My Goalie Is Cuter Than Your Goalie

The other day I found a picture of my future husband Ryan Miller, and in this picture he is standing with fellow Buffalo Sabre Derek Roy (he's the one with the hideous shirt) and New York Islander Rick DiPietro (left).



There are a lot of things I could say about this picture--starting with the asking of the question that's sure to be on everyone's mind: WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING WHEN YOU PLUCKED THAT SHIRT OUT OF YOUR CLOSET, DEREK ROY?--but I will get to that later. First, I need to discuss a critical error in my own judgment that reared its head a few years ago.

I used to have a crush of Rick DiPietro. As a fan of Sabres hockey, I realize this makes me a traiter and a rat, but I have my reasons. First, this crush developed during the winter Olympics, and as anyone can tell you, I am a girl who has great stake in the winter Olympics. Every night I padded out into the living room in sweatpants and slippers so I could sit in front of the TV with a plate of brownies and a fistful of tissues. I mean, My God. The way they can edit sports footage and splice it with tender interviews with the Olympiads...those film editors are just asking for all the weepy girls of Americas to honk their running noses into a Puffs Plus.

I took the 2006 winter Olympics very seriously. I had schedules printed and hung around the apartment so I was constantly reminded of when the slalom was going down, when the speed skaters took to the ice, when the figure skaters triple axeled, and when the hockey teams gathered in front of the popping flashbulbs to play the world's best game. I was obsessed with Olympic hockey. The games were good and interesting of course, but there was something else I was interested in, and that something was Rick DiPietro and his amazing eyebrows.

Sure, there might be plenty of stories out there that say Rick DiPietro is an ass, a snob, an abusive boyfriend, and a carrier of herpes, but I didn't want to believe that back then. I just wanted to stuff my face full of brownie and sigh, sigh, sigh as he skated onto the ice with his face mask raised. When he waved to the crowd, he was really waving to me, the biggest fan of his hair and eyebrows, a girl who was sitting on a plaid couch in Minnesota, a girl with far too much chocolate in her mouth and far too many balled-up tissues in her lap.

I've since changed my mind about Rick DiPietro. I now choose to believe he is an ass, a snob, an abusive boyfriend, and a carrier of herpes. A particularly raging case of herpes. I choose to believe these things because there is room in my heart for only one goalie, one future hockey husband, and that man is Ryan Miller.

My last year in Buffalo was very important in shaping all sorts of things about me--my self-image, my future plans, and my writing--and it was also important in reaffirming my love for Sabres hockey. If ever there was a year for me to be back in the Queen City, it was last year. Everyone in the city was ga-ga, ensorcelled, completely over-the-moon for the Sabres. And because of this, everyone in the city spent an awful lot of time in bars over the course of hockey season. The pizza, wings, beer, and vodka that was consumed in those months was obscene. No one could stop talking about it. The city went insane. And then this video got made:



Yes, I'm a big enough girl to admit that I have cried during that video on several occasions, but that's just how wiggy people got last year. It was a good kind of wiggy, where everyone in the city suddenly loved each other. It was nice. It was touching. I miss it.

And because of last year, I am now a one-hockey-husband kind of girl. My heart belongs to Ryan Miller, who, as it's been noted before, is my head's doppleganger. (Not me, not my face. My head. The actual shape of my head. Seriously. Ryan Miller and I? Same head.) If these aren't reasons enough to marry a man, I don't know what are.

Now, back to the picture:



In this picture--taken at a party for Esquire--it is so clear that Rick DiPietro is pretty proud of himself for being so hot, which he totally is. (Hey, I'm not blind. Empirically, that guy is attractive, but I still believe he's got a snarly case of herpes.) But he looks out of place. He looks kind of doofy. He looks like he's some B-List Hollywood actor who decided to come down and hang out with some hockey players. In fact, he kind of looks like Kelly Ripa's husband.

But my boy, my man, my future husband looks pretty stellar. He looks just like he should: vaguely uncomfortable, slightly startled, and ready to hit the open bar. That's what hockey stars need to look like at parties. After all, who wants to be confused with an actor? Not Ryan Miller, that's for sure. He's no pansy. He stops pucks for a living. Very fast-moving, potentially painful pucks. He puts his body in front of them and says, Hit me. Go ahead. Just you try.

That's why I'm pleased when he shows up to events looking like this:



Yes, the fact that he is standing next to Derek Roy, who looks like he stole that shirt from his grandmother or maybe a disgruntled employee of Hot Topic (it's a very confusing shirt)--is doing nothing for him, but I like the way he's leaning in toward him, all concerned-like, all, Stay close to me, Derek, and I'll attract the women with my tall body and excellent thighs, and once they're here we'll just pray that they ignore those jeans that make you look thirty pounds heavier than you actually are. Now that's a good friend. He is, as always, a crooked-faced, scary-eyebrowed, tall, beautiful boy who is wearing a pair of jeans like there's no tomorrow. Dear God, our children are going to be attractive.