It’s a pretty big effing deal that the Blackhawks just won their second Stanley Cup final in 3 years, and I would just like to take a minute to reflect on that glorious summer of 2010 when they last brought home the cup, and proceeded to party their goddamned faces off in the Windy City.
You couldn’t go to any bar or club in River North on any given Thursday/Friday/Saturday night that summer and not wind up bumping into the young guns. They were on top of the world! Club owners always had a table and free bottles set aside, hot chicks were lining up to throw themselves at the guys, and bros were buying them drinks and congratulating them everywhere they went. These guys were living the life, man, they had it MADE and there was no one who dared say no to them.
Until they met my friend, whom I shall call, “Marsha.”
We’re out at Social 25 (lay off, we were actually 25 alright????) one night. Marsha, a DIE HARD Blackhawks fan, grabs my arm and squeezes hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises. “THE BLACKHAWKS ARE HERE!!!!” she hisses into my ear. I grew up on the West Coast where hockey is non-existent outside of what I think may be Anaheim – well until the last two or so years when the LA Kings decided to get really good – so I never watched it until I moved to the frigid tundra that is Chicago. I knew that it was a big deal for Chicago to have won the Stanley Cup, and I had “watched the games” (read: gotten drunk at a bar) with my boyfriend at the time, but I would not have been able to tell Patrick Kane apart from any other underaged Canadian in a club.
Marsha points at a table full of what I assume has to be 12-year old boys. They are clearly scoping out the club for chicks, and their eyes land on the group of girls I’m with. Some of the girls go over to say hello, including Marsha, who is totally starstruck. I hang back, mostly because my boyfriend is at the club with us and also because I don’t really care who the hell these jokers are.
I decide that I’ve had enough Red Bull to start cutting a rug, and once I get going, it can be quite the spectacle. Mostly because I flail around a lot and just high kick people in the shins. I look up towards Marsha, and lock eyes with a cute guy in a black v-neck at the table. He’s definitely staring at my little shit show dance routine. I smile at him, he smiles back. The boyfriend comes over and says loudly in my ear, “I don’t care that he’s Jonathan Toews, if he keeps looking at you, I will knock him out.” I tell him he ought to be flattered that a Stanley Cup winner wants to give his girlfriend herpes.
I look up at Marsha again a little later (lies, I totally was looking to see if Toews was still checking me out, but he’d clearly moved on to some hot little blonde thing), and I can see her eyebrows raised and she’s talking rapidly and sort of gesturing animatedly at this one guy who has this incredibly ridiculous mullet. Once she finishes whatever it is she is laying down on this poor guy, she walks back over to me pretty shortly thereafter and says, in her MOST offended and indignant voice: “I just TOTALLY reamed out Patrick Kane for calling girls ‘sluts.’ Can you believe it? OF ALL THE NERVE.”
Marsha. You are my hero.