Ice, Ice Baby

In my last post, you received a glimpse into the absurd mindset that is La Gingah. Well, on March 4, 2011, I received another opportunity to sing the National Anthem at an Albany Devils  game. As far as the singing performance itself, that was a bit better than the previous performance, since I wasn't nearly as nervous the second time around. Of course, this is Gingah’s World, where there simply must be a twist—nothing can ever go exactly to plan; that would be far too mundane.

One of the benefits of singing the National Anthem is that very few (if any) people are actually looking at the singer. (They might occasionally look at the image of you on the scoreboard during the song, but for the most part, everyone’s looking at the flag.) Yes, this is a benefit. A Godsend, in fact. Why? Read on...

After the Zambonis complete their Zen-like ice ballet, the players come on the ice and the goalies rough up their respective creases. Meanwhile, a little carpeted runner gets rolled out onto the ice. That rug—my rug, in this particular instance—provides, as one would expect, a secure surface upon which the singer of the National Anthem can stand while belting out the tune. I always thought the hardest part of walking out onto the rink would be the ice itself. However, decades of living through Upstate New York winters have taught me the “Penguin Walk”—the best way to traverse an icy surface when one is equipped with neither ice skates nor a traction device of some kind. It turns out that if you step on the rug in just the wrong way—which, of course, is how I managed to step on the rug this time—the rug will actually start to slip a little. An ice rink provides an excellent physics lesson in the principle of inertia: an object in motion tends to stay in motion; an object at rest tends to stay at rest. Despite holding the arm of an Experienced Rink Dude on the Devils’ staff, I managed to take that misstep, which caused the rug to slip, which caused me to slip more, which then began a vicious Gingah-slipping/rug-slipping cycle that, despite Rink Dude's best efforts, resulted in the object in  motion (La Gingah) to remain in motion, albeit in a 90-degree downward trajectory. The whole experience had a rather sublime Looney Tunes quality to it.

My knees decided that they were best equipped to provide a sudden interruption to said downward trajectory, but despite any concerns about the unquestionable hardness of ice, they were apparently unaware of ice’s other famous quality: As my collegiate friends who hailed from the Pittsburgh area would put it, it’s quite “slippy.” While my knees were effective in curbing one form of downward trajectory, they failed to send the message to all parts of my body due north, so I ended up prone on the ice. But to my credit, I never once dropped the wireless microphone; it never even touched the ice. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the sign of a professional performer!

The more Rink Dude and I tried to work out a way to get me back to verticality (with the rug providing zero assistance, thankyouverymuch), the more difficult it got—oh, and ever since I hit the ground, I’d started laughing, which doesn’t help matters. At one point, our feet got hooked around each other’s and I was afraid of pulling Rink Dude down with me. After two other Rink Dudes (well, Rink Dude #2 and Zamboni Driver #1—sans Zamboni) got hold of the other side of me, we all managed to get me onto the rug. Then, after giving myriad assurances of my well-being to the Albany Devils folks who were all concerned about me, I took my careful Penguin Walk to the logo end of the rug. (Because, as any performer will tell you, the show must go on!) I don’t recall hearing any applause as I got to my feet, so I’m taking that as a sign that no one (other than the rink folks behind me at the Zamboni entrance) even saw my floor show (which, though it seemed endless, probably lasted for all of 10-15 seconds).

A few moments later, the air horn sounded and the PA announcer introduced me. The players went toward center ice and, like the audience, faced the flag. All I wanted was to sing well and not have the rug slip or have my knees buckle. As much as I had just encountered My Worst Fear Related To Singing In Public, I knew full well the influence of Murphy’s Law on La Vie Gingah—and I didn’t want to jinx myself further.

So I sang the National Anthem and was very pleased that this time my inner dialogue didn’t encroach on my performance. That’s because said inner dialogue was too busy chanting, “Ow, ow, ow, FREAKIN’ OUCH! ” (You see, hitting your knees on the ice like that is like hitting your funny bone: it hurts like H-E-double-hockey-sticks—I’m going with the euphemistic spelling because of the context of the story, not excessive modesty—but any actual physical damage is typically limited to a little bruising at most.)

I got through the song, the crowd cheered (Seriously, who doesn’t cheer at the end of the National Anthem? If nothing else, it means that it’s time for the game to start.) and I carefully walked, penguin-stepping, half-jokingly with my arms outstretched like a tightrope walker, back toward what was now nearly half a dozen Albany Devils staff ready to help me off the ice. The Devils staff were great, as usual. After a barrage of concern for my well-being (including an inquiry from the EMT on staff), I assured everyone that I was fine. I did, however, ask the EMT if he had anything for an acutely bruised ego and a terminal case of embarrassment.

A friend had hoped to make it to the game with his video camera, but ended up having to work later than expected. I counted this as a blessing, since I really didn’t want video evidence of me flailing around on the ice like a beached orca. (But rest assured, if he had been able to get there and caught everything on camera, I would have plastered it all over YouTube. In show business, they say, there’s really no such thing as bad publicity.)

I guess more than anything else, this emphasizes the importance of learning to ice skate from a very young age...which, of course, I didn’t. Learning at my, ahem, “advanced” age isn’t impossible; it would simply involve a highly skilled and patient teacher...and lots of padding. Maybe the goalie will let me borrow his next time.

Fear not, in my next post, I will return to blogging about running: The Rás na hEireann USA 5k brings me to the Boston area next weekend. WOOT!!! ’Til then, just keep putting one foot in front of the other...just watch out for ice and “slippy” rugs. ;-P