I'm Not Jumping On The BandWagon...I Plan on Driving It

The puck slid across the crease - an invisible hand pushing it beyond the reach of a defender, darting past the goalie, toward the stick of Boston player rushing toward the net...

I let out a noise that is a cross between a barbaric yalp and a dog having its tail stepped on. The common noise that I've let out of a thousand times at a thousand different events. The common noise that starts as a guttural cry of joy and ends up stuck in the throat when fate - it is always fate - intervenes.

My three month old daughter Sienna opened her eyes from where she was enjoying her nap - the natural birthright of any child with Bostonian blood anywhere in her veins being on her father or mother's lap* during a playoff game. Especially a game seven with a trip to the Stanley Cup finals at stake. "Really close, Sweetie," I told her in an attempt to turn disappointment into a teaching moment. Her tiny face turned beet red instantaneously as she let out a guttural cry of her own, only this one didn't stop in her throat, instead it reverberated throughout our apartment and was accompanied by tiny tiny tears.

The Bruins had made my daughter Sienna cry.

Danielle, upon coming home from work, rightfully pointed out that I had scared our child with my louder-than-I- think-it-is yelp, my protests that it was the Bruins not withstanding. She noted that I have watched approximately a handful of hockey games at best and that I was doing nothing more than jumping on the Bruins bandwagon. My wife is a smart woman. My wife just did not grow up with hockey.**

This was BEFORE the Bruins even won the game. My yearly playoff passage since moving to New York a decade ago is as follows: I quietly hope for the best of "my beloved Bruins" or "my beloved Celtics." Otherwise I keep it to myself. Hockey is way closer to my heart though - my father jokes that kids in our town learned how to walk and instead of sneakers would get skates. Actually, he isn't joking.

I can recount the utter heartbreak and disappointment that began approximately in the mid-70s when my mother introduced me to hockey and has continued onward until right about, oh now. Only it would take about 15,000 words, a box of tissues, and therapy***. Hockey has proven to be a lot more painful than Red Sox baseball. I know, 86 years of futility and the Red Sox finally win the World Series, let me sum up the counterpoint: the Red Sox had lower expectations so when they did well it was a pleasant surprise. Not with hockey.

Hockey will kill you slowly. Your team is most likely to make the playoffs and it gives you eternal hope. The Bruins gave you more than hope they would sometimes make the cup finals and then end up being surprisingly non-competitive. This leads to incredible anguish: would you rather your team fail or succeed and then fail. My friend Mark is a huge Jets fans and back in '06 he asked me whether I'd rather have my team make the Superbowl (we were talking Patriots v Jets at the time) and lose or not make it at all. From my Bruins experience I told him I'd rather not make it. I'd rather the team suck.

Each year I tuned in come playoff time. Promising that I wouldn't care. Yeah, right. Last year really took the cake though. Up 3 - 0 to the Flyers and how-did-they-lose-that-series? It was the closest I have ever come to throwing a remote at the TV.

You would think I learn. I don't. Naturally I find myself flipping to the games once the playoffs begin - if I watched the regular season I'd probably get an ulcer. I have no idea if this makes the the worst fan ever. The base word of fanatic comes from "fan" and the days where I could rattle off the B's roster - would you like it by number, line, position, year - are long past. I experienced the entire "are you really a fan" debate throughout the filming of the Jets Hope documentary where we would talk to someone who only goes to one game a year with his buddies, doesn't know the names of the players anymore, yet still waits out the day when his team would win.

It is okay to be that fan. It is okay to use terms like "my team" when you haven't bought a jersey in years, or don't buy the NESN package anymore, or limit yourself to mumbling that you won't fall for the team AGAIN. You are that fan. Embrace being that fan. Especially when you have hope.

Excuse me while I put on my driver's cap and start up the bandwagon. Sienna is riding shotgun though - she needs a good view of what her future looks like.
Wayne

*Most Bostonians I know don't understand why women watching or knowing about sports is even considered a big deal.
** Danielle has gamely tried to watch hockey with me on TV. Even on our 40 inch HD TV the puck is too small to follow and when I say things like, "He's going to pass the puck to the winger on the far right" and the winger is against the boards and you can't really see him...it is understandable that she does not enjoy it as much as a I do. Actually it bores her. It bores her less live though.
***When the Bruins had a lead in game seven I keep mumbling "count 'em first" whenever there was an on the fly line change. Yes, 1979 still lingers...