Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Homestretch

I can see the finish line, but that's only because the homestretch is completely straight. I'd say there's still roughly 26 figurative miles left before I start to get some real rest. The next three weeks will likely be some of the longest of my life.

The next three weeks will feature the end of Bryan's semester and the official closing of the Rhea House, some anticipated tough negotiations about my summer housing, coverage for the incredibly busy conclusion to the spring sports season and the annual Strawberry Festival, a Nickel Creek concert, a decision on my last day at the Herald and pre-planning for the fall semester among other things.

Last night we honored our non-returning Student Life staff in our final meeting of the semester. The night lasted well into the night, nearly 2 a.m., but the entire meeting was a big success in my eyes. The mood was understandably somber, due to the tight bond the group has established over the last eight months. It's strange to think that it's been that long, and yet there's still so much I haven't been able to do. I was struck by the fact that I will have little if any time with most of the soon-to-be-gones before gradutation, and it made me wish I had found a way to make more time to spend getting to known their hearts. I don't expect to never see these people again, but it's humbling to think that all we have is the current moment. I wish I could think that way consistently.

Sunday was a whirlwind with my good Russian friend Serge coaxing me into a trip to Nashville. After a breakdown of sorts the day before, Serge suggested I head with him to the Predators-Sharks playoff game and I was all too ready to get away from my surroundings. I'd always wanted to attend a hockey game anyway, so the idea seemed like a good idea.

The Preds didn't seem to get the notice that the game would be my first to attend, despite Serge's many reminders to me and anyone else that would listen, and the Sharks won a 3-0 game, but I was pleasantly surprised by the experience. I imagine that it was comparable to attending a cockfight or being abducted by aliens. For anyone wondering what happened to hair bands from the lates 80s and early 90s, they live in hockey arenas. From the outset of my entrance into the game I was welcomed by the likes of Guns and Roses, Poison, Whitesnake, etc., and the entire game was like a rock concert.

Upon arriving at our seats, we found ourselves sitting next to a couple in the third row of the upper level behind the net. He was in his early 50s and was deaf in his right ear from an old war injury in Vietnam, while she was probably 10-15 years his younger and blessed with a freakishly loud scream. It made sense that she sat on his bad-ear side. Her claim to fame was that Sirius radio wanted to record her scream, while he used some colorful language to basically say, "we'll if you're going to go to your first hockey game, it might as well be a playoff game." Something about a cherry getting lost or something.

Initially, the two seats next to Serge were left open, leaving us with a little room to spread, which was really nice considering that the seats were about as wide as a child's booster seat, but the ticket holders eventually showed up so I got a lot of Serge on my right and more of Xena Warrior Princess on my left. The guy above never got to set off his hat, since Nashville was held scoreless.

I couldn't get past a couple of different things at the game. First of all was the odd paradox that is Nashville hockey. The fans are totally sold on the franchise. More than half of the fans seemed to be wearing team apparel, which creates an odd contrast when new age country music blares in between periods, sort of like a Presbyterian baptizing by immersion or a Baptist sprinkling. Secondly, I was struck by the violent nature of the sport that played out in the stands. Bodychecks were celebrated far more than precise passing or clutch goalie saves. I can't remember hearing any really bad language, but the number of families in attendance made it strange to hear virtually everyone in the arena scream "sucks!" after the announcer introduced each player of the opposing team (i.e. Announcer: Jonathan Cheechoo. Fans: Sucks!). I'm not sure there's much difference in the traditional booing of the other team, but for whatever reason it made an impression on me.

Saturday I went to the wedding of Steve Christian and Tiffany Manz, partially out of curiosity to be completely honest. I've often called the couple "Sonny and Cher" due to their variety show-like tagteam nature, so I attended the wedding somewhat like a person wanting to see the bearded lady or the wild boy at the circus. Carter Johnson, officiating the wedding, made a hilarious reference to "dessert coming after the wedding," and Steve wore his white snakeskin boots with his black tuxedo and sang one of his original tunes for Tiffany. I was really hoping Steve would wear his cowboy hat during the ceremony or that he would lasso Tiffany down the aisle.

Kedric came to town and gave me a joyride in his 1986 Lincoln. You'll never understand how big a Lincoln is until you sit in the front seat and realize there must another eight feet between you and the end of the car's hood. Kedric popped "Jock Jams" into the tape deck (which I imagined he listened to at least 12 times on his way from Orlando), rolled down the cool power windows and we were pimping. Too bad I forgot to take photos, but here's his beauty with his posse. John Shelley also made an impromptu stopover on my couch for the night, but little sleep and a long week on both our accounts sadly limited our conversation.

It will be nice to have some time to truly reflect on what the Lord has done this year in the not-so-distant future.