The Ol' HOCKEY HUSTLE

By Bobby Crace for Snipetown

"Hey kid.  It's my turn to host the Predators box tonight.  Long story short, my wife's up my ass and I gotta pick up one of my kids from ballet, soccer, or whatever the hell my wife has them doing."

"Umm..."

"I know you're new, but the bosses don't care as long as some rep from Clear Channel is there.  Ya know in case any clients show up.  But no one ever comes to the Hockey games.  Now the box at Titans stadium…  Different story."

"I mean, if the bosses are cool..."

"Yeah yeah.  Of course they are.  I'll tell 'em you're doin me a favor.   You'll have fun.  You're twenty-fuck-all watchin the Predators from a fuckin box for free.  What a panty dropper.  Plus there's free beer."

The sales pit cleared out by 6PM.  The only time I had a chance to catch the owner of Cumberland Menswear on the phone.  It was also the only time I felt comfortable trying to sell ad time without all the older cynical 40 something sales reps breaking my balls and making me nervous.

"Yes is Mr. McHenry available?  This is Chris Harrison from 105.9 The Rock."

"This is but I haven't any time, Chris.  Moreover I'm satisfied with our current strategy on sports talk."

"Yessssir.  It is a great strategy, but you can really… ummm… ssssolidify your target demographic bbby adding a classic rock station to your talk radio cccam… campaign..."

"..."

"Hello."

Dial tone.

I was nowhere near my monthly goal... again.  The ax was eminent.  My manager had been making an example of Cumberland Menswear in regards to my ability to close business.  I swallowed the stress and walked the convenient 10 blocks to the stadium.

I expected at least two or three clients to show which worked my nerves just enough to hinder full enjoyment of the game from such prime seating.  But by the third period with a decent tied game against the Blue Jackets, I was finally able to relax.  I cracked a couple of beers, put my feet up, untucked my shirt, loosened my belt (finally relieving my yet to fade frat boy beer belly that was sore with red wrinkles being strangled in a cheap undersized suit for 16 hours), and enjoyed the royal view that the aligned stars had given me of what at the time to me was a peripheral sport. 

"Hey Chris, I heard you covered Dave's turn at the Predators’ game, yesterday.  Do you mind...."

"Harrison.  So the Predators are pretty good this year, huh?  Listen could you..."

"Hey kiddo, how ya doin? Look my kid's got this thing..."

"Hey buddy.  So..."

All the other reps could use their kids as an excuse, but they really just saw going to an unpopular NHL game fresh off a cancelled season as overtime.  How could I say, 'no'?  I was 24 years old, single, and doing terrible at my job.  I had to gain all the credibility I could.  So if I had to accommodate favors as luxurious as watching Hockey from a private box, so be it.  More so, after weeks of going to games, the Hockey bug had bitten me.  Growing up in the South, Hockey seemed so foreign and inaccessible.  It just wasn't something most southern kids played or were able to understand with a sport that has a lot of beauty lost in TV translation.  But after a month of watching it live, I was enthralled and considered watching live Hockey as one of the best athletic experiences a sports fan can have.

"Yes this message is for Mr. McHenry.  Chris Harrison from 105.9 The Rock again.  I would love to show you some of our station's demographics some time.  In fact we have a Clear Channel box for Predators’ games if you or your family would ever like to attend a game.  I'll keep business talk to five minutes.  Ummm…  It’s Suite S14.  You can just stop by…  Well, thank you for your time.  Again my number is 615-555-5444.  Take Care." 

"You left the Box number," I berated myself, "Way to sound desperate as fuck."

I had gotten comfortable in taking liberties with the box seats.  My disbelief was met with being borderline offended that of the hundreds of clients and staff no one wanted to see a NHL game from phenomenal seats.  I had about twenty games under my belt and literally not one client or coworker had shared the box with me.  So I got a bit complacent.  Changing into street clothes, getting drunk, inviting buddies to join me.  I tried to invite dates, but it's tough to sell pretty southern girls on Hockey.  Until...

"Hey Chris.  So I have a pretty big client, Todd Binckus, owns Music City Mazda, and he wants to go to the Predators’ game tonight.  Do you mind making sure he's all set up and enjoys the game?"

"You don't want to be there?"

"No.  Emily's sick and John has to work late.  Plus, you're the Predators’ guy.  You know how to talk Hockey and all that.”

"Yeah, sure."

I brushed up on selling points nervous that I would say something stupid in front of Debbie's client then headed to the stadium.

I don't know who Todd Binckus is or what he looks like, but he sure was not the stunning curvy girl-next-door-who-parties-with-the-best-of-'em beauty that wound up standing in front of me.  "You're definitely not Debbie."

"You're definitely not Todd…  Chris Harrison."

"Amanda Binckus." She was so hot that she made even her last name sound sexy.

"Whoa, boss's daughter." Reactive and insulting.  At least I'm adding to my repertoire of horrible sales tactics.  Can't give insecurity and desperation the entire spotlight.

"Yes.  I run marketing for Music City Mazda.  Are you our new rep?"

"No, no.  Debbie's kid has the flu.  And I usually host the Predators’ Suite.  Sorry 'bout the confusion.  Debbie told me your dad was a Hockey fan and wanted to watch the game."

"I don’t know why she would’ve thought Dad was coming…  Debbie doesn't take my role in the company seriously."

"Naahh.  That's not true."

"The whole point of me being here is to help establish myself as the contact for all our marketing."

"I hear you loud and clear...  Tell ya what.  You did not come here in vain.  I will sit down with Debbie tomorrow and tell her how she needs to take you more seriously and deal with you directly or she's gonna loose Music City as a client.  I'll make it look like it's my insight into the whole situation like you had no influence on me at all."

"Sounds like a plan...  You look a bit young yourself to host a Clear Channel box."

"No one wants to go to Hockey games here and I'm low man on the totem pole.  Terrible punishment, right?"

"I love Hockey.  Used to date a goalie back in college."

"Well, look at you.  Wanna beer?  We got Brats and fries.  I get all this to myself.  Nice to finally have some company."

"Ya know what we might as well make a night of it."

The same stars that aligned to allow me the opportunity to watch so many free box seat Predators’ games, conspired to have Cumberland Menswear’s owner Avery McHenry finally give into his son, Steven's, repeated requests to go to a Predators’ game like Jimmy and his Dad (Ottawa Transplants) do all the time.  Plans were made.  Jim Sr. assured Mr. McHenry he had two extra tickets to a rare interconference game against the Senators.

"Excuse me.  Sorry.  Comin through.  Sorry.  'Scuse me.  Sorry."

The two sets of father and son settled into their bleacher seats.  After the first period the initial stadium awe and pro sports pageantry failed to keep the 8-year-old’s attention causing Steven to be a more open with his complaints.

"Daaaad.  I can't see the puck from here."

"Steven.  Jimmy's dad was very generous to get these seats for us.  You say sorry for being rude."

"Sorry."

"Aawww no bother…  Oh look Steven.  That guy comin on the ice now, Chris Neil?  He's what a team calls their enforcer.  He's the toughest fighter on the team and fights anybody who messes with the star players."

"Cool."

"Sorry about that, Jim.  He's just a bit cranky.  I can't thank you enough for setting this up."

"Nothing like watching sports with your son, eh?"

"Special indeed.  Ya know Jim, and this is only a suggestion, I mean no disrespect.  But I just remembered there's this kid at 105.9 The Rock who's been trying to sell me ad time for weeks.  The company has a Suite here.  He's offered before."

"Yeah, give him a call."

"Let me check my messages.  Hopefully I didn't erase it."

"He's not answering, but he left the Suite number on his message.  Wanna go knock on the door?"

"Worth a shot."

"Yeah," the kids agreed with adventure excitement.

After some beers, a couple of nips from my work flask, and a vulnerable conversation about her recent ex-boyfriend, I was in the midst of a second miracle on ice with a girl way out of my league.  Rolling on the floor behind the box's dozen or so chairs, clothes began to come off.

"Wait what if somebody comes in?"

"Nobody has for over a month.  And it's the luckiest day of their life if they do get a glimpse of your flawless body."

Sold.

The most use I had gotten out of this ratty suit was with my pants at my ankles unable to get them over my Kmart dress shoes in time, my tie lost to the world, dress shirt opened minus a few buttons, and jacket still on for the business session as she rode on top of me with a ferocity of someone exorcising something.  I couldn't fully admire her sizable teardrops and honey skin because I was holding on for dear life trying to repress my approaching orgasm while she grinded me into the earth.

At some point somebody scored.  The Jumbotron sounded its air horn along with the net's siren and then some Muzac sounding Predators rock song played indicating a goal for the home team.  I focused in on the sport trying to distract myself from the pleasure.  I imagined the goal in my head, ‘Kimmo to Sillinger who fakes out Smolinski, gets an unbelievable pass off to Kariya who's flying down the wing, it's a break away, just Emery to beat, Kariya stops on a dime spins, fakes Emery out of his pads, stick side, high!!!!!   GGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA....'

The kids burst through the door of the Clear Channel Suite before Mr. McHenry could knock.

"WHHHOOOOOAAA!!!" The kids were shocked by their first glimpse at a real naked girl.

"Ahhh!" Amanda freaked and ran to the bathroom.

"Oh shit!" I scrambled.

"Oh Jesus." Mr. McHenry tried to shield the boys' eyes.

"What the fuck, Avery?"

Naturally, I was nervous the next day at the office.  While blankly fumbling around with my email to kill time, Debbie gave me the sneak attack and I almost shat myself.

"I don't know what you did.  But Todd's daughter just called and added a fuck load of prime spots and doubled their off prime spending.  I owe you dinner, or a CD, or whatever the hell it is you kids like?"

As Debbie was talking, my deskwork phone rung for the first time in three months.

"Alright, big guy.  Starting to get some incoming calls," Debbie checked the Caller ID, "Oooo and Cumberland fucking Menswear, Avery McHenry, big fish.  Look at you.  Maybe I don't need to buy you dinner.  Good job buddy, getting incoming calls from a big client.  You’re turning the corner before the ax, that's tough to do in this biz...  Well, aren'tchya gonna answer it?"

I never saw any of those dinners, lunches, or favors they all promised.  Sales reps are full of shit.  Once the Predators made the playoffs that year everybody was suddenly the biggest Hockey fan.  I didn't get to go to any playoff games (which is a shame mainly because Hockey produces some of the most exciting playoff drama in all of sports).  Those games were reserved for the bosses and Sr. reps. But I did get to see one of Nashville’s best regular seasons from a royal view, have relations with a woman so far out of my league that it could only be done in a private (somewhat private) stadium suite, and became a life long Hockey fan.