3-7-01_My_3_Minutes_of

Despite the fact that I’m a regular at their games, I don’t normally watch the Washington Capitals’ intermission activities. The urinal and beer lines pile up in a hurry, so I’m usually knocking folks down to beat the rush. I’ve been told that on the whole they’re not that interesting, so when a Caps representative asked if I’d like to take part in an intermission show, I decided it was up to me, a consummate entertainer, to liven them up. Plus it was “Mardi Gras Night” and they told me there’d be cool hats.

It was clear they had singled my friend Scott and me out because of our obvious athletic prowess, physiques and rugged Bill Paxton-esque good looks. Or maybe because we were a couple of rubes in Caps jerseys that showed up an hour before the game started just to stare at the ice. Scott is not a person who enjoys the spotlight, however, and he politely declined. At the time I thought it was because he knew I’d kick his ass. It didn’t occur to me until I was on the ice that he’s seen a few intermission shows, and knew what I was in for.

So with 10 minutes to go in the first period, a Caps cheerleader (for lack of a better word) came to fetch me and bring me to where we’d start. As we were walking, I was told that during the intermission I and two other guys would ride small, pedal-powered buggy-type vehicles with rubber wheels around the ice. This sounded like one hell of a good time (I’d had three beers by then; sword swallowing would have sounded like a hoot) and since I am an absolutely abysmal driver, even on solid pavement, I couldn’t wait to try my luck on the ice.

We arrived at an area in the corner of the arena, just behind where the Zamboni comes onto the ice. I met the other two contestants, who, I was happy to note, were normal, average, attention-starved whores like me. First we were given a detailed, intensive breakdown of what would happen. “Basically, you’ll put funny hats on and race around,” were the exact instructions. (Were I a bit more sober, I might have thought to ask for more information; instead I yelled, “Let’s light this candle!”). They also told us that when the race was over, we should get the hell off the ice. They couldn’t stress this point enough. “We need you to get right to the corner immediately so the Zamboni can come out,” they said, as if a person needs to be told that a 2,000 pound ice resurfacer full of frozen carbon dioxide isn’t a toy.

We put on little rubber boots with small spikes at the bottom to prevent slippage. They asked us if we wanted to wear safety pads, and we got that look that all men do when talking about steak or cars or drill bits. Oh, there would be no pads.

We then took a practice run around the backstage area with our buggies. Buggies that clearly weren’t meant for a 6’, 240-pound man. I’m not sure they were meant for a 2’ 40 pound child. “You may have some trouble getting them going,” we were told, which was a bit like saying the Gremlin might not be the best choice for your used-car dollar. I’d have needed the force to move these things, even if my legs did bend in such a way that would allow me to put my foot on the pedals. Finally we got them moving, were told where the brakes were (that was met with the same reaction as the safety pads), and given our hats. I had to take off the admittedly disgusting three-year old Capitals hat I had been wearing, which our instructor took as if it were a dead ferret. I was given a tall pointy thing that made me look a bit like the Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons if he were wearing a really stupid hat. Our prep work and costuming done, we strolled up to the glass.

For the three minutes we got to watch the game at that level, I was in hockey heaven. There’s ice-level in terms of seating, and then there’s really ice-level. The Caps scored once and had another goal disallowed during our brief stay by the glass, and it was terrific to see the reactions of the players from that close. They said lots of bad words. When the period ended the refs walked right by us, and I was tempted to exact revenge for disallowing the goal by stabbing them to death with my pointy hat. But then my public wouldn’t get to see me.

It was show time. We were given our final words of encouragement from the Caps cheerleaders (“Please get off the ice as soon as you’re done”), and out we came onto the ice, buoyed by the slightly interested cheering of the people who hadn’t yet gotten up to take a whiz. As we were getting into our buggies, I heard my name on the PA system at the MCI Center – never has Justin Bland, which isn’t my name – sounded so heroic. Slapshot, the Caps mascot, waved a checkered flag and off we went.

I was at a disadvantage from the get-go as I had the outside lane, but I did remarkably well out of the gate. The guy who had the pole position blew off the line like he did this three times a day, and the other guy couldn’t really get his going. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that we were trying to drive small buggies with rubber tires on sheer ice.

As we rounded the first turn I tried to pass the leader on the inside, but he cut me off. Being the sportsman that I am, and knowing full well that this was all in fun and for the enjoyment of the audience, I tried to ram his sorry ass right into the boards. Being on the ice was giving me a hockey player mentality – if I couldn’t win, the least I could do was seriously injure someone. I did trade paint with him but it wasn’t quite the glorious maneuver I had hoped – in fact all it did was push him forward and help him take the second corner faster.

But we were on the home stretch now and the crowd began cheering – really cheering, as loud as they cheer for the Caps, though I’ve never been on the ice for that. I thought, wow, we must be good. Then I realized they were cheering because the guy we had left struggling on the line not ten seconds before was passing me on the right. With ease. I thought I’d take him on the next corner, but as we crossed the blueline, I saw Slapshot waving a checkered flag and realized the race was over. I had come in dead last, the Dick Trickle of Intermission Buggy Racing.

As I crossed the line I tried to do a Bo-and-Luke-type sideways skid, to try and preserve as much dignity as a third-place buggy racer wearing a Merlin hat can, but it didn’t quite work and I very nearly crashed into the oncoming Zamboni. They weren’t kidding about that.

So I didn’t win the two round-trip tickets anywhere in the continental US (it hadn’t occurred to me until then to wonder what we were racing for), but I did get a t-shirt and a sticker. I tried to keep the hat since it looked like the sort of thing my sister would wear, but they didn’t let me. I had checked for our race on SportsCenter, but no such luck; apparently it wasn’t as slow a sports night as I’d hoped. But let it never be said that the MCI Center Jumbotron has never shown the power and glory of Justin Bland.