Highlight of week thus far:
Yesterday (3/11, as in pop-hardrock band) shot a hockey-related media frenzy surrounding former Czech citizen, Middling City resident and Buffalo Sabre Dominik Hasek who was intermingling with inner-city youth dubbed Hasek's Heroes. Bad name, good cause. It's obvious how much he digs intermingling with the kids and he spent a lot of time talking with them and then, at the end, he handed every adult-bossed child a hockey puck emblazoned with the Olympic logo.
Now here's the highlight.
The event's emcee was Danny Gare. #18. Another former Sabre and current hockey announcer.
As a child I was obsessed with Danny Gare (this might even be at the time of my Pink Floyd discovery - unrelated I am sure) and actually knew how to forge his autograph. And, when sliding off the waterslide at our country club I'd scream at the top of my lungs DANNY GARE RULES.
So there we are within arm's length of each other and I muttered to lead boy colleague also shooting the Hasek affair Please do not embarass me and tell him how much I love(d) him. Please. So I'm talking to Danny Gare and I look over at lead boy colleague who's grinning.
I finally say hello to thee Danny Gare and in the midst of our ever-so-brief conversation I told him that I could forge his signature and then he had a very odd look on his face.
Lead boy colleague photographed us together with my camera and now me and Danny hang amid the other Perfect-Nancy-Meets-VIP photos.
What I didn't tell Danny Gare:
back in disco's heyday I was an underaged pedestrian watching the grand opening of a hot new dance joint near my parents' home. The spotlights twirled. People in polyester walked by and into the club. And then Danny Gare appeared and I screamed DANNY GARE RULES and he, an adult hockey superstar on a disco mission, shot a look of disdain over his shoulder.
The End and here's le moral du jour:
no matter who you are and whom your obsession might be, you might very well end up in a hockey rink with your arms around each other for a quick photo and the jogging of a very musty memory.