Flashes of Panic

The tickets to the Bruins game were marked, “No Bags,” so I made a stop at home to drop mine off. Fortunately I realized I’d left my ticket in it before I got on the T, but not before I’d nearly locked my bike in Davis Square.

The idea for the group trip to the game (“CS people are so much fun,” said one attendee’s wife, “Over in Child Development we just drink,”) was that of our Canadian classmate, for which we were all quite appreciative. Would that Boston sports fans were the same; I should’ve remembered the Sox-Yankees game I saw a few years ago. We were quite high in the balcony, but there were enough people behind us to raise a decent boo when François put on his Canadiens jersey. I’m always disappointed; I wish I could still be surprised. François was not bothered; he observed, “They must not have noticed that this is the TD Banknorth Garden, and ‘TD’ is ‘Toronto Dominion.’”

When Les Habs scored the first goal, that flushed out the rest of the Canadians in the crowd—those little pockets of people standing. There was a big party a few rows down from us, with one particularly vocal guy who turned around at us, shouting “Habs! Habs! Habs!” in the same tone of voice you’d use for “In your face!” He quieted down later, of course.

But if there’s a saving point to Boston fans, it’s that they’re even-handed in their distribution of foul-mouthed opprobrium. They felt free to boo whoever they wanted: the Canadiens, the refs, and the Bruins all got about an equal share. If you want to see New England cynicism in action, a Bruins game is a great place for it: a big collection of people who’ve paid decent money for the privilege of sitting with a beer and bitching about something they profess to enjoy.

(Our group, of course, was having a good time, despite some of us cheering for the losing side.)