I glanced nervously at my father from the passenger seat of our 1992 Ford Aerostar, hoping to catch his eye and some kind of reassurance. Opening my mouth to speak, his hand rose quickly, quieting my burgeoning question with a palm and deftly increasing the radio's volume with a swift flick of a finger. Mike Lange's gravelly voice filled the van and we leaned closer, willing a victorious cliche' to burst forth from his mouth.
Please let them score!
Our beloved Pittsburgh Penguins were trailing 2 games to 1 against the New York Rangers, in a series that saw the exit of Mario Lemieux with a fractured hand and a game 4 that was quickly reeling out of control. We were losing 4-2... and we had just incurred a five minute major penalty. The season was slipping away.
Wordlessly, my father parked in the valley of our tar covered driveway and we waited for the right moment to break free from the car. We needed to exit the vehicle and make it to the basement t.v. in a microsecond. Anything more would upset the balance of the whole season. He looked at me....
Ready Girl?
Ready Dad.
My heart was visibly pounding out of my chest as he silenced the engine, grabbed my hand and we ran...
...into the house, lights off, t.v. virtually shouted on and we stood...in the dark...faces illuminated by black and gold frenzy...clinging to each other, both initiating our collective will toward a penalty kill that seemed insurmountable. When the penalty clocked ticked down to nothing and the Pens had come away unscathed, we collapsed on the couch in a heap of exhaustion and my father said...they're going to win, Girl...watch. And watch I did, as Ron Francis scored the next goal and then won it in overtime, catapulting the Pens to an eventual 11 game win streak and Stanley Cup victory. Cemented in me from that moment, was a love of Pittsburgh sports that is commonplace to those who live here...it is almost primal in nature.
As a young girl, I often sat side by side with my father at the Civic Arena, learning what it meant to be a true fan. The arena was a magical place. It was ripe with sensory overload....nostalgia in the making. Dad would sit, beer sloshing, with his mustachioed mouth close to my ear, attempting to impart information over the crowd. And I learned the rules of the game, as well as the raucous ebb and flow of chants and Yinzer slang. He yelled stats and jersey numbers, plays and penalties over the crowd and into my teenage consciousness. He was grooming me to become the next generation of fan, as any good Pittsburgh father would.
Cheering for the home team was our refuge and hockey was merely the starting line. At the gun blast we burned holes into high school basketball bleachers and bundled up to the point of strangulation for a good solid dose of Three Rivers on a Sunday. It was our religion. I even fondly recall a particularly awful moment in my early college career, where I desperately needed someone to rescue me from a semester of questionable decisions. My father picked me up, no questions asked, and took me to a Monday Night football game. He shoved a beer into my hand, kissed me on top of the head and knew...a little football goes a long way to cure a Pittsburgh girl's aching psyche.
And even now, as I trouble the uneasy waters of single parenting, you can be certain I never forget to remind Pink and Tink of their home team loyalties. At the fresh-faced ages of six and four, it is not unusual to hear my ladies yelling...IT'S A HOCKEY BOY NIGHT! or...GO STEELERS!!
Just the other night, as the clock ran out on the Ravens' season and the adults jumped and screamed....there was also a gaggle of preschoolers and Kindergarteners pumping their tiny fists and waving their Terrible Towels. The next generation of fans who most definitely understand the meaning of a little sports therapy...
