I devote this entry to all of the hockey moms in the world. Because I have no idea how you all don’t have multiple heart attacks every time you watch your child play, no matter how old they are.
Prior to last night, I had never said the F-bomb. I had gone nearly twenty-seven years of existence without saying that word. No one around me really ever swore. The only person in my family growing up that was a big swearer was my Great-Grandmother, but if you were 90, your maiden name was Hooker and you couldn’t get your National Enquirer in the nursing home, you’d have some spicy language too.
Then, last night, around 8pm in Conte Forum, at Boston College (a Catholic school, mind you – my CCD teacher would be screaming at me for this), I said the F-word for the first time. No one heard it – not even my partner-in-crime, who was next to me. But I said it, and didn’t realize it until the k was leaving my mouth.
However, if there was anytime for me to involuntarily say the F-word, that was it, for I had just witnessed just about the worst hit I had ever seen live in a hockey game. On my favorite player, no less.
