Apparently the bruisers in the cheap seats hadn’t heard about glasnost when the Soviet Dynamo Riga hockey team skated into the Chicago Stadium early this month to face the Blackhawks. The organ was blaring either “Stars and Stripes Forever” or “Grand Old Flag.” It was hard to tell. The guy standing next to us in a gray sweatshirt with ripped sleeves was getting the words wrong either way. His Old Style-soaked utterances were something to the effect: “Be proud of the red, white, and blue, you goddamn Commies–check the Commie bastard.”
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A strong odor of regurgitated hot dogs permeated the air. We stood in the SRO section of the stadium; near us was a Nick Nolte look-alike with a few teeth missing who was trying to explain the differences between communist and capitalist society to his girlfriend, who resembled a flat-chested Elvira in a Blackhawks jersey.
“Well, that’s what it’s like.”
“Yeah.”
“You know it. How do you think they get those boys so big?”
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah, I jacked him like three times. I could feel it.”
