Happy Birthday Dad...

All I wanted on my birthday was a quietly awesome night. It came easy when a friend offered Zed and I hockey tickets, and got even easier when Zed fell head over feet for five thousand fans and all the popcorn she could stuff in her wide smiling mouth. The horns were fun. The mascot was fun. The little boys running up and down the aisles were fun. Even the hockey was fun. Not surprisingly, nothing was as fun as the booming music and the chance to perform in front of hundreds of unsuspecting hockey fans. Zoey might have been a bigger hit than the game.

 

It's been a hundred years since I gave a crap about hockey. When I was a kid I was pretty wrapped up in it, and then I turned seventeen or so and that was it. I didn't care. My playing days were done, and my caring days were waning, and now, a few decades later, I'm just barely hanging on. Still, a night with my daughter just quietly...or not so quietly...soaking up some ancient action, the kind that once moved me. Zed was a near perfect date. Our only issue came during a second period fight in which Zo freaked out in disgust and anger. "Stop it," she yelled. "Nooooooooo," she screamed, and Daddy did his best to comfort her. "Why do they do that Daddy," she begged with wet eyes. "I dunno Zo," I answered, "it doesn't make much sense does it?" She nodded and poured her confusion into her popcorn. It made me happy, all that indignation. She may be just a smidgen shy of four years old, but she's light years ahead of some when it comes to comprehension. I spent the rest of the night smiling at the peaceful little dancing warrior sitting beside me...well, sometimes sitting...mostly dancing.