Over this winter break, while most of you were cozy at home, I was back here at Skidmore working as the Penalty Box Boy at our hockey games. I sat in this little glass box, and when a player got a penalty I would open the door, sit with them for two minutes, and then let them out- or, as I called it, speed dating.
I worked at our home game against St. Andrew’s College. As our players took the ice, the Skidmore crowd began to chant “GO WHITE!”- ostensibly referring to our uniform colors. It was impossible to ignore the fact, however, that our players were all suffering from a melanin deficiency. Nothing like some *lite* racism to set the mood for a hockey game.
“Hey Rams,” one of our Thoroughbreds said before the game. “Are you gonna be in our box today?”
“Sorry, boys,” I told him and his salivating buddies. “But I play for the other team.”
I took my position in the St. Andrew’s penalty box, lit a few candles, burned an incense stick, and laid rose petals on the ground. This was going to be a crazy night. I know what you’re thinking- isn’t that a Catholic school? Wouldn’t these players refuse to engage in homosexual activity with a stranger during a hockey game? Well then you probably haven’t heard the old saying: “A saint on the hockey rink, but a sinner in the box.”
The game got underway, and it wasn’t long before two of the boys got tangled up on the ice. “High sticking!” declared the referee. An angry St. Andrew’s player was escorted over to the penalty box, where the sticking would only continue.
“Welcome to my box,” I told him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“F*ckin’ refs!” exclaimed my player. He threw his helmet on the ground, letting his dramatic brown locks fall over his shoulders “They’re full of shit!”
“Naughty boy!” I exclaimed. “I know St. Andrew didn’t teach you those words!”
He looked at me across the box, taking me in for the first time. The aroma from the incense floated up to his nose; I had picked frankincense, sure to arouse any good Catholic boy.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Judas,” I replied. “Why don’t you take off your pads and stay a while?"
I saw the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between his raging homosexual desire and his fear of eternal damnation.
“I guess it couldn’t hurt…”
“You know we only have two minutes, right?” I asked, looking at the penalty clock.
“It’s okay,” he replied. “I never take that long anyway.”
Limbs, sticks, and pads were everywhere as myself and this young man went at it. Soon the glass box began to fog up from our intense sexual heat, and I slid my hand down the wall… you remember that scene from Titanic, right?
Soon the audience turned their attention away from the hockey game and towards my box. Mothers covered their children’s eyes, fathers said ‘Ew, gross!’ but didn’t look away.
“Go white?” someone said.
Before I knew it the two minutes expired and my DiCaprio had to return to the frozen waters. “I’ll never let you go,” I whispered as I shut the penalty box door.
My little rendez-vous turned out to have a pretty negative effect on the game. Although they were supposed to be shooting the puck into the Skidmore net, the St. Andrews players started pushing and hitting our players in a desperate attempt to get sent over to my penalty box.
“Look, ref!” they screamed, slamming the Thoroughbreds against the boards. “I’m soo bad! Send me to Ramsey’s box!”
The ref, a hate-mongering homophobe, refused to let the players in my box. Instead he simply ended the game, declaring a Skidmore victory. You’re welcome, boys.
After the game I rushed out to the St. Andrews bus to find my new lover. But, you all know the phrase: “The hardest part about hockey is telling the players apart. After the game. In real life. They are the Stepford Wives of sports.” I walked through rows of men with long, almost-feminine hair, Division III dad-bods, and small little whales on their polos. Fortunately, my penalty box lover reached out and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Thanks for a penalty I’ll never forget,” he whispered.
“I’ll always remember you,” I replied. I took out a Sharpie and drew an ‘X’ on his hand in case Skidmore played St. Andrew's again.
All in all, it was a life-changing experience. To have your own slapshot at love, contact the Athletics Department about becoming a Penalty Box Boy.
