Take Me Out Of The Hockey Game

​​The Chicago Blackhawks public address announcer blares, "Kettle, One Minute to play." Oh, no, not another revenue-generating sponsorship has been slipped into the game experience with a premium vodka helping warn the fans that sixty seconds remaining in the period.  
Some consumer brand sponsors almost every aspect of the game. Corporate entities or other organizations regularly sponsor power plays and other in-game occurrences. But why not add more? What about Johnson and Johnson Bandages sponsoring ongoing injuries that draw blood?  
An orthopedic group can sponsor broken bones and shattered limbs. If  a player loses some teeth, the American Dental Association is perfect.  
On-ice fights could be sponsored by the World Boxing Association, or if a player is killed, it could be backed by a local funeral home chain. When players push, shove, and jaw at each other after a whistle, those dustups could be advocated by a local therapy center's anger management unit. Players caught committing an infraction and sent to the penalty box would be promoted by a law firm defense attorney. When a player breaks a stick, a local lumber yard would be perfect. Sometimes, players are ejected from the game for an egregious penalty. That would seem like a perfect spot for the United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement Agency (ICE) to reinforce the message. When head coverings rain down after a player scores a hat trick, an endorsement by Levine Hats would be perfect. When players collide or are checked heavily into the boards, Chicago's own Collision Barn would be quite a fit. Hooking penalties would be brought to us by a local escort service, while tripping infractions would be backed by cannabis giant Curaleaf. A player caught impaling an opponent with his stick would be a great opportunity for spear gun behemoth Spearitco. Timeouts, of course, would be perfect for Rolex.  
 
Just being able to hear which sponsor is being announced is a real challenge. During all stoppages of play, fans are bombarded with a constant barrage of invasive and damaging noise. Decibel levels associated with passenger jets assault your ear drums between whistles. Music that would repel Ozzy Osbourne is turned up to a volume that often causes ear bleeding. For fans to communicate with the person next to them, texting is the only option other than sign language and lip reading. I bought tickets for a hockey game, not a rock concert. I'd love for my kids to be able to hear me talk about watching Bobby Hull, Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard, and Jacques Plante or tell them that there is a piece of cheese-covered nacho stuck to their cheek. Oh, for the days when one had only the pastoral sounds from the stadium organ. And for God's sake, fans, please stop the whistling. It's so Canadian. Who are they playing that deafening music for? I have never once heard anyone ask for the sound to be turned louder or "I go to the games for the noise."  
 
And what about the constant barrage of so-called "entertainment" during times out and between periods? I mean, they must think we have the attention span of a five-year-old. One after another is a parade of contests and activities such as celebrity look alike, shell games, Kiss-Cam, guessing games, find Tommy Hawk in the crowd and a row versus row relay of a cardboard picture of a pizza.   This assault on the senses is so tiring that there should be, like in kindergarten, time for milk and cookies and a nap. Also, when was it okay to bring babies to a game? If the kid is still breastfeeding, I say leave him at home!
 
But all the annoyances during the game cannot be experienced without first being able to enter the arena. Getting into the building past the security personnel is like trying to go through a process that mirrors a TSA experience at an airport. One must pass through a metal detector while any potential triggering devices slide through an adjacent trough and undergo scrutiny by unpleasant people who act like they'd like to be anywhere else. All handbags are searched, and any larger than an iPad is rejected as being too big. Of course, we now live at a time when actual physical tickets made of paper are no longer accepted. So, having your ticket available via an iPhone is the only way to get in. God help you if you can't locate your e-tickets or the venue WIFI is balky. 
 
Once beyond security, one must navigate the crowded concourse. Contorting your body to slither through the fans is made more difficult by various obstacles such as performing musicians, shrill vendors, annoyingly oblivious iPhone selfie photo takers, and those meandering souls who have no idea where their seats are. It reminds me of the scene in the movie "Airplane" when Rex Kramer, the character played by Robert Stack, finally had enough and began to use martial arts to ward off the people in his way.
 
The adventure continues as one tries to take their seats. One must pass through an usher who inspects your tickets to see if you belong in them. Even though I have been in the same seats for twenty-five years, the rotating ushers are never the same, so they couldn't pick me out of a police lineup.
 
Once at the seats, one often finds people sitting in them who are not supposed to be there. Why they can't process the simple information on the ticket is beyond me. Of course, before sitting down, you brush off last night's popcorn kernels off the seat.
 
Once the game starts, you try to figure out which players are on the ice. Because of free agency's constant churning of the rosters, becoming familiar with your own team's players is a challenge, and pronouncing their names is often impossible. The NHL used to be entirely composed of pronounceable Canadians and Americans. Now, you have players from more than a dozen countries with sir names such as Tsyplakov, Achtymichuk, Vyazmikin, Afinogenov, and Balmochnykh. I remember the good old days when I struggled with names like LeFleur and Goyette.
 
I often feel more exhausted when I leave the games than some of the players. In fact, after the final horn, I half expect, like in the movie Gladiator, one of the players skates out to center ice and like Maximus Decimus Meridius shouts "Are you not entertained?"