I was sitting there, watching the pre-game warm-ups one night like I always do. There's nothing like a professional sporting event, and this one just a few days before Thanksgiving is no different. By always, I mean always. I've gone for stretches of a few years and never missed one single home game. I go on the road, too. Follow the team, that is. There's nothing like the game. I love it and, like many die-hard sports fans, it has become my life. Well not all of my life just a good part of it.

Anyway, I digress. As I said, I was sitting there watching the warm-ups. I always get to the game early, walk around the arena to see who's there. Sometimes I get a drink or something to eat, and then I go to my seat to watch the warm-ups.

People trickle in slowly: really slowly, to be accurate. Like all big cities, people arrive fashionably late and leave fashionably early. The score be damned. They aren't there to see the game; they're there to be seen. I hate that. You think in 2005 people would be mature enough to get over that mentality. Ah, well -- that's all beside the point. I ramble again.

The row behind me is usually empty even in this ultra-modern arena, often voted one of the best in the league. Why? Well if you go back to row three, the price per ticket drops in half. So it's just the regulars in our section with everyone else back in the cheaper seats. But like most sports nuts, I am loyal to my team and have this really weird superstition about my seats. In fact, like many die-hard fans, I have a whole series of game day rituals.

Before every game, I have to arrive at a certain time, enter through a certain gate, go up a certain escalator; all in the firm belief doing otherwise will cause my team to lose. Every sports fan has a ritual, and the fact that it has no bearing on the final result is lost on all zealots. I'm sure you wouldn't understand, but again, it's irrelevant. I just sort of went off on some wild tangent again.

One of the things I like about sporting events is that there are really, really, really hot women there. Oh, don't roll your eyes. It doesn't matter if you're gay or straight. Everyone can admire a hot woman. Everyone accepts the classic image of a beauty. Like many guys, I like to look. It doesn't mean I'm a pig about it either. But beauty should be appreciated regardless of gender. Damn. I'm off track again. Ah well. Maybe I should call myself Mr. Tangent.

So I am sitting watching the warm-ups and game-time is approaching so the players are returning to the locker rooms as the stands fill up, or at least as full as they'll be before the game is in progress. Anyway, the oft-empty row behind me is still empty. And then the national anthem singer comes out as always. At least this time it's one of the ones that doesn't suck. They rotate singers, and some of them sing worse than I do. And let me tell you, I sound like a donkey in heat with both a hernia and haemorrhoids when I sing. And that's being very charitable.

So, we've established that I can't sing. I'm standing for the national anthem, and the row behind me is empty. As I said, this singer's pretty damned good so there's enthusiastic applause. Even from me who's not even remotely patriotic. So it happens that I hear applause from behind me, which is unusual enough to cause me to turn around to see six teens sitting behind me. I guess I'm getting old because three of them look like they're about fourteen and the other three look like college frat boys -- so maybe nineteen or thereabouts. As I said, beauty of any gender ought to be appreciated. The youngest-looking one just begs to be appreciated, but I turn around to sit down as the game is about to start. This entire observation took place in a few imperceptible seconds. The kid is actually hot enough that I'm still thinking about him as the game finally starts. I mentally admonish myself rather strongly because I'm not into kids, period. And even if I were, I am not a fan of prison, which is more than enough to keep me from even thinking about kids. Sixteen -- well that's a kid to me.

I never understood why an adult would be attracted to a kid. I mean in that way of course. It's sort of gross, some guy in his thirties or forties lusting after a twelve year old. To me, that's gross in any gender combination. That's not a tangent, either. Sixteen's sort of the magical line in my mind where it stops being quite so gross, though it's around eighteen before it's legal. It really doesn't matter in my case anyway.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and hear an "excuse me, sir" which always makes me cringe. As far as I'm concerned, I am not a "sir" even though I understand why someone might call me that. The older I get, the more I hear it, and the more I want to shout: "Sir is my father and not me!" But I bite my tongue, and turn my head back halfway so I can watch the game out of the corner of my eye and see who's interrupted my game.

Lucky me. It's the hot kid. As I said before, it doesn't matter what sex you are. Some people just universally qualify as "hot" and as soon as you see one of those people, you know. I definitely knew.

"Yes?" I intone and try to put a smile on my face.

You think that's easy, don't you? Hah. I am so fucking shy you can't possibly imagine. That's why I'm still alone after all these years. Even when I think someone is really interesting, attractive, or whatever, it just goes nowhere. I will never, ever make the first move. It sucks to be me. I will die a virgin, or an almost virgin depending on your definition. Talk to the hand? Hell, I live with the hand.

The kid asks me about some play and why it was a penalty. I explain the nuances of the call and point out that the "ref sucks" because, naturally, any call against the home team is the fault of some suck-ass ref. It's the obligation of all sports fans to believe that to their very core even if it's terribly misguided. The kid asks a few more questions as the play continues, and inside I am a little warm because I am secretly enjoying it even though I am unable to make small talk with him out of irrational fear.

Ah, look, it's a timeout in the game, and my newfound acquaintance leaves with some of his friends. He comes back with beer. I guess he's twenty-one after all. I conspire with myself (there's an oxymoronic phrase) to eavesdrop a bit and discover they are indeed all college students. Well that's enough to give me a very torrid fantasy if nothing else. I wish I wasn't a coward, or I'd ask this kid (who isn't really a kid) out for a drink to "discuss the game" but I am so I don't. I am consistent if nothing else.

He's a very talkative guy, as are most of his friends. One of them is actually rooting for the away team. As is the custom, I make a few derogatory comments about his team's parentage on the maternal side. It's taken in the good-natured way in which it wasn't intended. I'm a real fan, and I don't deliver an insult unless I really mean it. However, I'm greeted with a cute smile, so that's worth something, right?

So, back to the Cute Kid. I still have to call him a kid even though I've established he isn't. That was my first perception and it lingers in my mind. He looks like a sixteen year old drinking a beer, enough to have security come and check his identification. He starts pointing at a mascot for a local company and talking to his friends excitedly. I always wondered how people could work in those costumes.

I once knew a guy who had a part time job dressing up as a huge chicken for children's parties. Kids would attack him ruthlessly. Adults thought it was fun to trip him. No matter how often the costume would be cleaned, it would still reek beyond any description. It was a repulsive low-paying job. But, for some reason, he liked working kids' parties, so he did it despite the terrible pay and conditions. Although I don't really know the guy anymore, I bet he still does it.

Oh, yeah, there's one of those damned tangents again. I'd ask you to forgive me, but if you're still with me, you understand.

So this kid starts telling me that usually he's that particular mascot because he gets paid $15 per hour. He has the night off 'cause it's his birthday and he wanted to watch the game so his friend is inside. Yeah, he told me. Well, not quite. He told the little group of die-hard fans I sit with. There are four of us, and we've been sitting together for years: a couple, a lady, and me. So he told us, and we expressed some scepticism about the veracity of the statement. He makes a big deal about showing us his shoes -- Airwalks. It's a rather odd thing to do, but we pretend we care. Or, more accurately, my seatmates do. I just smile. I often wear Vans, but I don't feel the need to tell strangers about my choice in footwear. I also don't tell them my underwear are Calvins. I don't think they'd care. I mean, do you care? I thought not.

He goes on in great detail about the right and wrong ways to "be the character" and points at his substitute. Everything the character does, he has an opinion on. It's a big arena, but seven-foot tall creatures are easy to spot even from a distance. Mostly he's not unhappy with the performance, though.

So at intermission I go to the snack bar for a drink. Being a fan is thirsty work. At least being a proper fan is thirsty work. I hate beer, but I do occasionally drink, just not during the week. I know you don't care. The kid and all his friends are gone when I come back. Another fantasy ends, or so I am thinking as the clock winds down to zero, signalling the next instalment of our game.

Five of his friends are back, but he is absent. In the can, probably. Beer does that to everyone I am told. A few minutes into the game, who does appear in the lower bowl of the arena, but our Cute Kid -- well not exactly. To be accurate, he appears wearing the suit. He clearly wants to prove he is the character, and it's definitely him as evidenced by the shoes sticking out the bottom of the costume. He does a little routine for us, but never speaks because that is quite clearly wrong. We are amused and we applaud. Now we know why he made a big deal about his shoes.

Some ten minutes later he returns and brags about his routine. We all confess our admiration. Even me. The game goes on with more of the same banter about characters, the game, or even the occasional question about the game or some technical point thereof.

Finally, the game is over and it's time to leave. I leave. I say goodbye to him and all of his friends. He smiles at me, but it's just a friendly smile. Still, I bet that'll be a good fantasy for many years to come. In fact, I can assure you so far it has been. It's too bad I don't have the courage to act on what I'm feeling. Yeah, that's the sad, sad story of my life.

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