Game day. 4:13 a.m. As with every playoff game day, I can’t sleep much. Too excited and sleep seems like a waste of time. I have two tickets in my Flash Seats account. Not seats I’m proud of (upper level) but still seats to the Stanley Cup Final. Can’t complain. The seats cost me $875, but I’m pretty sure I can flip them and pocket some money. My wife and I have decided this is the best course of action to offset our costs for our ridiculous Game 1 experience.
By 9:00 a.m., I’ve had quite a few offers on my tickets. I begrudgingly unload them and text my wife. She’s happy because it’s profit for us, and she could use her husband at home to help with the kids and a few odd jobs around the house. The feeding, bathing, brushing, flossing, pajamas, bedtime story, and shut-eye routine is exhausting, even more so when you have to go it alone. Mad respect to all single parents out there. I seriously don’t know how you do it, and — keep in mind — we’ve been playing this playoff ticket “Game of Thrones” since April 11th. April 11th!
It has literally been an extra quarter of a season. Love it!
When 12:30 p.m. rolls around, regret has sunk in like Mark Grace after a failed slump buster left a little too much peanut butter and pasta sauce on his couch. I’m mad at myself. Disgusted. Terrible self-loathing. I’ve sold my tickets, my soul, for what? A few hundred extra dollars? I can’t miss this game.
WHAT WAS I THINKING? Shame!….Shame!…Shame!
The clock strikes 1 p.m. and I’m looking for a single ticket. I decide I’ll go to the game if I can find an affordable ticket and I’ll cheer for the Knights on behalf of my wife, because we are “one” in marriage so, if I’m there, simple logic tells me she is there too. I convince myself I’m being selfless and my lovely wife will agree with this logic. It’s all making sense to me now.
2:10 p.m. — I decide to call my wife and explain to her why I really should be at the game. I figure a call is more personal than a text. I practice my speech, using all the different husband tones we’ve all learned over time. After I select the proper delivery method, I make the call.
No answer.
2:30 p.m. — I go old school analog. No texts, no calls, no emails. I leave the handwritten note. When’s the last time you left a note for someone? I mean, back in the 80’s we used to leave them all the time. We’d pass them in class for the teacher to eventually intercept and read to the rest of the class as a form public shaming. We wrote notes asking our crushes to check Box No. 1 to “be our girlfriend,” or Box No. 2 for “No,” or — as I like to call it — total heartbreak destruction.
Hopefully this letter would not bring such utter destruction. Hopefully.
Went to store, be back soon…at Tom’s house…ran to the bank…I didn’t really know what to write so I garnered inspiration from one of my favorite movie characters of all time — The Shawshank Redemption’s Andy Dufresne.
Sometimes, though, your grand plan falls apart, as all things do, and sometimes, your wife publicly shames you like your middle school teacher used to.
I've just come home from work to discover my husband has gone to the @GoldenKnights game without me. Your attempted humor at quoting Shawshank will not excuse this @derekstafford37 pic.twitter.com/NXnprwmlgs
— Erin Stafford (@ehajovsky) May 30, 2018
Anyone have a couch I can borrow until Game 5? Talk about a make-up game! Until then, I’ll be watching the Golden Knights play in DC from a place we married men know of as “The Doghouse.”As I headed out to my new cell, my wife called back to me one more time. My ears perked up, thinking she would forgive me. Instead, she countered with these words:
“I believe in two things: the Golden Knights and the Bible. Here you’ll receive both. Put your trust in the Lord; your ass belongs to me. Welcome to Shawshank, Stafford.”
