Most people going to sporting events dream of that magical moment when a ball sails out of bounds and into their laps to be taken home and mounted above the fireplace as a treasured keepsake.

Me, I run. Especially when said possible future memento is a hockey puck hurtling straight down towards my head.

I did freeze a moment, staring up into space like a cartoon character about to be smashed by an anvil, and then I leapt up from my seat (pushing myself up with its arms, I was in such a hurry) and began scrambling to the side through the mass of burly men scrambling the opposite way to get into key catching position. One was in such haste that he did not even pause when he got my hair tangled in the band of his watch.

The puck bounced off mr rampy's outstretched hands and into some other guy's clasp (who immediately tucked it into his jacket, as if the horde was going to pry it from his fingers), and things quieted down a little, except for my peals of laughter at the strength of my instinct for self-preservation.

"I could have gotten that," I told mr rampy after he lamented for the seventh time that it had just barely fallen from his hand, "if I was willing to catch it with my brain pan."