Stanley Cup - Big Whup

I sit here in the brave privacy of my quiet little office, contemplating the events of the past twenty-four hours. By the time you read this, it will be the past one hundred, sixty-eight hours. The so-called events involve a hockey game, the last one of six: One team beat another one, and now all is at peace with the world.

Or at least you would think so by the outpouring of joy that is coming from many quarters of the civilized western world.

Or, just in case you had your head stuck in a paint can for the past little while, the guys in red and white, with that wheel and wing, have just finished off the guys in black and yellow, with that goofy-looking penguin and a stick. I would agree that it was very exciting, right down to the last second, literally.

As other fan(atics) respond in varying ways, I find myself strangely removed from much of the mindless ecstasy around me.

Newfoundland is bursting the pride with having its first Stanley Cup Champion in one, Daniel Cleary. The Conn Smythe winner, Europe's second, is none other than Henrik Zetterberg (the other being teammate, Tomas Lidstrom, a few years back). Manitoba is rolling out the red carpet for its local hero, Darren Helm. (Who's heard of Darren Helm?) Where else and who else is out of their mind with glee, I do not know.

On the other hand, Tiger Woods, arguably the greatest golfer ever, said something to the effect, "I don't think anyone watches hockey much anymore." (Uh, Tiger, some free advice here from Dr. Fun: Stick to holes-in-one, not foot-in-mouth. You're welcome.)

I didn't watch one second of one game (no teevee, no watchee), but I did follow it on the radio. Sort of. My struggle is based partly on envy, I suppose: I see millionaires playing sports for a few months of the year, travelling all over North America at the team's expense – eating in restaurants, staying in hotels, commuting in jets. The good life, you might say.

Me? My itinerary includes Bow Island, Foremost, and Lethbridge.

To be sure, there is still something gut-wrenching about the group hugs, the tears of joy at drinking from Lord Stanley's mug, and the endless tales of how long it has taken some the get to this point in their career. (That alone is quite a feat: I heard that one in a ten thousand kids make it to the NHL.)

Again, I am not quite sure what I am saying here. It's great that two of the top three teams in this year's NHL squared off in the grande finale. That's the way it should be. I just fail to get as excited as my "friends" throughout the western hockey world. Despite the apparent enormity of the events of the past twenty-four hours, my world and my lifestyle hasn't changed one iota.

My muted joy lies somewhere between Mr. Woods's and Mr. Williams's (Newfoundland's premier) polar opposite responses. To the Woods's camp, I remind them that a lot of people took this game in; ratings were very high for the last two games, and that was stateside. And to the Williams's type, I wonder out loud if the Avalon Peninsula will now be called Cleary Peninsula.

Okay, okay, I slip into the deep end of the pool on that one. Sports is sports; it is not life. In fact, it may be more business than sports, but it is not a normal, daily reckoning for the millions that take it in. None of us will ever see the millions of dollars that these players "earn" in a hockey career.

That being said, it was a great diversion, a great run, but now it it is back to the irrigation ditches. Just wondering if I can get Helm's autograph...