No sport variation is closer to my heart than men’s ice hockey at the Olympics- and no match up gets me as riled up as when we play the Russians. At this point it’s not just a sport, it’s fucking politics. We went to watch it at an authentic spot this afternoon, surrounding by men that were essentially variations of my father at different stages of his life. I felt like I was at home-surrounded by twenty of my dads-and this little guy. This is how Conall describes the photo:

The Bohemia Hall witnessed the defeat of their brethren, but we went down with class. A toddler waving the flag atop a drunk man who screamed “Die” at every Russian player’s close up. Later I saw the kid lean on the bar, scold the 200lb bartender and order a drink.”

Very succinct. It felt so good to see that the venue was respecting the morals and values of the old country, where my uncle could give me 100kc and send me over to the local pub to bring back a bunch of beer at the age of, oh, umm, maybe seven. When my mom sent me to the lobby of a hotel we were staying at in Miami once to buy her a lighter maybe a few years later that was “not allowed.” I could not sit at the poolside ‘bar’ (fucking tahiti hut) with my parents either and drink my virgin pina colada because, I don’t know, I would see adults drinking and would undoubtedly think they are uber cool and embark on a preteen cocktail drinking rage that would land me in rehab by the time I turn fifteen.