I, like essentially every other man in this world, can be pretty sappy when I want to be.
Guys can try and deny it all they want, but I like to think that every one of us has a hopeless romantic buried somewhere in the deepest recesses of their being. Some people are very outward about this trait of theirs. Others, not so much.
I like to think I fall in the middle ground. Most people would probably be surprised at my sentimentality because, generally speaking, I’m a private guy. However, I have no shame in admitting that I weep openly at movies like Inside Out or that I have a severe soft spot for West Side Story as one of the most beautiful movie musicals ever.
Some people are born with this innate desire to be romantic. A very good friend of mine in high school would carry around the complete anthology of William Shakespeare, plays and poetry, everywhere he went everyday, just in case it would come in handy.
That’s an extreme example, of course, but it was just the way he was. It was in his blood.
I get my sappiness from my folks. My mother is an extremely talented writer. She is a published playwright five times over, an incredible novelist, and quite the poet in her college days. She has a way with words, to say the least. But she is fairly soft-spoken by nature. Often times, her pen is more loquacious than she is, and there’s nothing wrong with that.
Dad, on the other hand, is more towards the other end of the spectrum. He makes no qualms about being a total sucker. He watches “The Bachelorette” regularly, and he will defend its truthfulness and legitimacy to no end. I kid you not. Our DVR is regularly loaded with Hallmark Movies around the holiday season, each one filled with beautiful women in soft lighting opposite a rugged Flynn-Rider-esque man with minimal scruff, a leather jacket and that knit shirt with the buttons on the top (you know what I mean).
The reason why I tell all of you this is because hockey plays a very important part in my family’s life. As my brother and I get older and venture out of the house, it’s only natural that we become more independent. I still live at home, but the majority of my time is spent either at my school, Marist, or at my job in New York City. My older brother Matt lives in New Jersey.
No matter where we are, though, hockey always bonds us. It’s fodder for conversation. It’s a reason to all sit by the TV together.
And the bond goes back beyond the lives of Matty and myself.
Hence, this is the story of how my dad proposed to my mom at a New York Ranger game.
Back in 1987, my mom and dad were not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. Dad had to beg with his bank to get approved for a loan to get the engagement ring in the first place. Though he did not have much at his disposal, if there was one thing he could pour money into, it was his proposal. Through a work connection, he got in touch with the director of communication at Madison Square Garden. He had gotten four tickets to the Rangers-Quebec Nordiques game on New Year’s Eve, which was a perfect opportunity to pop the question in front of the Garden Faithful.
Now, this strikes me as funny for a myriad of reasons.
1) Mom hates surprises. This is kind of counterintuitive to the whole concept of a proposal. But there’s one specific type mom especially hates: public surprises. She embarrasses very easily, and public spectacles that center around her give her the willies.
2) Mom also does not care for New Year’s Eve. It’s understandable. Neither of my parents drink, and, let’s be honest, alcohol is really the only foundation of New Year’s celebrations. So the holiday doesn’t really hold much meaning to them. Being surrounded by obnoxiously inebriated people usually makes my folks uncomfortable anyway. Though in hindsight, perhaps the cheap seats of MSG is not the best place to avoid drunks.
3) Dad was able to arrange a message to be put on the scoreboard at some point during the Ranger game, but he was actually offered an even sweeter deal. The head of communication more specifically dealt with the Knicks, and he offered the opportunity for my dad to come down to center court and propose during a Knicks-Clippers game at halftime a few days after.
Even though the gesture would have been grander, ultimately he decided to stick with the original plan. Why? Because the Knicks and Clippers were terrible. Classic Bryant mentality, caring more for the game being sat through than actual major life-altering events occurring the same night. Also, gotta love how even decades later the Knicks being terrible is still relevant.
And so the night arrived. They went with a work friend of my father’s and his girlfriend, a New Year’s double date. The seats were in the yellow seats of the Garden, directly behind the goal, in about the middle section.
Dad is a diehard Ranger fan. Mom was just happy to be there. She enjoyed the sport, but was mostly thankful to finally be able to follow the puck, a common complaint when watching on television. This was her first live game.
“I remember hating the Nordiques uniforms,” she recalled. “They looked like blue pajamas and every jersey seemed to say ‘Stastny.'”
Meanwhile, Dad and his friend Bill, who was in on the proposal, were anxiously watching the scoreboard. They were never told when the message would be displayed, so they had to keep a sharp lookout. The first period came and went. Nothing.
Bill’s date, who was oblivious to the night’s future, suggested the gang get ice cream between periods. No one in their right mind would turn down ice cream if given the chance, especially during an intermission at a hockey game when there is literally nothing to do but stand in the impossibly long lines at the concession stand, so Mom agreed. Panicking, Dad had to think on his feet.
“I made up some excuse that…there would be some kind of between-periods show on the ice,” Dad said. Much to his relief, Bill backed him up. Confused and hungry, Mom sat patiently in her seat. Minutes ticked by, and every now and then, Bill would read a message on the scoreboard aloud, trying to give the air of casual conversation.
The second period was getting ready to begin, and Dad, resigned to the fact that the message may very well not be posted until the next intermission, if it was ready to be posted at all, took his eyes off the board.
Of course, that’s when it happened.
Bill, sounding the alarm, pointed out the message to Dad.
The message read, “Congratulations Lauri and Harry on your engagement.”
Gutsy move by Dad, having the message read “congratulations” and not phrase it in the form of a question. That’s confidence. On the other hand, it did cause a wee bit of confusion.
Anyone else looking at this kind of message with both names specifically listed would assume it is about them, and immediately commence the celebration. But this is my mother who, like I said before, suffers greatly from secondhand embarrassment.
“First, my name was spelled wrong, and second, we weren’t engaged,” she joked. “He hadn’t asked yet.”
She believed that there was another Laurie and Harry getting engaged that night.
Subtly, she peeked over to her right, where Dad was reaching into his pocket.
“I got the ring out and knelt down on the filthy Garden floor,” Dad smiled.
Side note, I have yet to confirm whether the misspelling of her name is Dad’s fault or the intern who gets paid minimum wage to sit in a musky office and enter in scoreboard messages all day. My money is on Dad.
The Rangers won that night, 6-1. John Vanbiesbrouck got the win in net. For some strange reason, Mom was not terribly focused on the outcome of the game.
“I don’t remember much of the rest of the night other than taking a subway and the Staten Island ferry home, acutely aware that I was surrounded by New Year’s revelers and thousands of Ranger fans who just saw me get a brand new diamond ring,” Mom said.
“To me, it felt like the biggest, most obvious piece of jewelry in all of New York.”
They got home before midnight, ringing in the New Year together. They were married August 27th, 1988.
And if not for Bill’s keen eye, who knows how that night could have gone. Bill deserves a Wingman of the Year award or something.
“Imagine [Mom and Bill’s date] went for ice cream?” Dad laughed. “It could have been a long game.”
Obviously, the Quebec Nordiques no longer exist. Neither does the section where they sat in that night, thanks to the billion dollar renovations done on MSG since that night.
But the girl is still there, with a dog at her feet, complaining that she can’t see the puck, and that us three boys should stop arguing about Dan Girardi. On Christmas morning this year, on the 30th anniversary of the proposal, Dad presented a new band for Mom’s engagement ring…complete with a brand new blue Quebec Nordiques jersey.
I guess her new ice was a sufficient substitute for ice cream that night.
And at least now she has some new pajamas.
