The new year, I thought, would be a good time to give the Blackhawks a new chance. So on New Year’s Day I dutifully rejected the college bowl games and trekked to the United Center with a buddy to see the Hawks take on the Toronto Maple Leafs. I had called the day before to see if any $15 300-level seats–the UC equivalent to the upper balcony in the old Chicago Stadium–were available, and they were; but though we arrived more than an hour before game time they’d all been sold by the time we got to the ticket window. So we had to pay $25 for seats in the tenth row of the 300 level, just three rows–barely ten feet–down from where the $15 section began. I suspected a conspiracy. But in all fairness to the Hawks and their ticket agents the $15 seats did seem sold out by the time the game started, albeit with empty pockets here and there where groups of season ticket holders clearly had opted for football over hockey. More aggravating were the entire rows of empty seats below us in the 300 level–but those, of course, were $40 a ticket. (In fact, the 300-level sections behind both goals were to remain largely vacant all night–a sign of fan rebellion, or at least fan apathy.)
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Yet those fans remain the most fiercely loyal sports fans in the city, and by the time we had all finished clapping and roaring our way through the national anthem–by the time the hard-rock hits played during warm-ups had yielded to Frank Pellico on the organ playing “Pennsylvania Polka” and “Lady of Spain” (complete with castanet sound effects)–I was glad to be among them. Last season, when I paid my way into the 300 level on a Friday night, it struck me as much more of a scene-making experience; the twentysomething singles and couples greeted each other as if they were regulars at the same trendy sports bar. New Year’s Day, however, seemed to bring out the true hockey fans. We were seated right in front of a pair of tough, gruff women–a south-side mother and daughter, apparently–who were as boisterous and knowledgeable as any fans I’d heard at a game in some time.
“C’mon, Antonio,” the younger woman yelled at Tony Amonte early on. “Hit that sonofabitch!”
Remember, we were seated midway up the 300 level, more than 100 feet from the nearest player, but that didn’t stop them from making their opinions known, and they didn’t just yell and shout. Between periods, I overheard the younger woman explaining to her mother just what was wrong with the Hawks–that they had no star presence, that they needed to consummate the long-rumored deal that would bring Brett Hull back to Chicago, where his father Bobby had established himself as one of the greats of the game, and that they’d still need another center and a right wing after that. I’ve heard people who get paid to think about such things put the Hawks’ problems much less succinctly on television and radio.
Shantz got his goal back in the second period with a score on a nice centering pass from behind the net by Miller. Shantz celebrated by skating backward and giving his fists the old double pump in the manner of Denis Savard. The tie was short-lived, however, as defenseman Eric Weinrich’s unwise cross-ice pass was intercepted by the Leafs in the Hawks’ zone, resulting in a breakaway by Steve Sullivan. He deked Hackett, then backhanded the puck off the back of the goalie’s leg. It caromed agonizingly slowly across the goal line while Hackett sprawled for it. The second period ended with the Leafs up 2-1.
As I pulled on my coat and tugged my cap down low on my forehead, I sure hoped those women got home all right. The city–much less the Hawks–can ill afford to lose fans like that.
