A Player's Perspective: Matt Stajan

Because I couldn't wait until tomorrow:


You thought I was done, didn't you? Once again, I rewrite typical gushy fanfic from the player's perspective. Today I tackle the one and only Captain Fuck me Eyes, Sock kicking Matt Stajan

I hate road trips, I really do. Some guys really like the whole camaraderie and stuff, but somehow I always get the guy who snores like a freight train, totally eschews pants, or screams in his sleep. You know who you are.

Anyway, there was one time where we played Montreal and then went south to Boston. Now, playing just one of them is usually bad enough, but both of them at once is like a double team of “make Matty cry into his coco puffs.” Coach thought it’d be a good idea if instead of the normal flight we went from Montreal to Boston via bus for “team bonding.” Apparently, he thinks that “team bonding” means losing lots of money in poker and taping rookies to stuff. This one time, I taped Luke Schenn’s eyes shut and he freaked out for like 20 minutes yelling “AHHH! I’M BLIND! I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL NEVER MASTURBATE AGAIN!” That was pretty funny.

Anyway, the bus broke down while we were still in Quebec. After some really angry French between the driver and a mechanic, a few of us decided to see what was around this town. It was a kind of podunk little college town with this little dark, dank bar full of typical uni kids—bro look on the dudes, and skanky hipster look on the girls. I saw there was this one girl who didn’t seem to be having that much fun. She was off in a corner on her own and even though she had been drinking, she was still really twitchy and nervous-looking. It kinda reminded me of the time I dared Kyle Wellwood to drink as much Red Bull as he could. He quit at 4 and looked like this girl. She came over, gave me an odd squint-eyed look, as if she couldn’t figure out if she knew me. Then she said, “Are you…you fucking Matt Stajan?” Now, I had on my witty pants so I said “No, I’m not fucking Matt Stajan, I AM Matt Stajan.” She stuttered a bit and replied, “really? For serious? I—fuck—I don’t really know what to say. I study down at the college—university. With books and stuff. God, I’m such an ass.”

What I wanted to say was “No you’re not an ass. In fact you seem like a very energetic and interesting person. What do you study?” What came out was, “No you’re not an ass. In fact you seem—” and then, without warning, I threw up all over her shoes. I hadn’t felt ill or anything before that. Maybe it was the bus ride, or playing the Bruins the next day or I ate something that didn’t agree with me. Whatever it was, it was messy. The girl said “Oh God, I’m so sorry, are you ok? Did I say something?”

I told her, “no, I think it’s because I’m playing the Bruins tomorrow. You aren’t a Bruins fan, are you?” She said, “no, I’m a Leafs fan. And a fan of yours, as in a LOT. I write a hockey blog, Loser Domi? Well, it’s about the players not like, analysis or something.” I’ll be honest, I wasn’t even listening to her at this point because the smell and taste of vomit in my mouth brought me down to all fours to puke a few more times. She looked at me after an awkward silence and said “I’m just going to go get some paper towels or something to get cleaned up.”

When I looked up after emptying my stomach, she was gone. In her place was Pavel Kubina, wondering if I wanted in on a game of pool. I said, “Nah, I just threw up on some girl. I should just call it a night.”

“Oh”, said Kubie. All he could say was “oh.”