If you have ever seen me, you would snort, right away, at the idea of me getting a Gordie Howe hat trick. I am not usually one to so much as trash talk. I am bigger than a Chihuahua, but even so, on ice, I'm about the human equivalent of one. For me to throw down gloves against another player... well, it would be simpler to attach a "please kick my ass" sign to the back of my jersey.
Stumpy doesn't usually make my hockey games, since he supports my hockey habit by doing this crazy thing called watching the kids. But last night, he came out to watch my game (and brought me a cold beer. In the locker room. Immediately after the game. That, with hockey players, is gwounds for Twoooooo Wuuuvvvv.).
Except he called the babysitting (hi, Mom and Dad!), during the game, to let them know that I had racked up a Gordie Howe hat trick. I am no Gordie Howe.
I'll just say: it wasn't a fight. It was just, erm... "roughing." And turns out, holy smokes, that ref sure could put her hand up quick.