Postseason superstitions rise to the surface, and every little tick and habit we hide from our friends and family arises – and when we're caught red handed doing jumping jacks naked in the living room after pounding a couple beers, trying to induce vomiting to expel the evils that just contaminated our fandom after we gave up a short handed goal – the only thing we can say to plead our case is: “It's the playoffs.” As though a judge would understand us. Well if it were a judge donning a red sweater with a wing and a wheel on the front the he sure as hell would.
It's also that time of year when the trash talk arises, like this gem, in regards to Sunday's game from a family member (by law, certainly not blood) who lives near enough to Chicago to have to put up with hearing Chelsea Dagger eight thousand times each year: “The first half was a great game... Then the Hawks gave up.”
Right. Of course they did. Fighting for their playoff lives, at home in the United Center in downtown Chicago, last game of the regular season and possibly the last chance for the home fans to see the defending champs until next year...and they give up at the halfway point? Sure?
Well between that and all the trash talk I've been hearing from phoenix “fans” about this series, it's great to know the playoffs are back. What could a phoenix “fan” possibly have to say about us as we near the series start? Nothing in the way of hockey, I assure you. Mostly comments relating to balls and us being the yankees. Which...geopolitically, I mean...I guess, yeah. Whatever.
According to you we're rivals. Which, by the way, makes no sense. The relocated Winnipeg Jets have never “rivaled” us in anything. Not once has anyone ever said, of anything relating to Winnipeg (Arizona version) hockey, “hey, that's just like Detroit does.” Not once. And I've been here long enough to be able to validate these claims.
Long story short, I'm dying with anticipation to get this show going. That cold bubbly substance with a sharp aftertaste I'm bathing in is either the glory of Red Wings Playoff Hockey or an American Wheat Beer, or both. It happens.
As Tyler isn't around to close blog posts with these two simple, beautiful words any longer, I shall give it my best.