"After the race, will you join us for Bocce?" the captain asked.
Bocce Ball.
What was it about these guys? This was San Diego, the ultimate in naval cities -- the best place in the world to hear the phrase "Hey, sailor, new in town?" And these guys were rolling a wooden ball along manicured sod for excitement.
"I'll think about it," I told him.
They lost the race, of course, but were still in high spirits as we walked up the gangplank and onto shore.
"So, my friend," another Italian sailor asked me. "Will it be the Bocce tonight?"
I opened my mouth, but before I could answer, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
"Message for you," the man said. "It's from Wayne."
Wayne. Since the NHL strike was on, he had lots of time to kill.
"I just got off the boat," I told Wayne when I called him. "What's up, O Great One?"
"A bunch of us are down here for the IHL playoffs," he said. "Sure, it's minor league hockey, but it's hockey."
The playoffs weren't for another day. In the meantime, Wayne told me, all the players were congregating at a local restaurant. There was a strike on. They had nothing better to do.
So there I was, sitting at a table with Wayne and a few other Kings. We ordered our food, and began to chat.
"What are you guys doing with all your spare time?"
"I've been watching lots of TV," a guy with a large scar on his forehead told me. "Soap operas, you know?"
"Two words for you," another King said cryptically. His nose was bent in four places.
"Oh, no," Wayne said, turning to me. "He keeps doing this,"
"Soap operas," the Scar Guy said.
"No," Cryptic Bent-Nose said. "Indoor soccer!"
Our food came before I could ask him if he liked the Detroit Drive or the Sacramento Surge better. (Or was I getting the World League of American Football mixed up with the indoor soccer league?)
"So, what did you think of the NCAA championships?" Wayne asked me.
"Pretty cool. I picked Michigan, you know."
"Sure you did," Scar Guy said.
"I did!"
"And who else?" asked Cryptic Bent-Nose.
"Um..." I said. "Well... UCLA."
"To the Final Four?" Scar Guy queried.
"No... to win it all."
For the next minute, I could hear nothing but the laughter of striking hockey players. Laughter directed at me.
As the laughter subsided, I heard a new noise. It was a voice, and it sounded angry.
"Hey!" it yelled. "Quiet down over there!"
Behind the voice was a man with one eye.
"Who the hell is that guy?" I asked Wayne.
"He's a thug of the highest order, just like all his buddies. They exist only to spread terror wherever they go. They're evil."
"The mafia? Drug dealers?"
Worse, Wayne said: They were San Jose Sharks.
But before the Sharks could harass us more, they were yelled at by yet another table in this fine restaurant.
"Leave 'em alone!" yelled one of those other men. He was missing his fingers.
I asked Wayne who these guys were. He told me they had just blown in from Winnipeg. They were members of the Winnipeg Jets.
"Come here, Shark-boys!" The one-handed Jet yelled, waving his fist. (Of course, a guy with no fingers is always making a fist.)
Within 30 seconds, the Sharks and the Jets were fighting. I ordered a drink from a waitress who looked suspiciously like Rita Moreno. As she left, Wayne and the rest of the Kings pushed passed me and headed toward the fight.
I grabbed Wayne's jacket, and he turned to face me.
"Hey, Wayne, what are you doing? You could get hurt!"
"It's a fight," he said. "Happens all the time. Don't worry about it."
I nodded, and let him go. He grabbed a Jet, and threw him across a table.
"I love this game!" he cried.
At least it was better than Bocce.