Once upon a very recent time, there was this well meaning, if not-too-bright on-line sports journalist. Hereafter said sojourner shall be referred to as Dab (Dumb-ass blogger).
At any rate, Dab happened to wander into a watering hole in the greater Detroit area not long ago. Upon entering, it was immediately apparent this particular establishment was a big-time Red Wings bar.
The guys and gals were all decked out in various red and white Wings' paraphernalia. Caps, shirts, jackets, jerseys, the works. Names and numbers everywhere. Posters adorned the walls and the monster TV screen was all set up for Game 7 of the Detroit/Tampa Bay playoff series. This place would be rocking shortly.
They even had a bowl of free red "wings" (the chicken variety). Nice touch, thought Dab. He'd never seen red wings before. Must be some sort of food dye. So he put a couple on a plate, sat down at the bar, ordered a beer, took a bite out of one and started chewing on it.
Within a few seconds, Dab realized something had gone horribly wrong. He would later learn the red dye was no dye at all, but rather some sort of Satanic mixture of habanero and ghost pepper sauce. At that point in time, Dab did what any other gentleman would do in such a situation. He made a mad dash for the restroom and tried in vain to drink water from the sink to quell the volcanic eruption that was happening in his mouth. Dab could hear guffaws from without. Finally, after perhaps 10-15 minutes, which seemed more like days, Dab was able to re-emerge and resume his seat on the stool, though he was painfully aware of the smirks from around the room.
A rather large brute with a winged-wheel tattooed on his forehead, real or fake Dab did not know, took the seat next to him and asked the following question:
"Hey buddy. Did you see Game 6 a couple days ago?"
"As a matter of fact, I did", replied Dab.
"What did you think of that Kronwall hit and him getting suspended for tonight's game?"
"Well, I'm OK with it, I guess."
"What's that supposed to mean?", added a woman with winged-wheel fingernail polish that had quickly approached and jumped in.
Uh-oh, thought Dab. Maybe that was the wrong answer.
Others closed in and more verbiage followed.
"Hey, the refs didn't call anything and they don't miss much", said one.
"It was only a Russky getting decked by one of our guys", added another beefy one with a shaved head and one red and one white earring.
"Who's side are you on, anyway?", roared an elderly woman with a bright red capped front tooth.
Yep, definitely the wrong answer at the wrong time in the wrong place, Dab astutely concluded. But deftly gathering his wits about him the sojourner make a brilliant come-back and responded with....
"Um..."
As the masses with red and white mayhem on their mind were closing in, the bartender came to our hero's rescue.
"Okay, guys. Give the man a little room and let him speak his piece. Go ahead mister."
Dab wasn't at all sure he wanted to say anything further, but all eyes were upon him and a response seemed mandatory.
"Look at it this way", he began. "If a Tampa Bay player did to Zetterberg what Kronwell did to Kucherov, would you think him getting suspended for a game was the right call whether a penalty was initally called or not?"
Hard stares, but silence. Dab pushed on.
"It just so happens I'm a Red Wings fan too, but the game has to be fair and work both ways. Folks down in Tampa feel the same way about their team. One of them is going to win tonight and the other's season will be over. Either way it's not the end of the world. I just hope it's a hard fought game and nobody gets seriously injured."
The hostile masses slowly withdrew and began conferring amongst themselves.
"Nice save", said the bartender, and he leaned in closer. "But you were never in any danger. They're all Red Wing hard-cores, but basically harmless. They wear the gear and bark a lot but don't bite".
"That's nice to know", said Dab. "I was a little concerned there for a second".
"If it makes you feel any better, here's a little secret. I've been a Montreal Canadien fan since I was a kid, but none of them know about it".
Smiling back, Dab replied, "So how do you put up with this insanity for every Red Wings game?"
"Simple. They think I'm one of theirs so they tip me really well. When one is in Rome trying to make a buck...", he softly chuckled.
Dab was impressed, but another question popped into his still somewhat hot head.
Devilishly winking at the bartender, he asked, "So what would happen if I turned around and announced you were a Canadien fan?"
"That would backfire on you in a hurry".
"How so?"
"They wouldn't believe it and I'd announce right back you just told me any pansy hockey fan could eat six of those red wings over there in that bowl. Then I'd take my own leisurely visit to the men's room and let those good folks out there take care of whatever happened next. Good luck with that."
Even your average Dab eventually sometimes realizes he's been seriously outflanked and it's time to mosey on down the road to greener, and cooler pastures.
Alas, the real Red Wings would later go down to Tampa Bay and be eliminated. No doubt there was much grief in said establishment when the final horn sounded. Dab was thankful he wasn't still around to witness that.
Nice tavern. Cold beer. Very interesting bartender, and the regulars indeed turned out to be harmless enough. Dab still wonders about the red tooth, Wings earrings, fingernails, and tattoo. Will they disappear now or are they there year-round? Will the same folks swap it all in for Detroit Lions' Honolulu blue and silver stuff in the fall when another mania begins?
Dab doesn't know, but he learned one valuable life lesson during that particular stop.
Beware of those red chicken wings. Those little buggers will hurt you worse than any check Kronwall can deliver.....
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