A crazy, ten-hour-long series of interviews for new attorneys meant that I was freed from reception for nearly the entire day, and both Harold and Walter were out today. I capitalized to get a pile of work done; excavating boxes in the basement can be time-consuming, assuming they're to be found at all. Contractors were swarming about the office all day, installing new, energy-efficient lighting that's brighter and whiter but creates a hospital-like atmosphere in sparsely decorated rooms. I left work as soon as possible to meet Iris at TD Garden, where we waited outside until a small flock of Northeastern students showed up with the discounted tickets.
We were split up into a few groups and parted ways with Sara and Elizabeth. Iris and I climbed up to the nosebleed section (ahem, Premium section) where I ended up immediately next to another Northeastern student - wearing a Devils Winter Classic jersey. This would be my first NHL game and I was seated next to a fan of the franchise I most despise. The view from up top was beautiful and we had lots of room to walk around; the worst thing was a comparative lack of crowd noise. The Devils scored about a minute and a half in, forcing me to endure the wretched existence of the guy next to me. The Chara-less Bruins were nonetheless able to tie the game up on the power play, and Bergeron struck again before the first period was over, putting the crowd in a more jovial mood. The obscenely ancient Jagr managed to even the score again at the beginning of the second, but the best was still to come. Seth Griffith, physically hounded by two defenders, somehow spun around and shot the puck between his own legs and went five-hole on Schneider. The goal put the Bruins up 3-2, but I think its most powerful effect was to shatter the Devils' confidence. A fourth goal a minute later sank the final nail; New Jersey looked lost on the ice. They made a big effort later in the third period, but I could feel it was already over. Boston took the game 4-2, and all was right with the world.
We decided to skip the mob in North Station and instead walked to Park, where we caught the D line to Fenway. I was seeing yellow for the entire journey, both in the "Bruins victory afterglow" sense and also "why did I drink a beer and forget to hit the restroom?" A pit stop shortly after we disembarked fixed that problem, and we moved to the next one: a five-dollar hot dog was clearly not enough to sate my hunger. On impulse, we decided to go to Burger King, where Iris has somehow never ordered anything but a doubtlessly mediocre chicken sandwich. I stuffed my face and went home to pass out.
Quote of the day:
Iris: "What are you looking for?"
Me: "A Devils fan to pour this on."
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