"I have to go see about a girl," part 2

you know what's scary as fuck? when you realize you actually considered, for more than a split second, turning down tickets to a hockey game for which you've said you'd sell everything you own for tickets. because that same weekend, you could drive through the most heinous driving state in the union (sorry, Ohio), to Chicago to cover a college hockey tournament, with two guys you hardly even knew before this fall, one of whom you still don't know all that well. because the other one, you realize, is worth skipping just about any sporting event for, if you have to.

don't get me wrong. I'm going to the motherfucking Winter Classic, I'm not insane. it may well be the biggest hockey event I ever get to be a part of, and when I'm standing there at Heinz Field freezing my ass off for my team in the midst of 60,000 people, I'll probably cry or faint or see God or something. it's going to be amazing.

but this scene keeps running through my head (cheers to IMDB):

Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date?
Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I've seen...
Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way!
Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people...
Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there.
Will: What?
Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run?
Sean: Oh, yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
Will: I don't care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that's Game 6!
Sean: Oh, Helen of Troy...
Will: Oh my God; and who are these fuckin' friends of yours, they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh... they had to.
Will: W-w-w-what'd you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table, and I said, "Sorry, guys; I gotta see about a girl."
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That's what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You're kiddin' me.
Sean: No, I'm not kiddin' you, Will. That's why I'm not talkin' right now about some girl I saw at a bar twenty years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don't regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don't regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don't regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don't regret missin' the damn game. That's regret.
[pause]
Will: Wow... Woulda been nice to catch that game, though.
Sean: [sheepishly] I didn't know Pudge was gonna hit a homer.

been waiting a long time for this moment to come.

I've done some scary-ass things and some ridiculously demanding things in my life. I've driven in Chicago rush hour traffic, in a blistering downpour so I couldn't see five feet in front of me. I've climbed up the sides of cliffs in Colorado. I've thrown punches at people who could beat the shit out of me, and I've thrown myself down on the ice in front of hockey pucks traveling fast enough to hurt me pretty badly. I love that shit. I'm not scared of getting hurt playing sports, or hanging off the sides of mountains or standing up to the mosh pit at a Dropkick Murphys show (okay, a little scared of that, but it's always totally worth it).

This week, all I have to do is ask a friend of mine a question. A short, simple-sentence kind of question. And I'm so fucking terrified about that, I can't even think about anything else.