- Shouted from the top row, repeatedly, "Dowgie! That's a great shot! Way to play Dowgie" (insert deep, western PA accent here). I only discovered in the second period the "Shouter" called all the players Dowgie and that every play was good one.
- Not a mullet in sight. Not a one. Bummer.
- One of the players was named Couch. To pass the time, I began to nickname all the players after furniture. I started to join in, in my head of course, with the Shouter. "Good play Ottoman! What a pass Settee'! Oh, get that rebound Barcolounger!".
- Food is w-a-y cheap in our little arena. So I got to eat every period. It wasn't good food. I consumed it with my germophobia suspended. But it was food, nevertheless.
- It was over in under three hours. Woo Hoo!
My little fella couldn't wait to wear the free t-shirt they handed out as we entered. He watched every play and even joined the Shouter. He was bouncing on his seat when they were in front of us and craning his neck when they were at the other end. He ran down to slap hands to greet the team as they reentered the arena after one of the halftimes, or breaks or whatever. He proudly, quietly and enthusiastically stood in line to get Barcolounger and Daybed to sign his shirt.
There are four years and thirteen days between my sons. I cannot recall life without the both of them. I can't remember, until, it is just the three of us, like at the game. For four years it was just my little guy. We shlepped him everywhere. He knew how to eat in restaurants. He ordered dinosaur meat (steak) at our former favorite restaurant in DC. He knew how to behave at a public event, going to concerts, movies and shows. Our lives are so different and less financed that we don't get to do as much. (That and the baby is crazy. I don't risk him too often in public.)
It was awesome to watch my little/big man in the cold arena. I loved giving and receiving full attention. There were no interruptions. It was 3'ish hours of us.
It was three hours of Minor League Mommy Moments.