Okay, so it’s a little after the fact. And yes, by this point many of the key components of the Hawks Stanley Cup run have been shipped off. And sure one thinks less about hockey when the thermometer reads triple digits. Nonetheless, I will transcribe here what was written a month and a half ago as game one approached.
What follows was written on the eve of the Cup Finals opener in Chicago. There were no follow-ups as I could barely keep my lunch down as the games proceeded, let alone write something about them. Spectating games of championship magnitude, for those of the die-hard sort, often requires a certain intestinal diligence. Or maybe that’s just me. I don’t feel things in my heart or head, I feel them in my stomach. Literally—my stomach gets uneasy.
If you’ll recall (if there’s really a you out there), I made predictions throughout the Stanley Cup playoffs. I was like a sunset—brilliant in the West, blind dark in the East.
Something had to give in the finals.
Just thinking back to a few short weeks ago has already alleviated some of the summer swoon that engulfs the East presently. Belated…yes. Untimely…never. Ahhh, cold steel on ice.
From May 29, 2010:
I’m on the plane as I write this. I got the itch on Monday. I was febrile by Wednesday. On Thursday I decided it had to be done. Today is Friday, a little more than 24 hours till puck drop.
When I was little, I played more hockey than I watched—and I didn’t play that often. Each winter we had to wait till “the marina” froze over.
The Marina was a little harbor carved into the water-filled gouge of strip mine aftermath we called Goose Lake. The marina, shielded from the wind, always froze first. We’d drag two railroad ties to the ice because we didn’t have real nets. We didn’t use goalies. The nearest railroad was a good 5 miles away, but there were always ties near the marina, I have no idea why.
Some winters we had hockey skates, but being kids, we grew out of them by the first thaw. Maybe then we’d find an old pair of figure skates. I don’t know where any of this stuff came from. Nobody figure skated that I ever saw. But we used whatever we had. We’d play till our frozen phalanges couldn’t hold a stick. We always threw in an obligatory fight or two—not true fisticuffs, just the pulled-punch, enjoy the dance variety. It was more a ritualistic nod to the game than actual fury. You see, the pugilism of the 70s still bruised the reputation of the sport, and I guess to some degree it still does.
I knew two Hawks in the 80s: Doug Wilson and Denis Savard.
By decade’s turn, I became aware of Steve Larmer and Michel Goulet, but (thanks to “Dollar” Bill Wirtz) I never saw many of their games; my family didn’t have cable.
The early-to-mid-90s ignited my hockey awakening. Things changed for the Hawks: they were good. Belfour, Roenick, Cheli, Suter, Graham. Just see Sega Genesis NHLPA ’93 for proof.
By decade’s end, they were bad again. They stayed bad for a LONG TIME.
To date, my predictions of the 2010 S.C. Playoffs have been a tale of two trends: the Western Conference has put me on par with Nostradamus; in the East, I’m like the guy who was the first to say, “The Titanic! That baby’s unsinkable!” Perfect in the West; 2009 Detroit Lions in the East.
In the Finals, something has to give. Here’s the problem—everything’s at stake now. Not just my predictions, but my hopes for the denouement of the season.
Now I pride myself on being practical, logical, reproaching anything or anyone that risks irrationality. But sports are funny. It’s the ultimate collision of careful consideration and chance. Plots and interference. Architecture vs. Mother Nature. Control. No control.
Only, in this case it’s not me wristing a shot at a railroad tie. It’s not me in any capacity outside of what I can shout—and I shout a lot—at the game, and with lack of control one is apt to turn to witchdoctors, or gods, or talismans. Hindsight gives ample opportunity to identify inane causes for unwanted effects. One such inanity is the “jinx.” Just ask any 90% free throw shooter. We all know what happens the minute an announcer says, “He’s hit his last 19 attempts.” Even amongst the stoutest logicians, the effects of the jinx can be felt. Causation? Correlation? It doesn’t matter. It may not make sense, but we think it can explain everything. By way of our need to make sense, we provide senseless explanations for why things occur. Humans are complex simpletons.
As much as I want to say it, I won’t.
I won’t risk the jinx. Even though I know it doesn’t really exist, I won’t predict a thing. Even though I understand that nothing I write/do/say will affect anything. I won’t. Anyone who knows me knows what I think. But I won’t say it. It means too goddamn much to me.
Chalk it up as a cop out. Put this round’s “predictions” in the L column. I don’t care.
I’ve nearly emptied my bank account for it. I’m on a plane as I write over cloud-blanketed Pennsylvania or Ohio—can’t really tell from here—to get home for it.
I’ll be yelling during the National Anthem if I can get any sound past the lump in my throat. Twenty thousand strong standing with Stan and Bobby and Tony and J.R. and Glenn and Pierre and Rocky.
And yeah, it’s going to be especially hard to look at #3 in the rafters tomorrow.
What follows was written on the eve of the Cup Finals opener in Chicago. There were no follow-ups as I could barely keep my lunch down as the games proceeded, let alone write something about them. Spectating games of championship magnitude, for those of the die-hard sort, often requires a certain intestinal diligence. Or maybe that’s just me. I don’t feel things in my heart or head, I feel them in my stomach. Literally—my stomach gets uneasy.
If you’ll recall (if there’s really a you out there), I made predictions throughout the Stanley Cup playoffs. I was like a sunset—brilliant in the West, blind dark in the East.
Something had to give in the finals.
Just thinking back to a few short weeks ago has already alleviated some of the summer swoon that engulfs the East presently. Belated…yes. Untimely…never. Ahhh, cold steel on ice.
From May 29, 2010:
I’m on the plane as I write this. I got the itch on Monday. I was febrile by Wednesday. On Thursday I decided it had to be done. Today is Friday, a little more than 24 hours till puck drop.
When I was little, I played more hockey than I watched—and I didn’t play that often. Each winter we had to wait till “the marina” froze over.
The Marina was a little harbor carved into the water-filled gouge of strip mine aftermath we called Goose Lake. The marina, shielded from the wind, always froze first. We’d drag two railroad ties to the ice because we didn’t have real nets. We didn’t use goalies. The nearest railroad was a good 5 miles away, but there were always ties near the marina, I have no idea why.
Some winters we had hockey skates, but being kids, we grew out of them by the first thaw. Maybe then we’d find an old pair of figure skates. I don’t know where any of this stuff came from. Nobody figure skated that I ever saw. But we used whatever we had. We’d play till our frozen phalanges couldn’t hold a stick. We always threw in an obligatory fight or two—not true fisticuffs, just the pulled-punch, enjoy the dance variety. It was more a ritualistic nod to the game than actual fury. You see, the pugilism of the 70s still bruised the reputation of the sport, and I guess to some degree it still does.
I knew two Hawks in the 80s: Doug Wilson and Denis Savard.
By decade’s turn, I became aware of Steve Larmer and Michel Goulet, but (thanks to “Dollar” Bill Wirtz) I never saw many of their games; my family didn’t have cable.
The early-to-mid-90s ignited my hockey awakening. Things changed for the Hawks: they were good. Belfour, Roenick, Cheli, Suter, Graham. Just see Sega Genesis NHLPA ’93 for proof.
By decade’s end, they were bad again. They stayed bad for a LONG TIME.
To date, my predictions of the 2010 S.C. Playoffs have been a tale of two trends: the Western Conference has put me on par with Nostradamus; in the East, I’m like the guy who was the first to say, “The Titanic! That baby’s unsinkable!” Perfect in the West; 2009 Detroit Lions in the East.
In the Finals, something has to give. Here’s the problem—everything’s at stake now. Not just my predictions, but my hopes for the denouement of the season.
Now I pride myself on being practical, logical, reproaching anything or anyone that risks irrationality. But sports are funny. It’s the ultimate collision of careful consideration and chance. Plots and interference. Architecture vs. Mother Nature. Control. No control.
Only, in this case it’s not me wristing a shot at a railroad tie. It’s not me in any capacity outside of what I can shout—and I shout a lot—at the game, and with lack of control one is apt to turn to witchdoctors, or gods, or talismans. Hindsight gives ample opportunity to identify inane causes for unwanted effects. One such inanity is the “jinx.” Just ask any 90% free throw shooter. We all know what happens the minute an announcer says, “He’s hit his last 19 attempts.” Even amongst the stoutest logicians, the effects of the jinx can be felt. Causation? Correlation? It doesn’t matter. It may not make sense, but we think it can explain everything. By way of our need to make sense, we provide senseless explanations for why things occur. Humans are complex simpletons.
As much as I want to say it, I won’t.
I won’t risk the jinx. Even though I know it doesn’t really exist, I won’t predict a thing. Even though I understand that nothing I write/do/say will affect anything. I won’t. Anyone who knows me knows what I think. But I won’t say it. It means too goddamn much to me.
Chalk it up as a cop out. Put this round’s “predictions” in the L column. I don’t care.
I’ve nearly emptied my bank account for it. I’m on a plane as I write over cloud-blanketed Pennsylvania or Ohio—can’t really tell from here—to get home for it.
I’ll be yelling during the National Anthem if I can get any sound past the lump in my throat. Twenty thousand strong standing with Stan and Bobby and Tony and J.R. and Glenn and Pierre and Rocky.
And yeah, it’s going to be especially hard to look at #3 in the rafters tomorrow.
***End Flashback***
So there it was. That was me then. Later, it will be me now.
When will then be now?
Soon.
-Kyle Wills
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