When our ten year-old son joined the Rockets, the local youth hockey team, my wife, Cindy, and I had no idea how it would change our lives. We didn't know how expensive his equipment would be and how quickly Sam would outgrow it. We didn't realize how much time we would spend driving all over the state to attend practices, camps, clinics, scrimmages, games and tournaments. We didn't understand that the youth hockey season lasts for eight months out of the year. And we definitely didn't anticipate just how crazy hockey parents can get -- ourselves included.
But if there were some unforeseen inconveniences that came with raising a young Rocket, there were unexpected benefits, too. Those crazy hockey parents were now our friends. We carpooled to games together, cheered for our kids together, and, on occasion, celebrated a big win together.
That's what I hoped we would be doing later tonight. This was the last game of a seemingly interminable season and, with a.500 record, our kids needed a win to secure the last spot in the playoffs. While the team was perfectly mediocre, Sam had played consistently well. He was tied with another boy, Ricky, for the most goals on the team -- despite playing defense on most shifts.
As Cindy and I settled into our seats, the rink was so cold that we could see our breath, but we were too busy greeting friends to notice. After watching dozens of games over the course of a long season, Cindy and I had grown close to the other hockey parents, and we were happy to see all the familiar faces in the crowd. Or perhaps I should say that we were happy to see most of them -- there was one big exception. Ricky's father, Rocco Sarducci.
Rocco is a single dad, about 55 years old -- twenty years older than Cindy and me -- and he looks it. At 5 feet 9 inches, and probably 200 pounds, Rocco has a squat, thickset physique. He isn't ripped with muscles, but he isn't flabby either. He has a slightly protruding stomach and a broad, hairy chest that he adorns with an Italian horn necklace. His body might pass for a younger man's, but that craggy face, graying beard and receding hairline betray his age.
Rocco is the epitome of an asshole, a walking repository of every toxic personality trait that Cindy and I can't stomach. He is loud, uncouth, outspoken, egotistical and opinionated. His language is frequently vulgar and although he is superficially friendly and charming to most of the other parents, especially the husbands, he has been known to give the wives backhanded compliments, subtle put downs and sarcastic nicknames. He seems to take particular pleasure in picking on Cindy and she hates him for it.
Maybe the loathing is mutual, but I never got the impression that Rocco dislikes my wife. Quite the contrary, in fact. I think she just intimidates him a little and the teasing is his way of compensating. At 5 feet, 8 inches, Cindy is nearly the same height as Rocco. In heels, she is taller. And she is certainly more attractive. In stark contrast to Rocco, a stocky balding guy with a half-century of lived experience carved into his face, Cindy is cute and yourhful-looking, with plump, ruby lips, a perfect little nose, a flawless complexion and long, wavy hair the color of honey. And although Cindy dresses conservatively, never trying to flaunt her figure, she has a spectacular pair of breasts that are impossible to hide. Even now, when she is wearing multiple layers to keep warm inside the chilly skating rink, those huge tits are tenting the front of her cableknit sweater, making the frosty blue wool strain to contain them. The way the sweater sets off the blue in her eyes makes her look positively radiant.
Not that she would ever say so. Cindy tries to downplay her looks in order to be taken more seriously as a professional. She is a pediatric psychiatrist who put herself through medical school and went on to earn an advanced degree. Every step of the way, from her undergraduate work as a premed and psychology double-major to her graduate studies, Cindy had to work twice as hard as her peers in order to overcome the stereotypes and social expectations that come with being a buxom blonde beauty.
None of Cindy's academic and professional achievements impressed Rocco. He used to make snide remarks about Cindy being a nerd, but lately he seemed not to mention her intellect at all, as if he instinctively knew that to really hit her where it hurts, he needs to focus on those voluptuous tits she is always trying to hide. So, a few games ago, Rocco nicknamed my wife "Chesty," to the amusement of the other dads who wouldn't dare call her that themselves. Even a few of Cindy's fellow hockey moms seemed to take a little pleasure in seeing their bright and successful friend treated like a bimbo.
Cindy hated that name, but she had learned that objecting to it only encourages Rocco to think up even more degrading alternatives. It was better, she figured, to ignore his immature fixation on her breasts rather than feeding into it. That helped ease the tension between Rocco and Cindy for a brief time, but I dreaded seeing him today after what went down at last week's game.
And sure enough, the foul-mouthed lout brought it up right away.
"Mike, good to see you," Rocco called out to me. He obviously saw Cindy, who was blowing into her hands right beside me as we sat down on the cold metal bench, but he waited a beat before acknowledging her.
"Chesty!" Rocco boomed loudly. "Good to see you too! Hey, no hard feelings about losing that bet, right?"
Cindy winced for a split-second before flashing the hairy old vulgarian the best fake smile she could muster.
Things had gotten a bit out of hand last week. We had "pregamed" with some friends in the parking lot, then kept the party going by sneaking a flask of fireball whiskey into the rink, which we had passed around as the game got underway. By the time the third period rolled around, we were feeling no pain, and that was when Cindy and Rocco started jawing at one another. Rocco had been bragging about Ricky, as usual, heaping immodest praise on the boy and calling him the best scorer on the team. Anyone but Rocco would have been embarrassed by such a showy display of self-regard. Even still, Cindy could normally have ignored Rocco's braggadocio, but she was too drunk to fully conceal her contempt for the man and before long she was loudly snapping back at him. The whiskey made Cindy feistier than usual and soon she was drunkenly breaking Rocco's balls, asking him why Ricky, who is a forward, has one fewer goal than Sam, who plays defense. From there, Cindy proceeded, tipsily, to predict that Sam would score the next goal and extend his team lead.
Rocco hadn't hesitated for a second to turn that into a wager. It was if he had been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Cindy knew better than to let Rocco goad her into gambling. Rocco is nowhere near as book smart as Cindy, but she knows he has a certain low cunning and it makes her wary. If she hadn't been liquored up, Cindy would have ignored this bet as just another of Rocco's annoying antics. But the fireball whiskey lowered Cindy's inhibitions and loosened up her tongue, and before my own booze-fogged brain could register what was happening, my wife had accepted Rocco's bet. She had been so quick to take the wager, in fact, that she hadn't even asked for the terms.
The bet had given me a pit in my stomach. Call me a pessimist, but I just had a gut feeling that betting with Rocco would be a fool's errand.
Not two minutes later, Ricky had proved me right, scoring what turned out to be a game-winning goal. That had brought him even with Sam for the team scoring lead, where they still stood going into today's game. As the puck hit the net, I had seen Cindy's shoulders slump and her eyes go wide with shock.
Now, however, my wife's beautiful blue eyes were narrow with impatience as Rocco began needling her about losing the bet at the last game. Cindy wasn't drunk this time, but Rocco's teasing seemed to be getting to her, especially when he began calling her "Chesty." I could tell by the flush in her cheeks and the glare in her eyes that she had had enough of this egotistical old misogynist.
