Hi, hockey. Don’t think of you much these days. Not an insult, just how it’s going. My passion for you is dormant. ish.
I’ve been in the unexpected and strange position of being involved in a few negotiations in my life — less than peanuts, compared to the deals that the greedy owners/greedy players/your libel of choice here, but enough to see that ego sometimes supersedes intelligence. Happens everywhere, all the time. And as that happens, so is my message: mixed. I never have and never will believe the sport that I love owes me anything. I make my choices, I decide where my money goes. When I cheer or despair, it is because I choose to. I always have and always will believe that behaving in the interest of fans is the last consideration possible for a business or a union. I do not take that personally.
Last Thursday night, I am watching the B-E-A-R-S BEARS BEARS BEARS! game on the television, where I always do, big-screen, HD, at my computer. Thought I wouldn’t care too much about it.
Then Braden Holtby let that shot in.
Then, all my boring posturing, my feigned indifference was pushed to the side. Then, the hockey fan in me woke up, however briefly.
“(*&$(#$()*&#*(&$(*(*!!! HOLTBY! )#*(&(*$(*&$(” (Not verbatim, it’s a family website)
Then, Alex Berry put Kurtz on his ass.
Bear was out of the lair, now.
Second intermission, from my wife “Empty, maybe you missed hockey more than you thought?”
(Time elapsed: .75 seconds)
So, here we are, hockey. I’m awake, for now. I am bored as Hell with any negotiation news (learned that in 04, be tee dubs). I don’t love the NHL right now, in fact, won’t spend a single penny on it until the Caps make the Stanley Cup Finals. Don’t have to win, but make it, then you get my money.
But hockey, oh, hockey. I love you. I’m just napping, I’m not asleep. Wake me up when the time is right.