So I downshifted a few notches. And even though I prepared her before that Bruins game — Look, this is Daddy’s team, just like the Kings are your team, and if I ever teach you anything in life other than “stay off the pole,” “don’t date a Lakers fan” and “don’t text naked pictures of yourself under any circumstances ever,” it’s that you only have one team for every sport — she couldn’t handle it when it happened. She felt betrayed. When the Kings nearly tied the game in the final seconds, ultimately falling short, I pumped my fist and caught her glaring with one of those “You will pay” death stares.
And just like that, she started crying. I remained sympathetic while being secretly delighted, like she had passed some sort of “Fledgling Sports Fan” hurdle or something. On the way home, I discreetly snapped an iPhone picture of her post-cry for a keepsake — you know, “Here’s the first time sports ever made my daughter cry” — only she caught me taking it, flipped out like a Real World roommate and scratched my right arm so hard that it bled. She didn’t talk to me for two hours. And that’s when I knew my daughter liked sports.