Game 54 AfterThoughts: L, OL, SOL

An absurd hockey game and an essential experience

Just a heads up: this one is going to be a little bit of a departure from our usual postgame coverage. If it’s not your jam, I understand, but here’s what Friday night’s game against the Kings looked like from a bit of a different perspective than the press box.

Living in Texas can be hard sometimes. I’m mostly referring to the summer that seems to span April through October, but also I’m referring to the entire year. All of my relatives live back west in Arizona or California, though three of my siblings and I were born in the Dallas area.

But since 2019, I’ve been back out here on my own, with sporadic family visits when time permits and schedules line up. So when my brother proposed the idea of attending the Stars-Kings game together with his six-year-old daughter (E.) on Friday during my brief stay in town, it was a pretty easy decision.

John and I have been to something close to 75 NHL games together, most of which took place when we were both living in Southern California. Going to hockey games in Anaheim and Los Angeles had been something of a ritual for us until I moved out of state. To attend another game together with his daughter promised to be a surreal, delightful experience. So we loaded up a bag with coloring books and said good-bye to E’s mother and toddler sister, and the three of us headed to downtown Los Angeles.

We stopped at Grand Central Market, because you are going to eat something delicious there no matter what you end up doing. E. got a pizza (all to herself), while John and I got Thai food in lieu of the closed-at-6pm Wexler’s Deli pastrami sandwiches. They are very good, if you get there in time. We did not.

And of course, we had to get a treat on the way out. E. wanted a blue gummi butterfly, and you better believe she got one. From there, it was a short drive over to Staples Center Crypto.com Arena, where the Kings play. Also the Los Angeles Lakers, who recently acquired a new player. Not sure what that’s all about.

As we search for the best parking—our usual free spots aren’t open these days, thanks to downtown development and a couple of Stanley Cups since 2012—E. asks where we’re going, exactly. I point to the bright blue/purple glow coming from down the street. She is content with that answer, for now. Also, she loved the Mario billboard adorning the side of a street.

We find parking less expensive or remote than any within a mile of the Texas Rangers’ ballpark, and we head up the street. E. skips and laughs at 7 o’clock on a Friday night as we pass a decrepit, unfinished development that may never be anything more than an eyesore. Kings jerseys are for sale under pop-up tents for fifty dollars, we are told. I remain skeptical of those jerseys’ provenance.

As we enter the building, John notices a sign prohibiting bags like the clear tote we brought with E’s coloring books. Thankfully, the first wave of security guards smiles, and waves us through. At the metal detectors, we will be warned that markers are contraband in the Crypt, but once again, humanity wins the day, as we are simply chastised to keep the box of markers in the bag rather than risk confiscation. This is a giant bummer to E, not because she wanted to spend the entire game coloring—she will, in fact, spend most of it looking around in wonder—but because she won’t even have the option.

Nonetheless, I count on one moment to deliver, and it does. That moment is the curtain, where a spectator dramatically pushes aside the heavy, hanging dividers between the concourse and the actual arena to reveal the spectacle in all its glorious relief. And when E walks in, her face lights up. Here, she can immediately see, is where something is happening.

The music is too loud for her ears, but that doesn’t end up being the biggest volume-related issue, as we soon discover ourselves to be sitting in the midst of a large group of Kings supporters, one of whom has brought a giant drum which he bangs enthusiastically throughout the game. E is impressed, but also holds her hands over her ears during their loudest work. I reflect that this feels a bit more like Major League Soccer trying to adapt European traditions, but overall, it’s not bad.

The game starts, and E can’t see everything, on account of she is six years old, and people in front of her have heads on their shoulders. We change seats a couple of times, but overall, she is able to follow the crowd’s enthusiasm (not to mention her father and uncle’s) enough to understand the mood of the thing.

I don’t tell her about Ilya Lyubushkin’s absence, or about how he is, as we thought, not a long-term injury concern, even if he is doubtful to play in San Jose. Even if it means the Stars will be asking for more than they would prefer to ask from their bottom four defensemen, this team is still good enough to Do Things. I suppose they would prove that to be true, after a fashion.

Warren Foegle’s scoring 11 seconds into the game gives me pause, as it might mean E is in for a loud night in Los Angeles. She later decides she will keep score.

I don’t notice quite as many hockey details when I’m in the stands, as I’m watching the game as entertainment and production more than sport and execution. You tend to really pick up on the little scoreboard presentation elements, or the fan reactions at certain times, in ways that you don’t when you’re above them in a press area. And those things matter to a lot of people.

When you’re seeing the game through the eyes of a first grader, you notice just how much fun it is that a cute little carrot is racing along the advertising ribbon, or that the lady pumping up the crowd on the hanging video board can also be found, in real life, at one end of the arena. You understand, as a child, that entertainment is not about the score alone, and sometimes not at all.

The first period is a rough one for Dallas, with the Stars’ bleeding chances while surviving, eventually scoring a goal right before intermission to tie things up after a hilarious onslaught led by Matt Duchene’s line that must have had five or six shots on goal in the span of a couple dozen seconds. Duchene scores (while Matt Dumba and Brendan Smith collect rare assists), and the crowd groans (or swears, in the case of some of our seat neighbors), and E really starts to understand that attending games as a visiting fan with her father is a bit less exciting than cheering when all the music is playing for home team goals.

Right after the goal, Smith fights Tanner Jeannot, and John and I find ourselves having to explain to the very kindhearted six-year-old next to us why these two famous men are trying to punch each other so very theatrically, and violently. She does not appear to think much of our justification for their actions, but I’m long past being a credible source of moral instruction for her anyhow, so no big deal.

John wisely takes E for a walk at intermission, getting her a Drumstick ice cream treat. I remember being obsessed with the long red licorice ropes at Dodger Stadium as a kid, so I applaud her father’s willingness to employ similar tactics in pursuit of making lasting memories. Speaking for myself, it works.

The second period confirms that this game is going to be wacky, wild, and wonderful. Lian Bichsel’s stick gets broken, and Kevin Fiala exploits that fact perfectly, beating Oettinger with a great shot that was probably a long time coming for Dallas, whose defensive structure is in shambles. They will have to ride the wave and try to get off at the right time.

Thomas Harley does just that, responding with a rebound goal after a Cody Ceci shot, beating Trevor Moore to the rebound because he isn’t scared to go below the hashmarks. I do not try to tell E about how remarkable it is to see Ceci, Dumba, and Smith all on the scoresheet just two goals in, but I hope that someday, she’ll understand. Being a grown-up seems difficult at times, actually.

Alex Laferriere then scores a goal after Jake Oettinger gets a blocker on a Quiton Byfield shot, only for the rebound off the end boards to come imporably back toward the Stars’ goalie, bouncing off his lower leg pad and lying in the crease like an hors d'oeuvres that a diving Dumba can’t save (and never should have had to). E is noticing, at this point, that any time there is loud noise, it’s bad news for the team in green. I do not ask her opinion about the Darkness music, but I’d wager that she would probably have axed it, too.

I also find the time to honor uncles across the globe by showing E how deal with sticky ice-cream hands in a pinch, which you can do by pouring water onto them from a water bottle. This goes better than it has any right to, but it means one fewer visit to the bathroom, and who doesn’t consider that a win?

In the third period, Mavrik Bourque scores a goal to tie the game back up for the third time after Jamie Benn performs some dark ritual to stay onside, but the pictures don’t lie. Also, sometimes, pictures lie.

I choose not to show E any pictures of Mavrik Bourque after taking a recent puck to the face. I suppose I would miss a game if this happened to my face, too. E has had more than her own share of childhood bumps and bruises, but there’s no reason to get grauitous here.

Matt Duchene then gives Dallas its first lead with a beautiful move, firing a puck through Drew Doughty and past Big Save Dave Rittich, whose appellation will end up getting somehow chanted by the crowd in a 4-4 game. I suppose people just like rhyming, a lot. Also, with the 4 Nations tournament nearly here, can we please all agree to dispense with the “U-S-A!” chant? We have to be able to do better than that, though I fear we may not.

Anže Kopitar scores a goal to tie things up after Dallas sends four guys to the strong side of the ice, leaving Adrian Kempe far too unguarded. He shoots, he finds Kopitar’s skate, and the puck caroms into the goal. E is very annoyed by this fact and mischievously jokes about subverting “Go Kings Go!” with “Don’t Go!” and other creations in that line. Game presentation experts, she is coming for your jobs.

Somehow, the Stars make it to overtime after surrending a 2-on-0 and a couple of other Grade A chances down the stretch in regulation. Oettinger will not love this game, but he did enough to get the Stars in position to steal it. E plays soccer, so she understands the basics quite well, but even so, she knows that scoring goals is cooler than stopping them.

Overtime contains her favorite moment—or at least, it was when I asked her after the game—when the Kings’ hopes all got dashed after having the game-winning goal called back in overtime, when Drew Doughty skated into the crease of his own volition, presumably just to kick the tires on the goaltender interference rules. Well, tires kicked, my man. Tires kicked.

John and I both try not to worry about the fact that E just expressed how much she enjoyed watching a bunch of people feel sad. Schadenfreude is a developmental milestone for all of us, I am pretty sure. Either way, she is happy, and that’s the idea tonight. The other 17,000 people can worry about each other.

As the Stars live to lose another way after a harrowing final 30 seconds of overtime, John explains the impending shootout to E. Do I sense a bit of a lack of interest in the concept from her? After all, how is this related to the previous action? It’s an insightful reaction, really. But then, maybe kids understand the idea of betting everything on one big spin all too well. The next goal always wins when the end-of-recess bell is about to sound.

The Stars lose in a shootout, and a loser point feels right for a game where they battled but didn’t quite do enough things right. I resist explaining to E that any time Jason Robertson doesn’t score in the shootout, you may as well go home right then, because if he’s not automatic, nobody else is going to be, either.

E was happy for these people to be entertainers, tonight. All she cares about is whether the hockey guys did the hockey thing, or not. The defeat weighs on her for all of six seconds. The spectacle was spectacular enough to stick.

So we pack up and head out. We have places to get to, much like the entire team this weekend, when the 4 Nations break begins. Maybe a little senioritis has set in this week, but the Stars have one more game to prove otherwise, if beating the Sharks these days proves anything about anyone, other than the Sharks.

One young fan skipping back through downtown won’t mind the result of that game too much, though. We finally reach the car and begin to head home, and she is happy as ever, flush with excitement from a new experience, but also clearly glad to be back in familiar confines. E then realizes the best thing of all: she can finally get out her markers again.