There are many things I can predict accurately in this world. No mere guesswork here, my friends. For instance, it will rain tomorrow, if you are planning a family picnic...or, if you want the phone to ring (or, for you young 'uns, if you want an urgent text), go have a shower...or, if you want a dead battery, line up an interview for that dream job.
So when I speak of predictions, I must admit that I never, ever saw the Stanley Cup final involving teams with names like Devils or Kings. I could have easily predicted the names would have sounded like Penguins, Rangers, and Bruins; or Canucks, Canucks, and Canucks.
On the other hand, anyone could have predicted the name wouldn't sound like Flames.
And I am thinking in particular of the LA Kings. They barely snuck into the playoffs just a few weeks ago; yet through sheer raw talent, they took out the number one, two, and three seed in the Western Conference. Interesting fact: The last time that happened, it was the Calgary Flames in 2004, and, you guessed it, Darryl Sutter was the coach—the current coach of the Kings.
You would think that would give him a teensy-weensy reason to smile, wouldn't you? (C'mon, Darryl, crack a smile--it won't crack your face.)
So the traditional teams that should have made it didn't. However, I'm sure the golf courses of the world are happy—plus all the very chic destination vacation spots.
The other hockey news that I must comment on is that of beards. That would be beards, as in manly hair on yon manly face. In case you didn't notice, there has been a growing tradition—pun most blessedly intended—of every Tom, Dick, and Harry (or would that be every Justin, Dustin, and Bustin'?) to grow a beard until they are no longer in the playoffs.
Maybe I am being a little generous with the term 'beard' here: I am appalled that the fuzz on the faces of some players could actually be called a beard. I would rather use words like scrawny, emaciated, wimpy, ugly, and laughable, but one of those ruffians might hit me with their hockey stick. Or bank statement, which could be a very heavy blow.
I place the Stanley Cup playoffs, and especially the fourth round, as the quintessential Canadian pastime, along with maple syrup from a maple tree, snow in June, and a Tim Hortons coffee to go. Every time I watch these games, I want to stand up and belch, er, belt out, “O, Canada.” That, despite the fact that there are no Canadian teams playing any longer. The finalists, of course, are from the concrete jungles near New York City and Los Angeles, respectively.
As you may know by now, I have never played hockey professionally, amateurishly, occasionally, or any other way that ends with an “-ly.” Well, that's not exactly true: I have played it “terribly”...once. Thus, I need to mince my words when I pass judgement on these guys who play a boys' game in a man's league, on a part-time basis for a fulltime salary.
Granted, I don't understand all the nuances of the game—the blood, sweat, and tears, if you will—but I do understand how exciting it is, as well as how excited we get, even though some of us (starting with me) know very little about the business, er, game.
It still strikes me as odd to see kids younger than some of my own sons, with beards that would make a peach blush, playing the ultimate Canadian sport in a downtown American venue. Envious, because my beloved Canucks aren't at the big dance? Maybe a little. But they lost to a better, more motivated team, and all's fair in love and war...and sports.
So, predictions and beards aside, I don't know how to call this one. My head says I can't see the Kings slowing down a bit, but my heart says it would be nice for Martin Brodeur to win one more cup before he retires.
And next year? I could even handle a Canadian team that sounds like Flames playing in the finals. So long as they shave off those scrawny, emaciated, wimpy, ugly, and laughable beards.
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