As I walked down the sidewalk towards the Xcel Energy Center, a marching band trailed behind me. When I got to the arena, hot jazz blasted over my shoulders and triumphantly announced my arrival. The doors to the X swung open wide and the jubilant sounds of the Dixie land boom-bap picked me up and carried me all the way to the press box. 

At the free concession area in the press box lobby, I filled my plate with a huge chocolate covered rice crispy treat, a hot salted pretzel, and washed it down with diet coke. I was sitting in press row, sandwiched between Star Tribune and St. Paul Pioneer Press beat writers, Wild.com writers, and NHL.com contributors. Last month, I published a story titled “Stick Work: Tools of the Trade” on Wild.com that had became one of the most read stories on the website. It was the last home game of the year and I was there to touch base with Wild executives (Shout-out to The Snowman).     

The golden rule for a sports journalist is a simple one: No cheering in the press box. It’s a mantra that is hammered down in journalism schools (which I didn’t attend), where students are taught that a true sports writer (which I’m not) should report without bias (which I won’t). About seven minutes into the game, I broke the golden rule with a guttural vengeance. When the Wild scored on a breakaway to tie the score 1-1, my right fist exploded into the stately air of the press box. I let out a righteous, “Hell Yeah!” and looked around to high five someone. Anyone. All the scribes had their heads down, pounding computer keys. I really didn’t care, though. I was too stoked for etiquette. The game went on. The Wild scored eight goals. And I broke the golden rule seven more times.

After the game, I went to the private media elevator that would take me to the Wild locker room and post game press conference with Coach Jacques Lemaire. Standing directly before me in the press box lobby was an awesome lineup of injured Minnesota Wild players: Brent Burns, Derek Boogaard, Nick Schultz, Pierre Marc-Bouchard, and Craig Weller. Since the players were hurt, according to custom, they had to watch the game from the press box. As we stood there waiting for the elevator, I was tempted to ask the players some questions; Brent Burns is a gap-toothed motor mouth who owns a small zoo of exotic animals and has got great quotes swirling around in his head like molecules on an atom; Boogaard is one of the most feared fighters in the history of the game; and Nick Schultz is so hilarious he is a regular on a popular morning radio talk show. The players were lively and chipper after watching their teammates dismantle Nashville. I could’ve asked them some questions. I could’ve gone and talked to coach Lemaire. 

But I passed. In true Spazz Dad form, I didn’t get on the elevator. I didn’t interview any players or coach Lemaire. With the festive sounds of the marching band still beating in my heart, I got off on the main concourse, and joined the victory party. I strolled into the Minnesota Wild gift shop and bought my son a cartoonishly giant foam claw to celebrate the Wild’s record setting victory. 

The golden rule of sports journalism can suck it. Go Wild.