Tripod Columns: The Fan: How a Former Goth Traded in Her Eyeliner for Eye Black

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How a Former Goth Traded
in Her Eyeliner for Eye Black

by Heidi Olmack
In high school, I wanted to be Robert Smith of The Cure. It showed in my black clothes, ratted hair, and thick eyeliner. My new wave friends and I were sort of outcasts, and we liked it that way. In fact, we got a kick out of being called "freaks" by our arch enemies, the jocks. While muscle-head Joe was scoring a touchdown and pretty-girl Jenny cheered him on, we were sharing cigarettes with the janitors and scamming on how to skip swim class. Had you told me ten years ago that I was going to write an article like this, I would've blown smoke in your face.

But as my wimpy New Wave tastes evolved into testosterone-based rock-n-roll, I learned how to like sports. Or rather, a sport. Or better yet, a team. Before my boyfriend's rock band would play a show, we would huddle in the back of their van around a tiny, cigarette-lighter-powered, black-and-white TV watching the Detroit Red Wings pummel other hockey teams. The Wings didn't really win all that much in the late '80s, but they were notorious for their brute force. Defensemen Joey Kocur and Bobby Probert, "The Bruise Brothers," were the team thugs, prowling the ice for any excuse to fight and protecting the team's prize possession, their only finesse player, the passive captain, young Stevie Yzerman.

I watched the Wings with the same enthusiasm and demeanor as I watched rock bands — like a guy. Just as I never wanted to be labeled a groupie, I didn't want to be a cheerleader for a sports team. So I'd guzzle beers with the boys, get fired up for the fights, and yell at the referees when they called a penalty against my team. I watched intently to learn as much about the game as possible while other girls who watched with us would chit chat during the game or name pretty boy Yzerman as their favorite player. Not me — the rough players with missing teeth turned me on. I also took to heart the Wings' losing reputation. I've always been one to take a stand for the underdog — the freaks, if you will.

I've been faithful to the Wings ever since. Seeing them to the playoffs countless times, I've had an attitude adjustment and have learned how to root for a winning team. Still they were the underdogs for a while, coming close but never taking the Stanley Cup until last season. I was in Detroit for the championship game: The spirit that captured and united that broken city during that time truly overwhelmed me. When my favorite player, Sergei Fedorov, held the Cup high above his head, I was moved to tears.

Living in Minneapolis now, I don't get the opportunity to see many Wings games. Since Minnesota no longer has a team, they hardly ever show hockey on TV here. So I finally broke down and got cable, just in time for the season opener. Wearing my #91 Fedorov jersey, I anxiously watched team introductions. When I discovered my hockey hero was not part of the line-up, my anxiety was coupled with fear and depression. Now a free agent, Fedorov was in contract negotiations (Fedorov and the Wings finally reached an agreement and he started playing again mid-season — February 27 was his first game). What I would have done if Fedorov went to another team? How would I have divided my allegiance between my favorite player and my favorite team?

I consulted a baseball fanatic, my rockstar friend Danny Liver. He put a new spin on sports for me, which has refined how I view hockey. He told me to pick my two favorite bands. Easy. The Flaming Lips and Soul Asylum. Then he presented a scenario: "Pretend Soul Asylum traded Dave Pirner for The Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne. Would you like either band any less? No, you would probably like them differently. Would you stop buying their records or going to their shows? No, you would want to check out all their new stuff. Would you stop listening to rock music all together? Hell no!"

Once again, rock-n-roll how taught me how to like hockey. I learned that I can still have the Wings as my favorite team, and I can keep an eye on Fedorov wherever he goes. Danny Liver also advised me to try to behold hockey as a whole, so that I might know a little bit about the Wings' opponents and also have an idea about what Fedorov's new home might be like. So I started watching more and more NHL games on my fancy cable TV with ESPN and ESPN2. And I discovered The Classic Sports Network, where I could watch Wings games from 1955.

Initially I prohibited cable in my house because I knew I'd become addicted. But I had to have it — it was the only way I could see my Red Wings! To prevent my ass from getting any fatter thanks to cable couch potato syndrome, I compromised with myself and started working out — for the first time since I was forced to do so in high school gym class. Now I'm taking boxing, and since engaging in such a rigorous sport, I've become obsessed with the capabilities of the human body — its speed, its grace, its power, the damage it can do and the damage that can be done unto it. Now, whenever I see sports on TV, I become entranced by the movement.

I'm hooked on cable. They've got everything! Hockey, boxing, football, baseball, basketball, snowboarding, dirt bike racing, gymnastics. When I watch the Classic Sports Network, I feel like I'm learning a part of this nation's great history that they never taught in school. And I'm fascinated the evolution of these sports. I dig watching Julius Irving playing college basketball and Dennis Rodman shooting for the Detroit Pistons. I understand why everybody loved Yogi Berra so much.

When I was in high school, I dreaded going to my grandparents for holidays. My uncles would dominate the tv, forcing football down my throat and making fun of me during halftime, when I'd lunge for the remote to get my fix of MTV. Ten years later, I'm putting my money in their betting pools and telling my little cousins to take a hike when they beg to watch their Disney videos for the umpteenth time. Sheesh, I've come a long way, baby!

Now every Sunday, I get the TV guide and make reservations for my hockey game days — and I get pissed when people try to talk to me during a game. My roommate has to stand in front of the TV to get my attention. I understand why men ignore their nagging wives during Monday Night Football. I long for someone to bond with and share the glory during a winning Wings game. Forget Robert Smith. I want to be Muhammad Ali.

Mister Chank Diesel, the world's most prolific alphabetician, says of writer Heidi Olmack: "My business manager can kick your business manager's ass — and bake a better pie, too!" Testosterone vs. estrogen, rock vs. jock, corporate vs. punk — Olmack is forever striving to strike a balance in her dichotomous life.

Illustrations by Federico Jordan

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