The following is a letter to Red Wings Hockey Arena from the perspective of my mom who had a bad time there.
Dear Wings Stadium,
I always wondered just how thin the thread holding me together was, and after an evening at the Wings Stadium I’ve come to realize it’s razor.
First of all, I hope the 5 bucks helps. What was that for again? The speaker system? Not to be dramatic, but the droning rules and regulations in the parking lot reminded me of Auschwitz. Which, in the mental state I was in at the time, didn’t bother me. I marched towards those doors honestly hoping I’d die, knowing the alternative would be an epic display of derangement. The huffing and hissing you may have heard as I barrelled inside was my last ditch effort to hyperventilate myself into a blackout. I figured at the very least I would get some sympathy, maybe a glass of water, and also maybe some m&ms too.
I received nothing and was looked at like a feral animal.
I want to thank your crack squad of purse discriminators who spent the evening barking out allowable measurements, makes, and models. I was surprised to learn my purse was not considered a clutch even though it was obvious to everyone within a 30 foot radius that I was both white-knuckling and shaking. What’s interesting about your security line is that I honestly never considered conducting an act of terror until I was in it. It wasn’t until that moment did I start to think, ya know I do have a hairclip, a cigarette lighter, and enough MacGyver know-how to drum up a pipe bomb, pull the pin, and give your lackeys something to clutch and clutch tight.
While a night at Wings Stadium didn’t kill me, I did lose the respect of my family. I’ll be honest though, my own personal integrity was touch and go as it was. If it wasn’t you, I’d have torn up a McDonalds on the way home and likely ended up drenched in sweat and someone else’s blood. But it just so happened that my manic outburst was primed and ready to go the second I walked into the stadium. So, all that to say you may have noticed a series of “game-time” selfies streaming live from the public restroom. Those were from me.
Yours Truly,
My daughter is afraid of me.
P.S. It’s pronounced “puck”? With a p? What was I saying all night?