There are few things more frustrating than when a favorite shirt chafes one’s nipples.
[I could explain further, but maybe I’ll just leave that as is. Just throw it out there, ya know? See how it feels? See who sends me bizarre emails discussing how I’m “totaly f’d up man about the whole nipples thing but you know i have the same problem with my favorite pair of breifs totaly cutting my sack since i put on all that wait”? That’d be GREAT times. Nah, let’s flesh out the details.]
Sunday was an abnormality, caused by my being invited to sing the Canadian National Anthem at a Philadelphia Phantoms hockey game.
<JIM GAFFIGAN>Wait, he’s not Canadian! That’s just ridiculous. He’s not even named Doug or anything.</JIM GAFFIGAN>
The Toronto Marlies (winner of the 2006 “Team Nickname That Is Least Likely To Get The Goalie Laid”) were in town for Sunday’s game, so they needed somebody to sing “Oh, Canada,” and the gal they normally used was out of town. I guess someone mentioned they needed a replacement, and the inimitable (I like that word) Brian Smith chirped up and said “My boy Hearn is ALL OVER THAT, beotch.” (Not an actual quote.) Brian even managed to scrape up some free tickets for my parents and sister so they could come entertain themselves with my gooniness.
<JIM GAFFIGAN>I wonder why his wife didn’t go. I bet she thinks he’s a loser. I heard she’s leaving him for a hotel janitor named Consuelo.</JIM GAFFIGAN>
I threw on my good suit (Calvin Klein, baby, and I assuming it’s made of dead baby seal skin, since it cost almost as much as my first car) and what is turning into my favorite shirt: thin stripes in red and purple, double button at the neck (helps to contain my goiter), and best of all: french cuffs. Suitably duded up (or dutifully suited up), I drove to the Spectrum and did my sound check.
I’ve sung in large places before, but never a massive indoor arena where I’m the only person on the mic. The sheer volume of sound is amazing; it’s not loud, but it’s inescapable, like a lawnmower at 7am Sunday morning, except with alpine echoes. For a moment, I never felt manlier. Then I remembered I was singing “Oh, Canada,” and knew that somewhere, Jesus was crying.
I did get some nice extra bonuses in that pretty young women were leading me around so I would know where the hell I was going, and I got in Kjell Samuelsson’s way 3 or 4 times. You know how sometimes somebody (usually somebody not very tall) will be like “Oh man, that guy is totally huge!” And then you meet them, and you’re like, what? This guy’s a little over 6 feet and is as big around as my ankle. I guess I’m the only one that ever notices that, but know this: I am 6 foot 3 inches tall, and I weigh approximately 235 pounds. I say this not to brag, but merely to put into perspective the following statement: Kjell Samuelsson is farging huge. He’s relatively slender, but he’s gotta be something like 6’6″ or 6’7″, and the fact that he’s aged a little bit doesn’t change the fact that he could have killed me with his wang.
<JIM GAFFIGAN>That . . . doesn’t make sense. Is it like a boa constrictor? Or is it like the “squirrel/duct tape/explosion preventative” joke that my husband tells when he’s had too much gin?</JIM GAFFIGAN>
The press box at the Spectrum is not as spacious as the one at the Wachovia Center. The whole building, come to mention it, just feels so miniature that you can’t imagine things like the 1983 NBA Finals taking place in it. There’s a lot of talk about how the technology of the arenas has improved, but having been in both of Philadelphia’s hockey stadiums in the last month, I can tell you that scale has as much to do with modernity as jumbotrons and concourses with views of the action. Have Americans enfattened that much in 35 years that they increase the size of the seats by 30%?
Yes. Oh God, yes.
The press box is also very warm, which is odd to me considering it’s in a massive building that contains what amounts to a 6″ block of ice and all the apparatus needed to keep that ice solid. After a while, I started to itch and chafe, as I am wont to do (this is why I avoid exercise: sweat turns me into one large twitching and scratching monkey), and realized that something in the material of my shirt, which was purchased in a boutique in New York City, was sandpapering my nipples. I thought I was going to start leaking like a new mother, except instead of colustrum it would have been nipple-blood. Horrible, horrible times, that. Even today my jaun is tender. My nerps haven’t felt like this since…uh, nevermind, that was, uh, nevermind.
<JIM GAFFIGAN>Nipple blood? This guy is gross. He’s gross.</JIM GAFFIGAN>
Just before gametime, I was led back down to the tunnel, where I was able to watch the Phantoms players go by (many of them are also very, very large; if I were a hockey defenseman at the pro level, I would actually be slightly undersized), and stand in Mr. Samuelsson’s way a few more times. Then they led me out, with a 6-foot walking Elmo. I watched a group of children butcher sing “God Bless America,” and then I was on.
I had spent significant time over the past days learning the words to “Oh, Canada,” but just to be on the safe side, I had a small piece of paper with the lyrics cupped in my hand. I picked a pitch (which turned out to be rather low; I sounded like Barry White if Barry White was one to sing Canadian National Anthems at hockey games) and launched away. As is my wont, I tried to connect with the audience a bit, because somebody told me that’s what good singers do, but the bulk of them couldn’t have cared less about me. They were dutifully looking up at the Canadian flag, which is when I realized I should have combed my hair into the Barry Melrose mullet.
After I was done, I wandered back to the press box and kept score for a while. At the first intermission, I caught up with Mom, Dad, and Liz (happy birthday Liz, btw, who is now old), and got a cheesesteak and a soda. The cheesesteak wasn’t half bad, for stadium fair, and it was free, which always tastes better, even if the meat was clearly grade Q.
The Phantoms, sadly, lost the game, because the opposing goalie was on fire. He ended up being one of the “three stars;” hockey tradition dictates that some impartial observer (in this case, some guy from the AP) pick the three players that had the greatest impact on the game. The “Third Star” was Jim Campbell of the Phantoms, so Brian had me go fetch him. Just so you know: athletes that have just lost a game are not, by default, talkative individuals. I told Jim he was the third star, and he grunted either an affirmative or an instruction to get the farg out of his face before he took off his skate and stabbed me with it. So I skedaddled.
One side note: the Phils are 4-0 in spring training exhibition games. In terms of the regular season, these games are about as important as a drunken Episcopal church league softball game, but I’m still doing a little dance of joy.
<JIM GAFFIGAN>In his pants? Isn’t that what he usually says? I feel like that joke went nowhere. I want my money back.</JIM GAFFIGAN>
Dude. Jim Gaffigan HTML tags. I’m beyond words. That’s the funniest “schtick” you’ve EVER used. <KIP DYNAMITE>Oh, like you could even possibly know that.</KIP DYNAMTE>
Also, I’m glad you determined that professional athletes are large. I’ve heard you say that you could have been a linebacker, and although I wish that was true, one time at a party at Virginia Tech I saw some redshirt 1-star recruits. They were holding up an oak tree. I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean they chopped it down with their bare hands then held it up in the air like they were in the strong man competition on ESPN2. These guys were HUGE and were about the 107th and 108th best players on the team.
I feel my spirit lightened by your article because it lets me know that while Toronto may have the crappest team on the planet, their farm team at least can come down and kick some ass from time to time.
And I still say you should have sung the french version.