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| This year's Swear Jar - I'll be broke before June |
Heh. The Flyers are in the Stanley Cup Playoffs. The
Canucks and Leafs are not. When one of the office poolies canvassed the rest of
us about a playoff pool, one of the others grumbled, “No Canadian teams made
it. Who cares?”
Apparently he’s not a Montreal Canadiens fan, ’cause
they’re in, but national pride doesn’t extend to the big league. If you don’t
cheer for les Habs during the regular season, you’re unlikely to cheer
for them as sole Canadian content in the playoffs.
My father never expects the Leafs to have a
post-season, so the outcome this year won’t have destroyed him. My younger
older brother and co., however, have not been heard from since the Canucks were
officially eliminated from contention last week. To them I say … “Pity me, guys.
My team made it!”
If I ever develop a substance abuse habit, it will be
during the playoffs. If I need sedation, anti-depressants, psychotherapy, or a
blend of all three, it’s during the playoffs. I spend more time in the fetal
position during the playoffs. Every win is a stay of execution. Every loss is
cause for Ter to hide the razors. The further the Flyers get into the
post-season, the tighter my springs are wound. Why do I do this? Why do I care?
It’s a freaking game, for crying out sideways.
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s life or death until the
best team wins, and if that team isn’t the Philadelphia Flyers, then my grudge
against the winner gets smaller and colder and harder and blacker until it sits
like a ball of jagged ice in the very root of my being.
$#&^* Let’s get this ordeal over with …
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