10:26—Retching and running, I make it into a 7-Eleven, lurch for the beverage coolers, yank out a bottle of water and pour it in my eyes, down my throat and, sideways, in my nose. Then a second bottle. A third. When I can finally see, I notice my reflection in the cooler door. I am a mucusy, snarling, coughing, spitting, panting, soaking maniac standing in a puddle of water. In other words, not much different from many other 7-Eleven customers.
In the end 700 cops will be called in, 60 people will be arrested and seven police vehicles will be damaged, but the TV reports will label the soiree "tame." And I will have learned three things about sports riots: 1) They have nothing to do with sports; 2) they should be scheduled, like the games themselves, because the yahoos who start them want to start them; and 3) they are not fun to be inside.
I should've interviewed Mrs. Ray Bourque. There still would've been crying, just much less of it by me.