Back in the 1970s, when I was in grade school, my father, a rabid fan, used to take me to Colorado Rockies games.
(Backstory: In those days, the Rockies weren’t a baseball team. They were a hockey team, and they played over at the then brand-new McNichols Sports Arena against foes like the Hartford Whalers and the Quebec Nordiques.)
There was very little drama down on the rink. We were a losing team.
But the “Rocky Hockey” faithful, nothing to lose, cheered with abandon, egged on by organ-pipe fight songs and Gary Glitter riffs. Boos rose when the ref’s whistle blew. Taunts flew like poison darts. Skate blades scraped the ice. Bodychecked players pummeled the Plexiglas. And there was always at least one gloves-off fight that left blood on the ice.
I’d watch for a while, honestly interested. But five minutes into the second period, I’d poke Dad in the rib.
“Snacktime.”
He’d take a momentary break from yelling at Barry Beck to pass the puck to Wilf Paiement and hand me a couple bills, which he didn’t have many of. “Bring back change.”
Sprung, I’d race pigeon-toed down the steps from our top-row seats onto the sticky-floored concrete concourse to begin my rounds.
I’d spend the next half-hour scouting every concession in the building. I’d find the freshest popcorn, the softest pretzels, the saltiest fries. I’d tally pepperonis per pizza slice and calculate averages across booths. I’d inventory which counters carried Butterfingers, dismissing those that didn’t. I wanted to maximize the dollars, now crumpled in my fist.
Once, I discovered a nacho vendor that doled out three pumps of cheese sauce (most only pumped twice). I kept this information to myself.
I’d smile innocently when I asked for a beer. It’s for my dad. I’d take it straight to him. Promise.
(So what if I was 12? It was the ’70s.)
I’d return to our seats by the end of the second period.
“Beer here,” I’d pant, breathless from the ascent. “I must have spilled. Sorry. Dad.”
“Thanks,” he’d say, eyeing the deficit while he ruffled my hair. “OFFSIDES! You see that?”
I never saw it. I was too busy digging through my popcorn for half-popped kernels, the best kind.
Recently, I visited the United Club Level at Invesco Field, where high-rollers watch the Broncos. It’s the kind of place I could never afford to go for real, but they invited the press over one weekday afternoon to taste the food they serve at their luxurious concessions.
There, buffet stations along the well-appointed concourse offered red chili-crusted sea scallops, lavash with roasted garlic, and quinoa pilaf. Fifteen dollars for a meal and dessert.
Across the board, and perhaps despite the honest ambitiousness of the menu, the dishes were unexpectedly good.
But something was off that day. My sneakers didn’t stick to the floor. I couldn’t find a Butterfinger. No one was pumping cheese. I bet even all the popcorn kernels were fully popped.
Among all the luxury on the United Club Level, it seemed they’d missed the point. Lavash and quinoa, though tasty, don’t feel like stadium snacks.
But then again, when it comes right down to it, I guess I’m just a cheap- seats boy.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-954-1958 or at dining@denverpost.com.
