These
are the continuing adventures of a Swedish immigrant during her first
year as an American. She boldly went where she'd never gone
before...please come along on Adventures
in America.
For
this last post, I thought I'd fast forward to high school. I left
myself (and a few of you dear readers) rather depressed yesterday.
While it is true that life changes and surprises come, I truly
believe that God orders our lives for our best, no matter what
happens, good or bad.
I
got some really good stuff in high school. My best friend Smooshie
and I were rabid hockey fans. Her dad bought her season tickets to
the Washington Capitals, and we went to a LOT of the games together.
I'll be forever grateful to him for giving me his ticket so many
times.
I've
loved hockey since I was a kid and had been to many Capitals games as
one of the Volvo perks we enjoyed. Going ALONE, with your best
friend, was much more liberating, though. (Sorry Dad – loved, and
still do – going to hockey with you, but with Smooshie, we got to
meet the players.)
One
of the privileges season ticket holders can enjoy is after-game
skating parties. They let us out onto the ice, right after the game,
and we could skate in that giant arena, pretend we were famous figure
skaters while we waited for the players to finish their locker room
stuff and come out the door which we would start stalking after just
a few laps.
We
each had our favorite players. Smooshie loved Mike Gartner, #11.
Here she is with her hero:
Here I am with one of my favorites, #27 Paul Mulvey.
My
actual hero was a Swedish player, Rolf Edberg.
I
did get to meet my hero several times, though not at one of the
skating parties. We were doing our “laps” during intermission –
we'd walk all the way around the arena, people watching, looking for
friends while the Zamboni re-finished the ice– and I passed him (he was injured and not playing) and said hello to him in Swedish. He stopped in his tracks and HAD A
CONVERSATION WITH ME. Can you imagine the complete and total awe a
16 year old would experience? Yeah, it was cool.
He
apparently remembered me after that, which of course thrilled me. A couple of
games later, still injured, he was sitting in the press section, and
I'd of course gone looking for him. I was sorta shy (yes, hard to
imagine isn't it...) and was standing a couple of rows back, working
up the courage to go into his row. He turned around. “Du รคr
den Svenska tjejen?” (You're that Swedish chick?) We had another
conversation. He wasn't a popular enough player in general that they
sold his jersey with his name, but Smooshie had a shirt made for me
instead. I still have it, in a box. Somewhere.
Good
times. I had lots more finishing growing up in America. I fit in as
well as a math, word, and band nerd could. After all, I was an
American now.
***
Thanks for joining me on this adventure! I appreciate each and every comment, and now that we're done, I'll be able to come visit you. Also, don't forget the Reflections Posts. The list, available at the A-Z Blog, and in my tabs above starting May 3, is to be used AFTER you've already posted your piece. Go here for a complete explanation.
