In those days, my name was Ginger Herring, unfortunately. I say unfortunately because my last name was more of a burden than a blessing, wanted nothing to do with this family.

I watched my father, sitting on the couch, legs apart, beer in hand, yelling. I watched my brothers, who didn't even have my accent when they spoke, who dropped their vowels heavily, who made vulgar jokes about the players' mothers.

They were watching an ice hockey game. My mother was in the kitchen; she was almost never allowed near the men during this "ritual," so she was painting her nails, with the phone receiver wedged between her cheek and neck, and talking to her friend Jenna. Her language, despite being a woman, wasn't too far from that of my brothers: she too had gossip about the "others," all those females who weren't Jenna or herself, basically.

I was standing—I remember it clearly, because this is a scene I'll never forget for the rest of my life—and on one side I could hear my mother's shrill laughter, on the other, my father's muttered insults, my brother belching, the shouts coming from the television. I was near the kitchen, touching the door with one hand, and my gaze fell by pure chance on the screen of the giant flat-screen television. I mean, it probably would have happened to you too, if that glowing thing had emitted eagle-like cries and flashed the colors (red, yellow, blue, white) of sports graphics. It's a natural instinct to look in the direction of loud, threatening objects.

Normally, I would have looked away. What was there for me to look at? Ridiculously dressed men, in what looked like oversized long-sleeved shirts emblazoned with unlikely logos, their heads shoved into helmets, they were clowns sliding across the ice, swinging their long, flat sticks. They seemed to be moving in slow motion. Nothing in common with the athleticism of soccer or basketball players. They moved lazily, legs wide apart, heads hunched between their shoulders. They looked like helpless, ridiculous giant box turtles. I didn't understand anything about hockey, I'd never watched it, and my lack of participation had certainly never been a cause for concern to my brothers or my father.

I had to do my thing, girl things, and they had to do their thing, boy things.

But that time, I didn't look away. I told you, didn't I? I'll remember it for the rest of my life.

The camera zoomed in on a man's face. My brothers were cursing him, so I immediately knew he was on the "opposing" team, the one they didn't like. He was smiling.

Pulling his head back a little, he raised the corners of his mouth again, revealing his white teeth. I only saw part of his face, hidden behind the light reflected on the plexiglass of his visor, but his brown eyes seemed the most beautiful I'd ever seen... they were a little sad even though he was smiling, perhaps because of their natural shape rather than any real melancholy, large and rimmed with dark, thick, curved lashes. His cheeks and chin were purple from the very short growth of his beard, his lips were full, precise, as if drawn by an artist, and his nose was only slightly curved, giving him a noble look.

On his shoulder, standing out against his green uniform, was a large number 21, colored like the Progressive Flag: rainbow, various browns, a white-pink-blue triangle. I almost couldn't believe my eyes.

I thought ice hockey was a sport for guys like... like... well, like the ones in my family. My father, if he'd seen that flag, would have tried to set it on fire; I'm not even saying he would have succeeded, but he certainly would have tried.

And instead I saw that young god, beautiful as the Sun, with my favorite flag proudly slung over his shoulder. He wasn't the only one on his team with it, but he was the one who made the biggest impression on me.

How foolish I was. But it's this kind of foolishness that fuels life... I thought I would do anything, anything, anything, to have a boyfriend like him and be able to leave the place where I lived. I thought I wanted to be sitting among those people, screaming with my arms raised, that I would like hockey.

He was so beautiful that tears almost came to my eyes, I felt paralyzed.

«What are you crying about, you cabbagehead?» My brother laughed.

He had noticed me; I had approached the sofa unintentionally. My father turned to look at me. He wrinkled his nose, lowered his bushy eyebrows.

«Do you like the one who loves fags?» He asked me, his voice low, half threatening, half ironic «I should have expected that»

«What's his name?» I asked, trying not to take it too seriously. I wanted to throw up.

Bran, my oldest brother, stuffed a handful of cheese snacks into his mouth and then, chewing, replied, «Shane O'Puck, that son of a bitch».

Shane O'Puck. O'Puck. Shane.

«Go make me a sandwich, honey, don't watch too much faggot stuff» My father said, giving me a slap (for encouragement, he thought) on my bare forearm.

I lowered my gaze and headed for the kitchen. Shane O'Puck, I thought, come get me, there's no such thing as a male like you, where I live.