Like any hockey fan, I've got my beloved and sacred jersey. In my case, it's a Jonathan Toews jersey with a shiny C right over the heart. While I've had my fair amount of shirseys and clearance jerseys throughout my childhood, my Toews jersey was my very first real, authentic jersey straight from the hanger at the Blackhawks Store.
Ever since moving to the city from the suburbs, I've taken full advantage of my proximity to the Chicago Blackhawks and the organization's events. Two stops away from the United Center, I've been lucky enough to attend a game every few weeks, if not more. One more stop and I'm three blocks from Johnny's Ice House, the Blackhawks training facility.
Every signature has come from a player nice enough to stop the car on his way out, politely accepting my declarations of adoration and wishes for good games and good seasons. Every signature is an interaction, even if it's just a few seconds long. Every signature is a memory of my time as a Blackhawks fan.
Marian Hossa's signature is an illegible line that takes up the entire top of the "9" and it doesn't even really look like his real signature, if we're being 100% real. It's not like I get a Certification of Authentication when I'm standing in a driveway in below freezing weather. I'm pretty sure that some signature expert or whatever would call fakes but I honestly could not care less because I waited eight weeks into the season for Hossa to finally stop and sign. Especially after that one practice where he drove past us with his windows rolled down, only offering a smile and a short "hey ladies!" before driving away. We didn't get his autograph that day but we all laughed. We all bonded.
On the bottom of the "9," Scott Darling signed in an ultra fine Sharpie because that's all I had on me that day. You couldn't even see it unless you were two inches away. So naturally, my sister and I thought it would be a great idea to trace over it in regular sized Sharpie. Now it looks a little wobbly and probably forged but that doesn't change the memory of Scott telling me he likes my hat and helping the sweet little old lady after me take a selfie since "you're young, you probably know how to use these doo-dahs better than me."
Marcus Kruger stopped for us one day after practice when the temperature was so low, half the people were sitting in cars across the street, only emerging when they noticed a car stopped. It was a Saturday practice so I brought along my sister, her best friend, and my own friend. We all had matching red noses and could barely feel our fingers. This close to calling it a day and heading for the wonderful warmth of the car, Krugs stops and does the normal "hey how's it goin" while he signs. "Cold out here, huh," he comments, nodding to our red faces and puffy breaths. Yes, Marcus, it's very cold out here, thank you for the observation. Water is wet, in case you were wondering (but thank you very much for your signature!).
Despite all the commercials, Kane and Toews do not drive Chevys, I'm sorry to be the one to break it to you. But Toews, ever the tree-hugging, yoga-mastering, human-optimizing saint, drives a sleek black Tesla that can usually be seen zooming away with tinted windows. After that one time where he only stopped for a minute, leaving me second in line when he drove away (with nothing but a very pathetic snapchat of him speeding off as my keepsake), Jonny accidentally stealing my Sharpie couldn't even kill my mood. It was honestly more of a rite of passage, as Jonathan Toews is a world-renowned Sharpie thief. How many times have we joked about how many Sharpies are in his glove box?
On Andrew Shaw's homecoming game, I donned my brand new Montreal Canadiens jersey with The Mutt's name and number stitched across my back. My little sister mirrored me in our shared Shaw Blackhawks jersey that we picked up on sale as soon as he got traded. Even in the wrong shade of red, I stood on Damen for a solid two hours after the game until our dad drove up right next to us and made us get in the car. Maybe we only got a couple of autographs that day, but the energy and emotions of that game are forever ingrained in my memory.
Then there's the time we stayed after a hard loss, only a handful of the dedicated crowd getting comfy behind the little fence that security set up for us. No one really expects the guys to stop after a bad game, especially a team like the Blackhawks where emotions are higher than high. But Ryan Hartman, bless his heart, dutifully stops like he always does and waits to sign for everyone who wants him to.
Even when no one stops or I don't get the signatures I want (yes, I'm looking at you, Tyler Motte, with your Michigan plates and your UMich stickers), there's always something about the experience that creates a sense of community among those of us who stand there, rain or shine, hot or cold. I've swapped countless stories about crazy fans and unbelievable experiences with other young women and middle aged men alike. I've watched small children lighting up when they get a high-five from their favorite player, right there in the flesh. I've bonded with my sister and with my friends, huddled close in the cold, sharing a single hand warmer and too many jokes to keep track of.
My signed jersey looks pretty cool and it's always fun to show off as a conversation piece. I get compliments every time I wear it to a game or a sports bar. I get side-eyes and huffy comments, too. Some people tell me I should try to sell it, that I should use my time standing in driveways to get pucks signed to sell on ebay for four times the original price.
Maybe my jersey can be priced. It's at least worth the $200 we paid at the counter, money that was carefully saved after nights and nights of babysitting. The signatures may or may not boost it, especially without Certificates.
There's plenty of roster-signed jerseys out there, probably laid out by the door in the locker room for everyone to sign real quick on their way out. But those signatures don't have a story, they don't have a person and a face and a memory that can be retold when someone asks about them.
My jersey is full of autographs, but's also full of memories. It might be worth lots of money but it's absolutely priceless to me.
