It was November 28th, 2009. Madison Square Garden was voiding students, alumni, and non-affiliates—most drunken, nearly all white—from the Cornell/BU men’s ice hockey game.
I was talking on my cellphone near the MSG taxi kiosk when I felt a push. There were a lot of people moving around, so I stepped a few paces over and paid the push no mind. Then I felt it again. But this time it was steady, as if some small body were trying to move me into the stream of hockey fans.
When I turned around I saw You. You were 5′ 3″ at the most; you wore a breezebreaker and a cute baseball cap. The short blond hairs on your small head were escaping the lid in lil curls.
“You wanna go?” you said, looking up into my eyes.
The question—which was almost a command—surprised me. I was in the middle of making plans with my girlfriend whom I had on the line at that very moment.
You repeated the line with such shit-faced tenacity that I couldn’t believe this was really happening.
What surprised me even more was how light you felt, Little Guy, when I pushed you away from me. It was like you had no weight to you at all. (Were you on roller skates?)
I thought about where I was going to hit you. Temple? Throat? (Yes, the throat.)
But then I found your Tall Friend lingering a few steps behind you. It looked like his normalize-size stomach had handled the liquor just fine, so I gave him a take-care-of-this-asshole look.
“Come on, dude,” I said to Tall Friend. “I didn’t do anything, I’m talking on my phone.”
Tall Friend put his larger hand to your face—he smooshed it, Little Guy—and said, “Let’s go!”
Tall Friend shook my hand.
“Great game,” I said.
“Yeah, we almost won,” he replied.
I had no idea which team you guys had been rooting for. The game had ended in a 3-3 tie in OT.
I didn’t feel like asking for clarification, but I did want to say, Why are you doing that, Little Guy? Why are you picking on the wrong guy?
But you were on your way elsewhere, where I hope Tall Friend was able to save you from even more stupidity.
