My Night in the Penalty Box

New Years and New Year’s resolutions come and go, so I don't bother making them anymore. Usually by January 6 I've broken most of them anyway, so what's the point? However, there is one thing I resolve to never do again, in this or any other year. And so far, I've managed to succeed.

It was Hockey Night in Spokane. The Spokane Flyers were taking on their arch rivals from British Columbia, the Cranbrook Royals. I was 22, out with friends on a Saturday night and ready to go crazy. And after only one period, there’d been enough on-ice craziness to fill a week’s worth of games. Spokane's resident goon, Don Dirk, had already been ejected for getting into two fights with two different Cranbrook guys, the second bout sparking a full, line-brawl. In between fisticuffs, the game had featured plenty of intense, often chippy play and a bevy of bad calls that’d help give Cranbook the lead. Behind  3-1 after one, and over-stimulated by 20 minutes of bloodbath hockey and a slew of atrocious officiating, the Spokane Coliseum home crowd was fired up, to say the least; the old barn was buzzing with livid fired up hockey fans wanting retribution.

Now, horrible officiating in the Western International Hockey League (the big sounding name of the very small minor league Spokane and Cranbrook played in) was nothing out of the ordinary. But that night, Sam Sammartino was the referee, a squatty balding fellow who looked like the Pillsbury Dough-boy on blades. As the main villain-in-stripes, he’d been vexing the Spokane faithful for seasons. They hated him. And fueled by a raucous full house, plenty of cheap beer and a brutal first period of game mismanagement and botched rule interpretations, slanted heavily against the home team, the incensed locals were ready to erupt. Enter yours truly.

 

During the last minute of the first period, I left my friends in the upper level and raced down to ice level. Other patrons already congregating at the corner of the rink where Sam and his crew would be exiting. I wanted to join in the fun. As the first period horn sounded, a cacophony of curses, boos, heckles and cat calls rained down on the three officials from all corners of the 'Old Barn on Boone Avenue'. It was deafening. As the gate opened to let the trio pass, I watched Sam and his crew walk by, only feet away, part of a growing mob serenading Sam and his two linesmen in an up close and personal chorus of vile obscenities and tasteless heckling. It was great.

 

In the midst of the tempest, I looked down and noticed a small pile of ice shavings left behind from the Zamboni’s first use prior to the game. The end of the rink where the officials left was also where the Zamboni came on and off, too, and the little mound of 'snow' at my feet just minding its own business, gave me an idea. With the environment all around already amped by fans pelting the stripes with insults and profanity, I decided to pelt ‘em with something else. Stooping down, I quickly fashioned a snowball out of the remnant ice shavings and let it fly.

 

Of course I had to throw over and around some people and it missed, splattering on the floor behind and to the right of where the officials were heading. But they sure knew I was there. “Hey Sam. Put down the donuts and grow some eyes ya fat piece of shit!” It wasn't clever or particularly funny, but a couple dudes around me laughed, so I felt smugly cool. But the words were no sooner out of my mouth before a gruff hand fell on my shoulder which started steering me out of the crowd of onlookers. I couldn't see who had me in their grasp but whoever it was had little trouble controlling my movements. I started to protest, but the hand tightened its grip and pushed harder, and its owner’s commanding voice snarled, “Eyes forward and shut up!”

 

It took less than 15 seconds for him to forcibly remove me from the arena area and into a back office, which was just off the lower level concourse and out of sight of any public access. When we got inside, the man let go and told me to sit down. Then for the first time, I saw what I was up against—a big, thick mountain of a guy who didn't appear to have missed many meals or suffer Coliseum patrons getting out of line.

 

“What the hell were you trying to do, you skinny little prick, start a stampede? You were in the crowd. You knew people were pissed and that stupid little stunt of yours could've turned that overly-excited hockey crowd out there into an angry mob. Damn, I've seen dumb shits before, but you win the award." I felt my throat tightening as his eyes bore in on me. "Hey Einstein, it’s just a fucking hockey game. You aware of that?” Not completely witless, I was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question, and more than pretty sure he didn't want an answer. So I kept my mouth closed and just stared at him. "Don't give me the deer in the headlight look, either, bright boy. You know you're in big time trouble, don't ya?" I didn't look away or move, except to slowly nod my head.

"Yeah I thought so. But I sure as hell hope you don't have any plans because you're gonna be spending the rest of the weekend in jail. I've got you dead to rights on attempted assault and attempt to incite a riot."  Attempted assault? With a snowball?  Attempt to incite a riot? That one sounded made up but I wasn't going to challenge him. Although the man wasn't in uniform, he clearly had some type of authority and knew how to use it--he was definitely scaring the hell out of me. The guy had no badge or weapon, but made up for it with tons of attitude. If he wasn't a cop he was sure acting like one. He certainly knew how to throw his weight around. I was this close to having an accident.

My mind was racing, scrambling for options. But there weren't any. The man was in charge and I wasn't going anywhere. “Yeah, not so tough, now, are ya? Okay, let’s see some I.D.” Producing my Whitworth student ID card and California drivers’ license, he looked at me with even more disdain. ”Judus Priest, wouldn't ya know it? A fuckin’ college punk and, as an added bonus, from out of state. Figures…." Making a face like he'd been forced to eat a cow chip, he wrote the information down on his clipboard. "Fuckin'A, stupid college kid”, he muttered, though loud enough to hear the scorn in his voice.
Then after filling out the paperwork, he sat back and looked me over. “Okay, bright boy before I call one of the uniform guys outside to give you a ride downtown, let’s hear your side.”

 

But I didn't have a side. I'd thrown the snowball and was sorry I had. Even sorrier I got caught. I told him my friends were probably wondering where I was (he didn't care), and expressed my sincerest remorse (he still didn't care). I kept babbling on though, pleading my case (such as it was), hoping to delay my trip to the pokey or buy enough time to talk him out of sending me there. Yet my captor continued to simply stare at me in stony silence. He wasn’t going to let me go.

 

Good grief, what the hell would happen if I ended up in jail? The guys I came with didn’t have bail money. Shoot, we’d all spent our wads just on admission and a beer. Nobody at the dorm had any scratch either and as I squirmed uncomfortably on a cold metal folding chair, it suddenly dawned on me that everybody I knew in Spokane was a broke college kid. I was screwed. My only option was calling home. Oh dear, God, no! Please don't make me do that. It'd be humiliating enough to have my parents wire up bond money for one of my friends to collect at Western Union. It’d be the end of my existence if Mom or Dad brought it and sprung me themselves. Life without parole would have been preferable. There had to be another way out.

 

So I offered another five hundred apologies and mea-culpas, threw myself on his mercy and promised on my Mother’s name to never do it again. Finally, the guy held up his hand as if to say, that’s enough. Slowly he lifted his bulk from his desk chair and stood up. “Okay, hot shot. Sit tight. I'll be back in a few minutes.” And that's what I did- sat tight and didn't move a muscle. Inside the little office I was imprisoned in, I remained glued to that cold metal folding chair as if my life depended on it. Outside the second period of the game was already in progress. I could hear roars and lulls in the crowd and officials blowing their whistles; the organist played “Charge” a couple times, and the p.a. announcer said something I couldn't quite make out. I sat in that chair for 20 more minutes, awaiting my fate and wishing I could be out among the living again.

At last my big burly rent-a-cop friend came back into the room. Without a word, he sat back down at his Army surplus desk and made a couple more notations on his clipboard. From the time he'd strong-armed me out of the arena, to the time he came back from wherever he'd disappeared to, about an hour had passed. He still had me scared witless and about to pee my pants over the ramifications of what lay ahead. But worse, I really was about to pee my pants.  If he didn’t offer a bathroom break real soon, what lay ahead was a big puddle underneath my chair. It wasn’t forthcoming, though

 

Instead, the large scary man looked at my ID again, never called me by name, but began a new set of instructions. “Okay, Cy Young, I'm gonna turn you loose now and let you get back to your friends. Sign this report here.” Sliding the clipboard over, he pointing to the line where he'd drawn an 'X.'   He offered no reason for my release and I wasn't going to wait for one. Besides, if his sole purpose in life had been to scare the hell out of me he'd succeeded in spades. And more than drawing another breath, all I wanted to do was put my signature on the bottom line and get out of that room before he changed his mind.

 

“Now, this (pointing to the document I'd just signed) goes into a file here in my desk. And if you’re smart and keep your hands in your pockets from now on, it'll stay hidden there, unseen by anyone else, till you and I are long dead. But if you ever find yourself in this room again, even if just for dropping a gum wrapper on Coliseum property, a copy will accompany you and the Spokane Police Officer called to arrest you.” Then, for the first time, the man smiled. But it wasn't a friendly smile. “It's easier getting a conviction if there's prior evidence the defendant's a dumb shit. Ya follow that, dumb shit?”

 

I nodded “Yes sir.”

 

“Okay, so here's what you're going to do. You're going back where you were sitting and enjoy the rest of the game with your friends. Then when it's over, you and they are going to leave the arena in an orderly fashion and go quietly to wherever dumb asses like you go. But if I find you anywhere in the building or parking lot ten minutes after that, you won't be going home tonight. Am I clear on that?"

“Yes sir”

 

He handed back my wallet, license and ID. "All right. Now, get your skinny ass the hell out of here. And don't misunderstand me-- I don't ever want to see you again.”

 

“Yes sir” I answered once more, and quickly left the room.

 

My captivity ended during the break between the second and third period, and people were milling about talking and buying refreshments. Taking a deep breath in the smoke filled, crowded noisy concourse, it never felt so good being there. I was free. As I moved about, my pulse rate slowed and the scared-to-death part began draining away. I was still rattled but thank God Almighty, I wasn't under arrest and wouldn't be sharing a cell that night with one of Spokane's Most Wanted. I was free.

 

Although I don't know why I got off with just a warning, I wasn’t complaining. It probably didn’t hurt that I hadn't been drinking, was compliant and wasn't belligerent. I was also small and, though dumb, appeared, all things considered, rather harmless; in other words, a weenie. Whatever, it worked for me and I was never so grateful to be walking around among the masses. Joining my friends again as the third period started, I passed off my absence with the generic, stock and trade answer, “Oh, I ran into someone” Which was true. Sort of anyway.

 

By then, though, the Flyers were staging a ferocious come-from-behind-victory followed by pizza, beer and Foosball at 5-Mile Pizza, and the incident was soon lost in the glow of a good time, so I didn’t have to elaborate on my absence. Maybe the guys thought I‘d run into a chick. Ha. That’d be a good one. No really. (Insert name here) and I were just having a great time catching up. Sorry I didn’t bring her up to meet ya. Which sure beats, No really, I tossed a snowball at the ref and spent an hour in custody, being brow-beaten by a big ugly 'ol cop.

 

Oh well, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, and the truth is I’ve done a lot of other stupid things since that night at the Spokane Coliseum in 1977. But I never repeated that stupid thing. Proving once and for all, I haven’t completely squandered a perfectly good college education.