Game On: AIK IF vs. Superman
Come on downtown and stay with me tonight… I got a pocket full of kryptonite…
Stockholm, Sweden The worst thing that can happen to any hockey road-tripper or, I suppose, traveler in general, is ending your journey on a weak note or overstaying your welcome in one place. For me, the climax of my SHL adventure was in Gothenburg, which is why I am writing these posts out of order, as I truly feel my trip should have ended the night I haunted Frolunda’s home ice at Scandinavium.
Although I stick to my original statement that the SHL fans got louder and louder at each game I went to, Hovet in Stockholm was a rink I felt I didn’t really need to see. There’s nothing wrong with Hovet, but coming off a game in Scandinavium, the largest, most professional feeling rink in the league, it felt a little depressing. The fans, or the Black Army, were insanely loud and passionate. Unlike back home, where hockey fans generally require an event to get loud (like a goal, fight, or wicked save), the Swedish fans never take a break. They aren’t rewarding their players for good behaviour or a job well done, but rather, they seem to believe that they are actually influencing the outcome of the game with their constant noise.
There will always be at least one or two guys in the stands with his back to the ice – the “maestros of cheer” as I now call them. The maestro’s sole reason for existence is to make people scream (and not in the good way). He probably thinks he’s fucking awesome, but when you think about it, he’s not even watching the game he is SO fired up about! But, I found maestros at all the rinks I visited in Sweden. As for the AIK fans, truthfully, I’m surprised a fight didn’t break out in the stands as per the usual Flyers/Penguins tilt (especially when Philly is hosting *ahem*). That’s the other thing about the SHL fans, they are always trash talking each other because the visiting team ALWAYS has a booster club in attendance.
So, my Hovet/AIK experience wasn’t bad, it’s just that it wasn’t my favourite. After coming off of the game at Scandinavium, well, let’s just say it would be like seeing a Flyers/Pens match up in the beautiful CONSOL Energy Center one night, and then going to Nassau Coliseum on an off-night when the Isles are playing a team that nobody in those parts cares about – let’s say, Calgary. However, I suppose one can’t say she’s been in Sweden without visiting Stockholm, but 9 days is perhaps too long for a person like me to stay in one country.
You see, after about a week in one place, I stop being a tourist, and my anthropology and sexuality degree starts to take over. For 9 days I had been baffled by the aggressive and perplexing male attention. Each day there would be at least a handful of bizarre incidents that I couldn’t understand. It was clear to me that the men must have been seeing me as a something and not a someone. Like I said before, I kind of understand when stuff like this happens in Japan, Korea, or even in Saudi. Hollywood sex has hookerfied our culture to the outside world. But, I mean, this was Sweden and I am of pure European descent, so I couldn’t understand what was making me seem so exotic. I mean, at first I thought it was my slutty Hollywood accent, but when stuff started happening voice unheard, that theory flew right out the window.
The more men chased me down the streets or waiters touched me inappropriately, the more I had to know what the fuck was going on. I talked to every Swedish person I knew, I even found articles online about “dating” in Sweden, and slowly I started to formulate some hypotheses.
“Apparently,” the Swedes are a shy people, and I started to really notice it after learning of this. You’ll notice in Sweden that people don’t look at each other on the streets. Definitely a complete contrast to those of you from NYC! Now at first, you might think that they are stuck up, and that they think they are too gorgeous to give anyone the time of day. But, actually, it seems to be more insecurity based. So, I had a new theory, being a huge fan of people watching, I’m guilty of looking at everyone. And if by chance I looked at someone at the same time they were sneaking a glance at me, all hell broke loose. Therefore, I decided that I wasn’t being objectified, but rather I was just more approachable than the local flavours. Sadly, I would learn the hard way that my new and more pleasant theory was actually the wrong one.
My last day in Stockholm, I went down to the hotel lobby to have an afternoon coffee of the Irish variety. I was dressed in my usual hockey road trip attire – jeans, sweater, jacket, nothing scandalous at all to attract the slutty male gaze. The hotel staff were reconfiguring the lobby to host their weekly happy hour extravaganza. One of the men, who (obviously) had been paying too much attention to me ever since I arrived, was doing some of the more heavy lifting, when he looked at me and awkwardly gave an exaggerated “Phew.” The following is the actual short conversation that he and I had. Time yourself to see how long it takes you to get through it:
Me: Hard work?
Him: Yes. Do you want to help?
Me: I’m supervising.
Him: Everyone is a supervisor. What room are you staying in?
Me: Uhh… 623???
Him: I get off in an hour. I can meet you upstairs.
Well, my eyes practically bulged out of me head. I couldn’t understand where the fuck he got the nerve to say something like that to me, especially at 4 in the afternoon! My back stiffened and my face grew serious, so that’s when he quickly and nervously added that my room would be a quieter place to talk. Right.
“Let me know!” He sang as he ran off to resume his duties. I knew the obvious decision was, “Fuck no!” But after 9 days in Sweden, the sexthropologist in me played Devil’s advocate. You see, “romancing” this hockey lady isn’t easy. I consider my “desire” to be a delicate eco-system that can collapse with an unwanted intruder or the tiniest offense. If I don’t like the power dynamic, for example, the walls come crumbling down. And once I’m mentally turned off, I instantly experience total revulsion. So maybe I expect my prospective “mates” to be at their best all the time, but much like the playoffs, that is how you ensure only the elite make it through to the final round.
Anyway, my eco-system was in turmoil over this unsavoury proposition. I clearly didn’t like that the guy just felt that he could invite himself into my bedroom out of the blue like that. I figured he might be a high risk for treating me like garbage or a hooker if I went along with it, and that was more than enough to turn down the dimmer switch of my “love.” But, then again, saying no wouldn’t solve the Swedish mystery I had been trying to unravel all throughout my vacation.
Back in Asia, being objectified really creeped me out, so much so that I would have never engaged anyone in something sexual out of fear of it turning into the worst (and creepiest) night of my life. Sweden was no different. Up until that night, the Swedish men that pursued me intensely found themselves out of contention on their actions alone. But then I realized that I had never actually proven that sleeping with someone, who saw me as a textbook sex object, was actually the worst thing in the world. And here I had a strapping Swedish man, who seemed to be following the Asian trend (it wasn’t uncommon in Asia to be approached by a random guy and straight up asked for sex, and as you read, it wasn’t exactly a different situation in the hotel lobby), giving me the opportunity to find out once and for all. I decided this was a theory that had to be tested. So, after an hour of intense vacillation, which involved my Irish coffees evolving to glasses of Veuve Clicquot, I made my final call.
Game on.
I put down my empty champagne glass, and headed for the elevators and my room. The guy had been lurking in that general area for most of that hour sending me the occasionally pervy look from across the room. “Sooooo?????” He asked wondering if I was going to let him get it in or not, and I answered him with one of my typical aloof yeahs. Apparently, the guy couldn’t even wait to punch out for the day, and immediately escorted me up to my room. The good news was that my room hadn’t been cleaned for the day, and so he urged me to call down and have someone make the bed in the very least. After some of the housekeeping staff arrived, he left to punch out and said he’d be back in half an hour.
That was when I really noticed the nerves. He was wringing his hands together and talking quite quickly. Plus, there was a definite quiver in his voice. The guy, who had the balls to proposition me within 10 seconds of talking to me, was nervous?!? You know how I feel about male fear, and his terror caused me to transform from the overly cautious theorist to the Komodo dragon, who had just delivered her fatal blow and was waiting for her prey to lose himself before being devoured.
30 minutes later he came back wearing a Superman t-shirt that he really knew how to fill out, if you want my opinion. “I’m Superman” he said nervously, obviously thinking he was being cute. I decided Superman needed to relax, so we started talking, and, well, the conversation really took off. But for some reason, Superman was getting more nervous and not less. I couldn’t understand why.
A few hours later, Superman looked like he had a pocket full of kryptonite, and I don’t mean that in the happy to see me kind of way. It looked like he was about to imploded. He literally started to freak out. “I don’t know what to do here,” he cried.
Me: What do you mean?
Superman: I’m starting to really like you, and I’m worried that I’m going to really, really, really like you a lot if I sleep with you, and you’re leaving, and I won’t be able to see you again, and I won’t know what to do.
My mind was blown. What kind of man of steel was this?!?! Now, I had noticed throughout the evening that he had blurted out things about being open to moving to the Middle East and the like, and while I chose to ignore them, the obvious, clingy implications were there.
Superman: I don’t know what to do. I want you, but I don’t know what to do here.
Me: I thought you were Superman?
Superman: NO! NO! I’M NOT SUPERMAN!!!
The Komodo dragon crept over to the wounded man of steel to marvel at the authentic shy Swede experience, but the delicate eco-system of her “desire” had been disturbed by Superman’s failing nerves. In short, I was suddenly turned off by his lack of manhood, and not in any way motivated to “influence” his final decision. I threw my hands up in surrender, “OK, well you can do whatever you want.”
Superman: BUT YOU’RE DEPRIVED IN SAUDI ARABIA!!!
Don’t do me any favours, buddy. Suddenly Superman began to whimper the way, say, a 12 year old girl might after texting the boy she likes at school (damn kids with their cell phones!). Finally, he gave up. “I really want to, but I think I need to cut myself off.” A bomb had been dropped over Stockholm with that. In a way it was sweet, but the cause of it was most definitely not. For Superman didn’t leave without blurting out the one thing that verified my original theory, “We shouldn’t have talked for so long!!”
You see, by “talking” I had evidently talked my way out of object territory and into human territory, and “on principle” he couldn’t do unsavoury things to a real person. So, I learned two things that night. 1) Don’t bother with men who objectify you, since they can’t even close when expected and are all talk and no action, and 2) in SHL Land friendly, dark haired puck ladies are considered sex symbols!
“I really want to hug you before I leave,” he said. “I really do like you.” With that the man of steel crushed me in his arms and wouldn’t let go. I decided I had no choice but to go limp and wait for him to get off me. Eventually, he released me from his arms, and then, just like that, Superman flew away.