back a box of Sno- Caps," Max called after me,
taking her cell phone from her very expensive purse. Max is
a newlywed and calls her husband every twenty minutes or so.
Her husband is also Crawford’s partner, so I knew these
periodic phone calls had become mildly annoying—at least to
Crawford. Fred Wyatt, Max’s husband, still appeared to be
completely smitten with her, even indulging in baby talk
when she called. He’s about eight feet tall and a thousand
pounds and looks like a serial killer, so the visual eluded
me, but Crawford assured me that it was chilling.
"They don’t have Sno- Caps out there," I said. I had been to
the Garden enough times to know what resided in the candy
displays. Row D turned its collective hostile gaze toward me.
Max considered this. "How about Jujubees?"
"I don’t think they even make Jujubees anymore." I strained
to get a look at what was happening on the ice.
Max stood, thinking on her feet. "OK, how about Milk Duds?"
At that moment, the Rangers scored another goal.
"Lady, if you don’t sit down, I am gonna shove a pretzel up
your ass!" Bruno Spaghetti had brought a pal—Max had named
him Shamus McBeerbong—and he wasn’t quite as enamored with
us as Bruno was.
"Max, sit down," I cautioned her. "I’ll surprise you."
She clapped her hands together. "I love surprises!"
Shamus McBeerbong sighed. "Bring her back something that
keeps her in her seat," he said to me, and then to her, "Sit
down, you stupid broad!" The rest of row D nodded in
agreement, despite seeming a little aghast at his choice of
language.
Max turned to Shamus and gave him the hairy eyeball. "You
sit down!" she said, at a loss for a truly snappy retort.
For effect, she adjusted her breasts de.antly.
"Max, sit down," I called again, waiting to see if the
section would turn on her. She sat, just in time for
everyone to see a melee erupt on the ice.
Once it was clear Max wouldn’t be eaten alive by rabid
Ranger fans, I went out to search for her Milk Duds and to
get myself another beer. I’m not the biggest beer drinker
in the world, but they don’t serve chardonnay or vodka
martinis at the Garden, and what’s a Ranger game without a
little booze? The Garden is a giant labyrinth comprised of
long, tiled hallways that wrap around the seating area. I
wended my way down one hallway toward the snack bar and was
deep into a decision regarding Gummi bears versus Gummi
snakes for Max when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned
to .nd Jack McManus.
Jack McManus is the director of marketing for the Rangers
and Kevin McManus’s brother. He is also a man with whom I
had played tonsil hockey not too many months before. At the
time, Crawford and I had been on a "break" and I had stuck
my little toe brie.y into the dating pool. Don’t think I
hadn’t been completely guilt- ridden about that ever since.
But confessing about cheating on your then- married
boyfriend with your priest’s brother to your priest, who is
also one of your best friends, is complicated. Jack is
gorgeous and single; inexplicably, he was interested in me
for a time. My face immediately went red when I saw him and
I smoothed my hair back, pulling my ponytail tighter to my
head, a gesture that wasn’t going to improve my appearance
any but it was worth a try.
"Jack!" I gave him a quick, loose embrace, memories of
going to second base with him .ooding my mind. "How are you?"
"I’m great," he said, .ashing me a winning smile. "Kevin
told me that you were here to night and that you didn’t have
great seats, so I wanted to .nd you so that I could move you
down."
Move me down. Three little words that, at the Garden, held
so much import. Three little words that meant the difference
between high- .ving Bruno Spaghetti and going out for an
after-game cocktail with Ryan O’Stockbroker. I would have to
tell Max, Bruno, and Shamus that we were leaving the upper
tier. I had sat in Jack’s seats before and they were
practically on the ice. They were so close to the Rangers
that once I had almost become part of a line change. I
stammered a thank- you and told him to stay put while I
gathered Max and the rest of our belongings. As I turned to
go back to our seats, I spied Max walking gingerly toward
me, trying desperately not to slip on the polished hallway
.oors.
"There she is now!" I said.
Jack took one look at Max and burst out laughing. "I thought
Max would be a middle- aged bald guy."
"That happens a lot," I said. Max arrived at my side. "Jack,
Max Ray.eld. Max, meet Jack."
"You weren’t kidding," Max said under her breath. "But he’s
way better than a poor man’s George Clooney," my words
coming back to haunt me. "He’s the real deal. Real Clooney.
Ocean’s 11 Clooney. Nephew of Rosemary Clooney. Clooney to
the white courtesy phone...."
Fortunately, the roar of the crowd and the acoustics of the
hallway masked her commentary; Jack was none the wiser.
Max shook Jack’s hand. I noticed my coat hanging over her
arm. "We’re leaving," she said. "Shamus wants to make me
Mrs. McBeerbong."
I explained to her that we weren’t leaving and that Jack
wanted to move us to .fth row, center ice.
"Can you get a decent martini down there?" Max asked, her
maiden voyage to the Garden not ful.lling her original
expectations. Maybe I had lied a bit and said that you
could get a good martini, and maybe I had told her our seats
were better than they were. And maybe I had fudged the truth
a bit by telling her that more than one woman would be in a
cocktail dress. Now that we were moving down to the
expensive seats, that part might actually be true, since
most of the people who sat there were either corporate types
or models trying to marry Rangers.
Jack assured her that he would get her a martini as soon as
we were seated. He can do things like that. He took the
coats from her arm and led us to the escalators, where we
made the journey to the hundred- dollar seats and the land
of chilled vodka, never-ending vendor service, and hockey
players so close you could touch them. Which I made a mental
note not to do.
We settled into our seats just as the .rst period ended.
Jack took our drink and food orders but stayed rooted in the
aisle next to our seats, watching the Rangers skate off the
ice. I noticed him give a little wave to someone and the
lights went down in the rink.
The Rangers’ announcer came on the public address system
just as a giant spotlight found me in my .fth- row seat.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please join the New York Rangers orga
ni za tion in wishing our number-one fan, Alison Bergeron, a
happy birthday!"
Max turned to me, her eyes wide. The fans let out a giant
roar, followed by thunderous applause.
I shielded my eyes, a motion I could see depicted on the
Jumbo tron that hung over center ice. I looked like a deer
caught in the headlights—one with dried ketchup on her right
cheek. I looked at Jack, stricken. He had a huge smile on
his poorman’s-Clooney face as he leaned over to give me a hug.
The announcer continued over the deafening din. "And now,
welcome our own John Amarante!"
John Amarante was the Rangers’ longtime anthem singer. He
appeared on the ice, as he usually does before games, but
instead of singing the anthem, he broke out into a rousing
rendition of "Happy Birthday."
Here’s the thing: if the entire fan base at Madison Square
Garden began singing to Max, she would have been thrilled.
Not only that, she would have almost expected it, given her
fabulousness. Me? I wanted to melt into the sticky, beer-
stained .oor. I had been in those seats once before, been
viewed by every Ranger fan in the tristate area on my .rst
date with Jack, and had borne the brunt of Crawford’s ire
for longer than I cared to recall. I prayed that the .rst
period’s highlights were being discussed and that my giant,
petri.ed face wasn’t being broadcast for all of New York to
see. And that Crawford was out on the hunt for some kind of
homicidal maniac whose antics would keep him busy for the
next de cade.
Max read my mind. "You better hope this isn’t on TV," she
said, .uf.ng her hair and, at the same time, exposing just
enough of her spectacular breasts in case it was.
Jack bent down and pulled a bag out from under my chair. A
microphone appeared in his hand and when Amarante stopped
singing and the fans quieted down, he prepared to make some
kind of pre sen ta tion. He put the mic in front of his
mouth. His lips were moving, but I had con ve niently gone
deaf, just hearing the voice inside my head telling me,
"You are so screwed." When he saw that I had gone into some
kind of fugue state, he opened the package and unfurled its
contents.
It was a Mark Messier jersey, identical to the one I was
wearing.
Except it was autographed by Mark Messier. To me. With love.
Max looked at me disdainfully. "You are so screwed."