Holy f*ck moment: /Hoh-lee fuhk moh-muh-nt/ -noun
A semi-euphoric state in which something tremendous happens, often eliciting the phrase in question from the subject's mouth, or is expressed internally. More often than not stems from a sports-related incident. Also 9/11. 
I've done a pretty good job at keeping my cool this year with hockey. For those of you don't know, I've been covering Oilers games for a
US-based sportsticker this season. From time to time, you've read sections of my recaps in the uncredited hockey briefs section of your non-Edmonton based papers. Or maybe you don't know what I'm talking about. It doesn't really matter.
Last night, after the Oilers rolled the Phoenix Coyotes 5–2, I went downstairs to get my quotes. I saw the herd of media people and camera crews standing around down the hall from the Coyotes locker room so I stuck with the pack. A few minutes later, the door opened, the security guard at the door's eyes went a little wide and out walked The Great One.
Commence holy f*ck moment.
He walked out the door, turned and started walking down the hall towards the waiting scrum. At the end of the hall, he positioned himself against a wall. Everyone quickly re-positioned themselves like we were 50 people battling for a rebound on a basketball court. If it were a podium finish, I'd give myself a bronze medal—a pretty good display of my boxing out techniques, all things considered.
The first question was from a Phoenix beat writer. "Pretty rough going for you guys out there tonight." Or something to that effect. Gretzky answered it and then there was a long pause.
This pause is much more common than you'd expect in pro-level locker rooms. I've heard it come up at Raptors games and numerous Oilers games. Part of me thinks it only exists in Canadian sporting venues, like we have the politeness so ingrained in us that we can't get around it even in the highly-competitive world of getting post-game quotes from the world's best athletes. Lots of times, two people from rival networks will start to talk at the same time and they catch themselves, look at each other and an awkward you-go-first takes place. I just don't see it happening at MSG.
But I digress.
The pause is hanging there for at least two seconds. Since I'm on the podium I created for myself, the next thing I know, I'm spitting out a question about Ilya Bryzgalov. I barely know what I'm saying.
"Ilya came into this thing really hot—holy f*ck Wayne Gretzky is making eye contact with me—"
"Yeah."
"Holy f*ck the greatest hockey player of all-time just agreed with me when we were talking hockey."
"—and then he lets in a bunch of goals on the first few shots he faces."
"Right."
"holy f*ck"
"What'd you say to him after you took him out in the second?"
"Words. Words words words words. Words" (Note--I stole the words thing from Lang at SLAM, from him story of when he met Michael Jordan. It's applicable here though. Similar feeling).
It's a good thing I had my recorder running, because I took in very little of what he said to my question.
The rest of the night was normal. I was out of Rexall at around 11 and could have rode home on cloud nine. I should have, actually. The LRT cops caught me with an un-validated ticket on the way home. That's a $110 ticket, folks.
Labels: edmonton oilers, f*ck tha quasi-police, phoenix coyotes, Wayne Gretzky
