Marc-Andre's Ass Would Like To Congratulate The Detroit Red Wings!

I can think of a few worse feelings than losing a Stanley Cup on an own-goal. Like...say...getting one's testes caught in a band saw. Or coaching the Laughs.

But really, MAF's posterior exploits aside, the Wings have deserved this win since the first week of October. So congrats Detroit! And thanks! Universal Order has been restored.

Now we can finally start talking about the draft.

My God! Hockey! In June! Oh, The Humanity!

Now, I don't want to get off on a rant here...actually, splash that. I do. It's what I (apparently) do best after all.

Some ado has been made, both by desperate sports writers with column space to fill and the chronically clueless (who are, in some cases, one and the same), about how the NHL playoffs go on until June. I have heard your plaints good citizens, and please believe that I mean this in all sincerity when I say: Tough shit. Either suck it up, or rip your fan card and blow it out your ear.

Is there something sacrosanct about the month of June about which I have hitherto been unaware? Will all 30 ice surfaces across the League spontaneously combust, or will the Cup suddenly vanish in a puff of pixie dust at the stroke of midnight on June 1st? No, although I would pay good money to see Gary Bettman turn into a pumpkin. Even if The Finals go seven games, the latest it can end is the seventh of June. So what, exactly, is the big deal?

Are you telling me that after sitting through a six month regular season (the length of that being an entirely different kettle of fish) to get to this, the point where the best hockey is being played with the highest of stakes, you're going to stop watching because it's now "summer"? Or that "June hockey" somehow interferes with your inalienable right to bitch about your begonias?

Come on, people. Who cares? Just enjoy it. I know I will.

Stanly Cup Finals: You Heard It Here Last!

The year was 2003. The Human Genome Project was completed, thus solving the mystery, once and for all, surrounding the exact genetic mutation responsible for Leaf Nation. The Iraq war was declared "over", thus compounding the mystery of the exact genetic mutation responsible for George W. Bush.

It was the last year that featured two American teams in the Stanley Cup Final, with New Jersey defeating the (then Mighty) Ducks in seven snooze-a-rific games, thus ushering in an era of defensive hockey so stifled and boring, the entire League would be forced to close shop for a year out of shame and self-loathing.

It was also the last year anyone in the Great USofA gave a rat's ass about the Stanley Cup. Until now. Detroit vs. Pittsburgh. Wily Veterans vs. The Wave of the Future. Original Six vs. Hockey Jesus (© MYFO). Remember, Herr Kommisar Bettman. If it lasts for more than four hours, you really should see a doctor.

So who's going to win? Join me now for my in-depth analysis of this titanic struggle, as I compare relative strengths and weakness based on rock solid facts and a complete algorithmic study of all possible statistics, while also peering into the very souls of the coaching staff in order to determine, with an accuracy verging on witchcraft, the inevitable outcome!

Um...yeah. Just kidding. Wings in 7.

Why? Because it's too soon, dammit! You are the '83 Oilers to their Islanders. A bunch of kids with abundant talent and a future absolutely sick with promise, but who first needs to lose in order to figure out how to win. So, sorry Pittsburgh. No Cup for you this year. It will happen, of that I have no doubt. But at least this way, I can pretend for another year that the Senators will contend for an Eastern Title again in my lifetime. And you wouldn't want to take that away from me, would you??

You would? Fine. Screw you too. Go Wings!

Stanley Cup Final -- A Requiem For The Lightweights

Where did it go so wrong? I've spent most of the day today trying to figure that out. I stared at my office computer all afternoon trying to put my finger on it. What was the very moment where it all fell apart?

Last year, after being knocked out by Buffalo, it was easy to pinpoint. Last year the wheels fell off with .02 seconds left in regulation in game 1. Remember that one? 7-6 Sabre win in OT. But the exact moment that series was lost came when Alfredsson hit the right post behind Miller with .02 seconds left in the third. A millimeter to the left and the Senators win, take the series lead and history changes. Instead that clank gave the Sabres a chance, they win the game in OT, Ottawa tightens up and lose three of the next four with barely a peep. For the rest of that much too long offseason, I could call that shot to memory at will.

But this...This has no such moment. There is no "AHA!" we can point at and say "That's what happened. That's why they stopped playing." And it drives me crazy.

No funny here tonight kids. Sorry. I'd love to be able to smile, say "Gee, what a great ride" and write something incredibly witty about Chris Philips somehow being the lost love child of Steve Smith. I'd love to be able to give the Ducks an unqualified congratulations, to feel good for the Niedermeyers and for Selanne, to say "The better team won." Except, I can't. I can't because I'm not sure the better team did win. Sure, the team that was playing its best won, no question, and full marks to Anaheim for playing the way they did. But the better team? Not sure. They didn't play the real Sens. The Sens that blew through three rounds in 15 games. The team that looked unstoppable and more important, knew they were and acted like it. But that team didn't make it to the final round. So, no, Anaheim may not have been the better team, they happened to be the team that was playing better, which was enough. But the better team? We'll never know.

I'll be taking a few days off now. I'm exhausted. It was a hell of a run, and a hell of a lot of fun at that, at least up until the last week. But before I go, I wanted to share my last thought before I turned off the television last night.

As the Ducks were whooping and yelling and hugging, the camera cut to a devastated group of Senators gathered around Emery, waiting for the hand shake. As I watched them, I fervently hoped that Alfie, or Redden or Fish would gather the team together one last time in the locker room and tell them to remember that feeling. Remember the feeling of watching the other team whoop it up with the Cup, while you stood there knowing that you didn't show the heart it takes to be in their shoes. Carry that feeling with you all summer. And when the big machine cranks up all over again next October, use that feeling as fuel.

Do that, and it will be our team carrying, crying into and drinking from the most beautiful championship trophy in all of sports. Rivalries? Bah! Leafs? Sabres? Suddenly meaningless. So much provincial piffle. We've got more important things to do. We've been to the top of the mountaintop, only to lose the summit on the last step, and we know precisely why we lost that step. With that knowledge, we will be invincible.

Stanley Cup Final -- In The Event Of A Water Landing, Jason Spezza May Be Used As A Flotation Device

While sifting through the carnage that was last night's game, I mentioned to a friend of mine that I couldn't understand how a team could scratch and claw its way through three rounds of playoff hockey, reach the final covered in blood, sweat and tears...and not show up. What the hell happened, I asked.

"Easy", he said. "Tendencies."

"Huh?"

"Tendencies. Carlyle has Ottawa's tendencies down cold. And he's coaching his team on them."

Now here I was, swearing a blue streak about how the Senators stopped skating (again), how stupid Alfie was with his little tantrum, how (good Lord HOW), with Ottawa needing the biggest goal in franchise history and Emery on the bench, how in the name of all that is holy could Redden let himself get beat to a loose puck with 30 seconds left, in his own zone. And he gives me...coaching.

Ordinarily I'd greet this with mixture of laughter and scorn, but this particular friend knows coaching. He's coached minor football, kids ranging from 4 to 14, for 10 years. He's the Vince Lombardi of the Teletubby set. Pro coaches? Bah! Show me a pro coach who's ever had to deal with his starting wide receiver suddenly running off the field because he "has to potty". Other than Parcells that is ("awww jeez Terrell. Again?"). I joined him once as a volunteer for the first day of team tryouts. I made one bad joke to the players and lost them forever. They looked at him, and saw "Coach". Me? "Dork with a Canadian Tire whistle". They were 8 and they could smell fear. I never went back. He never left. All that to say, when he makes a point about coaching, it usually makes sense to listen.

So is Murray being outcoached? I have no idea. But I do no that if Carlyle is coaching his defence on Ottawa's tendencies (explained to me thusly: Spezza does "A", and if that's not there, "B", and if that's not there "C", waive weakly at the puck while pretending to skate and bitching about the ice. Um...okay. May have made "C" up), and Murray hasn't made adjustments, then yes. But he has adjusted, and still nothing happens. Which leaves...well...that leaves the players. Which makes me swear a blue streak all over again.

Look, we all think they'll win tomorrow. And Saturday. And Monday. We have to. We're fans. And as a fans, the only things we have to replace our total lack of control over the outcome are things like hope and superstition. So tomorrow night, we'll wear the lucky socks, and we'll don the only Sens t-shirt we have left yet to witness a playoff loss. We'll eat the same meal we've eaten before every game, and we'll spin around three times before settling into our Lay-Z-Boys.

But that's it, that's all we got, guys. The rest is up to you, the players. We're out of chants, incantations and incense. We're out of prayers, exhortations, tantrums, and sacrificial rubber chickens. In short, we got nothin' left. So...uh...waddya say there guys? Little help? For old time's sake?

Stanley Cup Finals – Game 4: Now Witness The Firepower Of This Fully Armed And Operational Daniel Alfredsson!

I was thinking about simply reposting the St. Crispin’s day speech (one of my favourites) again, but my Soul For Cup contract with Satan clearly states that I am only permitted one Inspirational Soliloquy From Dead 16th Century Tights-Clad Playwrights per round.

That’s okay though, since I am positively brimming with confidence. How, you may ask? How can I feel so good, even though we’re still trailing in the series, the Big Line is still MIA, Spezza insists on reverting to the pre-Christmas version of his bad (and by bad, I mean putrid) self and Rayzor was far from solid in Game 3? Easy. Booze.

Oh, and this:

It’s getting spicy out there, and the boys have a good hate on for the Ducks now. The games where they played their best, lights-out hockey was against teams they had come to despise (paging Sydney Crosby. Mr. Crosby, please pick up the white phone).

Pronger’s absence on the blue line will hurt more than Carlysle is letting on. Although we’ll miss the big lug’s offensive contributions (thanks again Chris!), it’s time to turn on the jets, gentlemen.

We’re still at home. Think Saturday was crazy? By the end of the second, the Ducks will think they’ve been locked in a very loud phone booth with 21,000 screaming, rabid beavers. (What, not scary? Here’s your stick, Tess Trueheart. Go poke it).

As shaky as Emery was, Jiggy looked even worse. If we can pump five or six past him again, he may just give up completely and join a monastery. That’d be cool.

Prediction: Sens 6, Ducks 2. We’re headin’ back to Disneyland all tied up kids, and Big Mo is drivin’ the bandwagon. Go Sens!

Oh The Injustice! America Yawns In Outrage!

On the off chance that anyone noticed, Five For Smiting took yesterday off. Rest assured, my first thoughts upon waking were of you, gentle reader! (Well…okay, second thoughts. My first one was “Holy crap my head hurts!” Then I thought of you. Honest.) I went to sleep fairly delirious with the posting possibilities offered by the confluence of Game 3, its yummy, yummy controversies, and an entire Sunday stretching before me, limitless in its promise of leisure time. Pronger’s cheap shot! The Alfie/Pele goal! The annual hand wringing that goes with the announcement of the bottomless crater that is the American television audience! I wanted it all!

Funny thing though. As I emerged from the house yesterday morning to get the paper, clutching my cup of coffee, bleary eyed after the previous night’s consumption of beer and bile, I immediately noticed three things: 1) there was a giant ball of fire hovering in the sky which I haven’t seen since the playoffs started; 2) Neighbours were setting up a grid search in the jungle that had once been my backyard, muttering something about missing livestock, and most alarming, 3) my Beloved threatened to call the police if the bedraggled stranger using our bathroom didn’t get out of our house right this minute. Eventually she recognized me, and smiling sweetly, handed me a scythe. And here we are.

Now, that’s not to say that I have no opinions on what transpired on Saturday. I most certainly do.

Following the Flying Elbow of Death, I believe my post on the Battle of Ontario game thread was achingly brilliant in both accuracy and sentiment: SHUNbiTch ProNg…what aN ahhshh..ole…pwngzeeees!!! (Note to self: Bob Cole drinking games are a very bad idea).

Not only is the suspension completely justified, but I think he should sit until McAmmond is cleared to play again, which at this point may not be until October (2nd suspension in as many weeks? Damn straight). Some folks seem to disagree. Now this is where I could go into a frothing rant about ignorant “fans” and how anyone (Daniel) who actually saw the play couldn’t possibly argue otherwise, but I won’t. We, denizens of the blogosphere, have a duty to respect all viewpoints, no matter how, um, “misguided”… they may be. And before everyone (Daniel) goes daffy on me, the refs blew it on the Neil hit on McDonald too. There. Better?

Alfie’s goal was…well…a goal. The VCR Gang in Toronto got it right. End of (non)story. I did, however, thoroughly enjoy the following exchange between Damian Cox and Dave Feschuk on The Sports Reporters Sunday morning (bearing in mind that Feschuk is a very occasional panellist, covers basketball, not hockey…and looks to be roughly 12 years old):

Feschuk: No way that was a goal! He cleary moved his skate!
Cox: You’re allowed to do that.
Feschuk: Well, they should change the rules to make it clearer!
Cox: They did, after the lockout.
Feschuk: It shouldn’t be allowed!
Cox: * blink *…

So there we have it. I would have done this up right proper (as me pappy used to say), had I had the chance yesterday. But, alas, after my landscaping efforts, there just wasn’t enough time/energy/functional brain matter. And now, the moment has passed.

On the upside three pigs, eight chickens and a disoriented wombat have been reunited with their owners. So that’s something.

Pitter Patter They Got One [Ducks Blog]
Finals Ratings Down 22 Percent [SI.com]
McAmmond Still Game Time Decision [SLAM Sports.ca]

Stanley Cup Final -- Game 3 Be In Their Flowing Cups Freshly Remembered

Enough said. Now go get it.

Good Evening Gentlemen. Mr. Davidson Would Like A Word

Okay. It’s perfectly obvious now. Why it hadn’t occurred to me before, I’ll never know. Those dastardly fiends at Maple Leafs Sports and Entertainment have ripped open a hole in space-time and swapped our Covered-In-Glory 2007 Senators with the Bathed-In-The-Stink-Of-Gary-Roberts’-Junk Senators, circa 2002. Of course! How else to explain the sudden reappearance of our favourite wilting lilies from days of yore? I can’t. Can you?

Seriously. Just what the hell is going on? Everybody with a functional frontal lobe told them what they needed to do. Hit them. Skate. Hit them again. Muck it up on the boards. Keep hitting them. Get shots to the net. Look like you CARE goddammit. And to a man, the team nodded, agreed, promised to do just that. Yep. You betcha! Totally! RAH! WE’RE GOING OUT THERE AND…ah…play worse? 16 shots. SIXTEEN! Jesus wept.

Alright. That’s it for my rant. It took me about an hour last night to empty my Big Cauldron Of Rage but now nice Mister Doctor Guy says I’m all fixed. My patio set may need additional recovery time however. (Sorry Honey. We’ll get a new one. Promise).

Um…so now what? Well, now our wallflowers return to the friendly confines of the Bank, where the frenzied mob will surely motivate them to, oh…I don’t know…play the frickin’ game like they have since the middle of April?!? Whether that motivation stems from the adrenaline rush which comes from the adulation of an adoring populace or an acute (and quite real) fear of being lynched in the parking lot after another stinker, I don’t much care.

Just show us something. Anything. Please?

Okay, Class. What Have We Learned From This?

Everybody take a deep breath and calm down. Like you, I have no idea why the Binghamton Senators were sent to play Game 1, but I have it on good authority that the Ottawa Senators have indeed landed in Anaheim and will be taking part in the Finals, starting tomorrow. We thank the boys from Bingo for their valiant, if futile effort, and assure them that Happy Meals will be served on the bus ride home, as stipulated in their minor league contracts.

What happened last night was as predictable as it was brutal to watch. A nine day lay-off (someday, somehow Alexei Yagudin will pay for this travesty) plus the jetlag (call a huge “bullshit” the next time you here Bryan Murray say it isn’t a factor because “everyone is professional”. Bryan, “professionalism” is no defence against natural physiology. Or so I read in a law book somewhere) plus a Ducks team jacked up on the home crowd’s mojo, equals the worst complete game the Senators have played since Christmas, with the third being the worst period they’ve played since the sky was falling back in November. They were out hit (boy, howdy!), out hustled to every loose puck and out skated. The boys just ran out of legs.

Now, that said, the real danger is letting this ass-whuppin' (there’s no gilding this particular lily) turn into momentum. Here’s what needs to happen right from the puck drop tomorrow night:

1) Hit everything not in a white jersey until it screams, up to and including the peanut vendors. Then hit it again. Especially the vendors. I hate peanuts.

2) Shoot the damn puck!!

3) Chris Neil needs to pummel Brad May, or Corey Perry, or both. At the same time if need be.

4) SHOOT!!

5) Find the forecheck they had in the first three rounds. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Check under the locker room bench. It should be right next to where Spezz left his manhood.

6) Did I mention that it would be a good idea to shoot some more, you know, just ‘cause?

Last night was Anaheim’s mulligan. The Quacks have shot their load, if ducks actually have loads to shoot (a mystery I am only to happy to leave to others). This Series starts tomorrow. Or, um, the next day. Or whenever the figure skaters give us our fucking ice back...

p.s.: Strangely, no word on how beside himself with glee Mr. Simmons may be. I’d keep an eye out though. The scent of smug is strong on this one.

Stanley Cup Finals -- Game 1: Upon Bryan's Signal Unleash Hell

Dear gawd, but it feels like these last 10 days have dragged forever. But we're here Sens fans. Pinch yourselves, you ain't dreamin'. Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals is thirty minutes away. And I, for one, am very warm and tingly in all of my special places.

I'm not even going to attempt a live blog on this. Not only can I count on any emotional stability at all, but the sweat on my palms keep causing myt fighhyngers toooolol slopslip off the keyboard.

My expectations tonight: Anaheim comes out like a house a-fire, crashing, banging, attempting to injure anything in white. The Senators (not too dopey from the lay-off...I hope...otherwise I'm making Bettman my bitch) have to weather the storm that will be the first five minutes. After that, the Ducks get themselves into penalty trouble and the boys go to work on a lethal powerplay. And if Marchant doesn't try to take out one of Alfie, Heater or Spez with a chicken-shit knee shot before the first period is over, I'll kiss a Leaf fan...on the mouth.

Final: Ottawa 4, Anaheim 1. Flangerotti!

p.s: I have to give a quick plug to the boys at Battle of Ontario. If you want a lively game thread, head there. I'll try to make it over myself...as soon as I stop throwing up.

Caution: Quasi-Serious Analysis Ahead

There are several reasons I don't go in for the whole "Serious Series Preview and Breakdown" here, not the least of which is that I'm not very good at it.

First: As you can probably imagine, I am hopelessly biased. If I were to preview, say, an Ottawa/Toronto playoff series (if such a thing were to occur again in my lifetime...HAR!), I doubt anyone would want to read a full page of balanced analysis ("Leafs SUCK and here's why!") in which I go into a five hundred word rant on why Darcy Tucker should never be allowed to procreate. Funny? Maybe. Useful? Not so much.

Two: Unfamiliarity with the opposition. If I had to guess (and my Beloved would be happy to point out...with a lonely sigh), I've watched roughly 85-90% of the Senators televised games this year. I can tell you if Mike Fisher is going to have a good game just by watching the first three strides he takes after the opening face off. I wouldn't know Ryan Getzlaf if I hit him with my car. Well, not right away, anyway. I'm sure the nice officer would introduce us.

Three: Winston Churchill once said that "Statistics are like bikinis. Interesting for what they reveal, absolutely fascinating for what they don't" Not only that, they're boring (um...the stats, not the bikinis. Bikinis are quite interesting). Dry analysis based on statistics mean nothing in the playoffs, and even less in the Finals. What matters most are things like effort and heart. Stats won't tell you who will go into a corner, or take the hit to make the play, and that's what wins Championships.

So...where does that leave me? With this:

The Ducks are a three-line/four D team. Ottawa can roll four lines all the time, all six defenceman can block shots and shut down just about anyone.

• Anaheim has logged more travel and time zone changes in the first three rounds than a drunken Delta pilot. Ottawa has yet to venture out of the eastern time zone.


• While the Ducks are the more physical team, Ottawa can play any way you want, and have the advantage of being, by far, the faster team. You can't hit what you can't catch.


• I managed to work in a Winston Churchill reference in a hockey post. C'mon, that's gotta count for something.

Senators in six. May God have mercy on avian souls.

Oh Yeah?!?! Well, Keep Your Hot Babes. We Invented Time Zones! Take That!

Okay children, we're in the Finals! We're in the Finals with four days to kill until Game 1 (thanks again NBC. Sure there isn't a horse race somewhere? Jerks).

So anyway...We know what that means! That means it's time for everybody's favourite new game...Mock The Ducks! Um...Right. The Ducks. California...Er...Gotcha. I'm gonna bring it! Hide the women and kiddies! Here I come! Ah...okay. Ah crap. This was way easier with the Sabres (we told them it would be twenty-four degrees at game time, and they came by the busload, dressed up in parkas and ski masks. Gawd I love the metric system!).

I mean, really, how do you work up a good hatred for a team your team has played against once in two years? A team whose former name elicited more pity than anything else from Canadians ("Oooo...'Mighty' Ducks? Wasn't that a cartoon? Oh you poor dears. Who's going to want to play with that on their jersey? Have a beer. Just one, mind you. Wouldn't want you getting all crazy on us.") A team whose totally unexpected trip to the finals in 2003 actually made me want to root for them as the quintessential Rudy story? You can't. At least not before any games have been played. What am I going to do?

Can I make fun of their so-called "non-hockey market"? Can't do that. Not with Anaheim being so close to L.A., the same L.A. that didn't give a rat's ass about two, count 'em TWO, NFL teams but has had the Kings for 30 years. Nope, that's no good.

The citizenry? Well, these are the same folks who pioneered gay rights, hippies, women's beach volleyball (thank you), emission standards, tofu, and by inadvertent extension to this last, Whacking Day, in which Albertans take a day off from the ranch to beat Vegans with calcified steer ribs. In other words, everything that drives Republicans, and their close Canadian relatives, the right fringe of the Conservatives, absolutely batshit crazy (except for Whacking Day. They love that). For this we can only thank them.

I was starting to get desperate. Then, on a tour of the Interwebs, I came across the Battle of California (through Battle of Ontario, to which I was directed by a link on Deadspin, whose parent site, Gawker.com made fun of Tom Cruise, who co-starred in Jerry McGuire with Cuba Gooding Jr., who appeared in A Few Good Men with Kevin Bacon) I found disconcerting evidence of co-operation between camps!

So I gave up completely. I need some time. I need to do some research. Believe me, the only reason I'm not flying into a BLIND RAGE is that...um...you guys seem kinda harmless, in an amusement park kinda way (and you linked my little site on yours. Gosh. Thanks). Plus, Battle of Ontario is way better at this kind of stuff than I am.

But beware! The minute I find some dirt on you guys, you're toast! Get it? Losers? And you still have to keep Celine! Suckers!

p.s.: I'll actually get to my prediction on this series later in the weekend (oooh...guess who I pick?), but I first need to dig up as many embarrassing pictures of Micheal Eisner as possible.

UPDATE: KMS2, of Hockey Ladies Greatness was kind enough to point out that the Kings were admitted to the League in 1967 and are in fact 40 years old, not 30 as I stated above. I had it in my head that they came in during the expansion of 1974. Probably because of the uniforms. Seriously. Does anything say 1974 like Gold and Royal Purple? I think not. In a very groovy way, Five For Smiting regrets the error.

Of Glory! Of Victory! Of Near Head-On Collisions!

Why do we cheer? Why do we invest so much time, money and above all, emotion in what, for all intents and purposes, is a simple game played by others for their own benefit? It can't be for the players themselves. We don't know them, as much as we pretend to. We've never met them except in autograph lines, or perhaps at rare sightings at local restaurants. We know that the faces will change from one year to the next, whether because of free agency, the pursuit of bigger paycheques, or by our own actions (all of you who bellowed that the Captain should be traded back in November, please raise your hand).

So why is it that when they win, we are lifted along with them, in paroxysms of joy and ecstasy? And when they lose, we mope and grouse, devastated, through our day to day lives until the moment our heroes win again, thereby cleansing the sour taste of defeat, putting a spring in our step and a smile on our face. We are fully aware, that our own actions, thoughts and even prayers have absolutely no impact whatsoever over what happens between two teams. And yet we continue to wear our lucky socks, don the jerseys, engage in countless rituals, meaningless though they are, in order to ensure victory. It's irrational. We know it's irrational. And yet we do it. Why?

These are the thoughts that occurred to me when Alfie scored. Well, a little while later, really. At the moment Alfie scored, my wife and I were on our way to Ottawa and a long planned dinner date with our best friends. Having watched the entire game at home, I was forced to choose between standing up our friends, thereby incurring the scorn and calumny of my beloved, and watching what could be a multiple overtimes at home. Guess which option I picked?

As we made our way up Highway 31, the game on the radio, Alfie delivered me to the promised land. I yelled, I honked, I yelled some more. I swerved into the oncoming lane. My wife yelled. I yelled a little less and concentrated on what the hell I was doing. My wife yelled a little less. But as we got closer to Ottawa, oncoming traffic began honking at us, having noticed the flags flying from our windows. Soon, we were sitting at stop lights with complete strangers, honking and screaming at each other. Go Sens! All the Way BAYYYYBEEE!! WOOOOO! And I began to wonder a little bit, why? Why am I so goddamn happy because our professional athletes beat another city's professional athletes? Why?

Every first year sports psychology student worth his or her tuition will answer by citing things like "tribalism" and the comfort we find in a "community of the like minded" or, Heaven help us, by falling back on the tired cliche about how we, as fans (from the root fanatic after all) are somehow reliving, vicariously through mercenary athletes, the glory that escaped us in our own minor league youth, be it on the ice or the football field or baseball diamond.

And guess what? I have come to realize that I don't care right now. That's for the After. I don't care about what primeval motivations may be lurking in my reptilian brain. I'll examine those a little closer in the After. The Ottawa Senators are in the Stanley Cup Finals. MY Ottawa Senators are in the Stanley Cup Finals. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to stop my wife from washing my lucky socks.