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Clutching and Grabbing: The Life and Times of B.D. Gallof-Part 1 |
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A Satire in the Making .....By B.D. Gallof
(Your crack (or crackpot) reporter is on the job giving you the nitty-gritty of the hockey playoffs. Straight from the games, the streets, the bars and the gutters.)
4/20/07
somewhere near Buffalo NY
7pm
I am driving upstate as I write this. Technology is a wonderful thing. I swerve so much less now that I use a Treo instead of a laptop or notebook as I steer myself around addled and bewildered mid-upstate families at top speed. The wind rakes by, and carries the beat of Iron Maiden to the masses of Hicktown, USA. I am drinking a giant iced espresso, making my caffeinated visage more intense as I scream “Two Minutes to Midnight” into passed vehicle open windows. After watching another mini-van screech on its brakes and veer off the side of the road as I do this, I use my Treo to call my editor/blogger.
“Eklund here!” says the voice over the speakerphone.
“Ekky, baby. It’s Gallof”
“Good lord…what is that racket?” screams Eklund.
“It’s my MP3 CD of all the heavy metal from the 1980’s. I’m trying to get into a Buffalo state of mind since these songs should just be hitting over there,” I shout back into the phone and over the music.
“Are you nuts? Buffalo is a modern city…”
“Hold on,” I interrupt as I spy a figure with his thumb out, ahead. I stomp on the brakes, causing my car to swerve almost perpendicular to one completely terrified hitchhiker.
“God damn it, Gallof…what the hell is going on over there? I need the first story by tonight, you loon.”
I ignore Eklund, and study the hitchhiker. He looks about 19, wearing a Winger shirt, and either has freckles or one hell of a case of zits. I can’t tell because of either the fact I am wearing sunglasses, or the fact it is nighttime.
The kid gets in, giving me a thumbs up to my musical choice.
“Where you going kid?”
“Going to the Buffalo game, dude,” he responds with a glazed look in his eyes.
I recognize this glaze. It is the dreamy gaze of Buffalo fans who expect the cup every year. That glazed look of the inevitable. Don’t mistake it for the vacant gaze of those in the White House. This is the gaze of achieving dreams…but between belts of Molson, Labatts and Saranac. This is what gets Buffalo fans past Hull’s in-crease goal. Or Norwood’s kick to infamy. Or the fact they still don’t have a major league baseball team, despite selling out every minor league game. It is the look of eventual vindication. Victory. Somewhere…sometime. Somewhat soon. Because if it doesn’t happen; those brains are going to melt into some short-circuited mess, and then…then they will run for office. And god help us then.
I pull off the Thruway onto Exit 5, and careen past a line of cars by simply riding the edge of the road. Pedestrians on the corners of Hamburg and Perry scatter in all directions. Almost there. Almost at the place where it might just happen for this poor kid. A step forward for the preordained team. Of course, at this point that kid is cowering on the floor of the car, having been strewn into the back seat. I guess a modern machine like a vintage 1980’s Camaro with the Van Halen symbol on the hood with detailing tape is just too much for the poor lad.
The kid scrambles out as I park in the handicapped spot up front. It’s time for the game. I ignore the yelling voice still coming from my Treo as I step inside HSBC Arena. Is it Buffalo’s time, or will the Islanders play big, desperate and grab a win to bring it back to New York? Time will well. I know the Islander’s Sean Hill is ready. He and I drank brews last week after working out. That man is built like a tank.
“I need to collect your pee,” he said to me when asking to use your bathroom. “I need it for the NHL drug test.”
That Sean Hill. What a jokester.
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