The State of Massachusetts

tUMD 4, Rowdyhawks 2/tUMD 1, Rowdyhawks 4

It takes nothing short of an epic road trip to rouse me from hibernation, but in the spirit of Lowell’s own prolific stream-of-consciousness beat writer Jack Kerouac, let me recount our adventures of the previous weekend.

Motivated by various goals and interests, Biddco, Dan of the Week, The Aaaahj, and I descended upon Lowell, Massachusetts for a weekend of ice hockey. Biddy wanted to check off another arena and team, Dan wanted to acquire a souvenir cup and some new brewery stickers, I wanted to chuck my Gramps in the ground (more on that another time; also I didn’t even accomplish that), and The Aaaahj, well, who knows his motivations for anything?

After winging our way in at midnight in an homage to Paul Revere (who fortunately did not try to get an Uber from Logan airport, or we’d all be eating mushy peas), our first day started in Southie Dorchester with a trek on the T to actual Southie to caffeinate. Not at Dunkin’, if you can believe it (nor at my actual favorite coffee chain in Boston, Tatte), but at Starbucks, which offered the path of least resistance. Once fully caffeinated, it was off to the Museum of Fine Arts for some culture. Bless them, they have a luggage check. We managed not to inhale any Mathews Arena asbestos as the trolley chugged along past the Northeastern Campus.

In Bizarro World, Dan and Biddy were living out a Seinfeld episode at the airport trying to obtain a rental car (and hopefully betting on incoming flights) and drinking beers in New Hampshire. Since I booked my rental car (and the entire trip, YOLO) with less than a week to go, there were no more cars at the airport and I had to acquire my vehicle at a smaller rental place in Revere, home of the famous JoeGrav. I thought this would be a simple endeavor, but on an Octoberlongweekend Friday afternoon in Fenway, driving 10 miles took longer than a flight from MSP to Duluth. Mistakes were made.

I don’t know about you, but when I imagine any city in Massachusetts, I assume that it’s going to be quaint and olde-tymey with brick-lined streets, white-spired meeting houses, and cemeteries full of crooked gravestones that use f instead of s mourning the loff of Afa Goodhufband from dropfy at the ripe auld age of twenty-feven.

I will just say, that would not describe Revere, and leave it there. I also did not see the life-sized statue of JoeGrav at the rotary (that’s what they call a roundabout because the word round makes Puritans uncomfortable), nor did I see the life-sized human JoeGrav, who was in East Lansing for undisclosed reasons.

On to Lowell. Pretty much all I know about Lowell is that it used to be a textile mill town that crammed child laborers into death-trap boardinghouses. What a great reputation! I once read this book called Lyddie, about a girl with an insane mother who sells her into indentured servitude, who then goes to work at a mill in Lowell, where she goes through some things. But! Charles Dickens visited a Lowell factory and thought it was fine! So what do I know? At the end I guess she went to Oberlin and married a Quaker so she clearly had a miserable existence. All those thees and thous would make me run straight into a spinning mule.

While checking in to my hotel in nearby Twerksbury, the front desk clerk asked if I was with “the hockey team.” There were some youths in ze lobby that looked like they were on a bantam team, so I said no, but then it turned out WE WERE AT THE SAME HOTEL AS THE TEAM. And also, Bruce, but that made no difference because he just holed up in his hotel room writing and sleeping in his bruceday suit. It would not be so simple to avoid everyone else.

After an okayish dinner, we arrived at the arena only a few minutes late to the game. I’m in mid-season form already! We had to kick some people out of our seats. Freed from the bondage of Midwest passive-aggression, I confidently answered “Yes” when they asked if we wanted them to move. My dude, they were aisle seats, you know full well you need to move. I needed to ensure proximity to the bon cop to my bad cop, key member of MAGABAD (Maroon And Gold Alliance But Against Denver), Adam, fresh from Montreal to watch some hockey avec ses chums in the arena where he graduated high school. Which is also home to arena football, something I didn’t know currently existed!

The game started out a bit disjointed. Lowell is not very good. Their main strategy seemed to be trying to get in tUMD’s way and also their own. As you may be aware, this practically guarantees disaster for tUMD, and they were down 0-1 halfway through the first. A shawtay from Joe Molenaar and another goal from Dua Lipa’s boyfriend put things right going into the intermish, where we met up with an even greater cast of characters: Jeremy, who will always get you closer to a hockey jersey bingo with his RIT sweater; DA, who was in the vicinity to prepare for deer hunting and was unaware of the games when he planned his trip (“Why don’t you change your flight so you can leave Sunday?” “I’VE ALREADY CHANGED IT FIFTEEN TIMES!” Okay then.); and my cousin, her husband, and two of her three kids. It was an RWD invasion.

The game was fine, I suppose. Dan and Biddy came to sit with us during the third period (late-arriving crowd became early-leaving crowd) and drunkenly screeched insults at the opponent, refs, and fans. It felt like tUMD was dominating and then at the end it felt like they were going to give the game away. So, you know, like every tUMD win. The old familiar sting. It was great to see Dom James back, and to finally see Shaugabay, Zam, Gajan, and the other 70 freshmen in person, and it felt a bit like the rocky game against Buttmidji had been put behind us.

Post-game, we walked over to a nearby bar to hang out after the game, settling outside in the mild weather and enduring a few half-hearted taunts from the Lowell fans. A guy in jorts and a buffalo check flannel came up to offer us sandwiches from the back of his pick-up, looking straight outta Vermont. It all came together when he mentioned he was part of the Jack Kerouac festival going on in the city that weekend. Jack Kerouac! Patron saint of this blog post! How exciting. I should have driven around to see his former residences, like I did in Aberdeen with Kurt Cobain’s childhood home, but there was much to do. I declined the sandwich and we skulked back to our hotel, avoiding eye contact with the boisterous crowd of tUMD parents and coaches in ze lobby (sans Bruce).

On Saturday morning, we sampled some java at a local coffee shoppe, Dunkin’, which was located in a gas station, as all high-class establishments are. On the recommendation of flannel sandwich guy, we stopped at Lala’s Books, where I bought a books of letters between Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg and a Louise Erdrich book I think now that I already own, despite what Goodreads says. We spotted Dan and Biddco on the street, fresh from a round of mini golf where Dan got a hole in one, and agreed to meet up at a brewery nearby before shipping up to B… rookline. It was full of children, as all breweries are, and former prep school dads, so it wasn’t a thrilling experience.

If Friday was all about MAGABAD, Saturday was for #BUMD. The four of us Bulldogs met up with an entire starting lineup of BU fans at a Korean fried chicken place only a few blocks from Agganis. We even parked at Agganis, literally underneath the arena, for $12. I did not know that was possible on the entire eastern seaboard. I think I paid $50 to park in Boston once because I wasn’t paying attention and paid weekday rates. The group of us invaded the BU bookstore so that Biddy could buy a pin, and then we took a photo with a lifeless version of their mascot, um… Allan, the Terrier… before departing for the arena. Jashvina had to make out with the Harry Agganis statue prior to entry into the game (which was free thanks to Canada the human, not the country). The game was… well, I’m used to WCHA hockey so I feel like its unfair for me to judge. A goal was scored somehow.

We left after two periods so that we could make it back to Lowell before the game started. Traffic wasn’t terrible, so we ended up arriving awkwardly early – too early to go in to the building (unless you’re Biddy), but not early enough to do something else. We took a short walk along the Merrimack River and that killed enough time that we could go in. It was important to arrive early-ish because it was Bluey night. BLUEY.

Okay I don’t know anything about Bluey except that Bluey is a dog and kids like it. I guess Bluey is from Australia but that was new information to me. The important thing is that this game was absolutely terrible and all we had to hold on to was Bluey. Who was nowhere to be found. At one point we thought we found Bluey, but it was just Bruce.

In the third period, the crowd had started to thin (why? folks this could be your only win) and our little band had grown, uh, restless. This is bad under any circumstance, but exceptionally bad when you’re sitting near the parents, something Hummus Loser can tell you all about. Special Prosecutor Jack Smith filed a motion, so we were able to cheer once at least. And then… across the arena, in the concourse… THERE WAS BLUEY. I think I might have even shouted that, and then we were off like greyhounds after a mechanical rabbit at the Wonderland dog track in scenic Revere. Biddy shoved me at one point, screaming “I’M GOING TO GET TO BLUEY FIRST!!” while Dan lagged a few steps behind us. We are true ambassadors of our institution.

We made it to Bluey, break ragged, doubled over, only to be told “no pictures.” Listen, I didn’t fly 1200 miles, sit in interminable traffic, endure the haunting of 1000 dead child mill workers, and sprint for my life, only to be told I couldn’t have a photo with a cartoon character I knew nothing about.

After the game was blessedly concluded, The Aaaahj and I drove up to Maine for the night to spend time with the east coast battalion of the RWD army, most of whom were already asleep when we arrived. We spent the following day lounging around at the camp and picking apples at a nearby orchard, before an evening departure back to flyover country (the plane made an exception and landed).

It should be noted that there was an equally choice opportunity to road trip to Madison to see tUMD women play at LaBahn. Let me just say, seeing the scores of the games, I regret nothing.