Wow. What an incredible feeling it is to hoist the Stanley Cup over my head. I’ve spent my entire life working towards this goal and the relief, the joy, the absolute bliss that I feel can almost not be put in to words. I feel great about the way I played. 10 goals and 12 assists. Heck, I almost won the Conn Smyth Trophy too.
And you know what? You all can suck it.
I’m sure when people think about whose nose I’d like to rub this in the most they think of the Maple Leafs, or the Toronto media, or the USA Olympic team. But really that “suck it” is for everyone. I’m a champion and you are a loser.
And for the people in Pittsburgh saying to themselves right now, “Yeah! We sure showed the doubters didn’t we Phil?” You can suck it extra hard.
Let’s go back to when I joined the team and everyone said I showed up to the first practice eating frozen yogurt. Or how about in November when people said I was the worst signing in Penguins history? Lots of giggling at how out of shape you thought I was. Lots of fat jokes coming from Pittsburghers (you’re ones to talk).
Looks like you might be taking in some extra calories now, because you can eat my shorts.
You know what? You’re welcome.
Credit to my college buddy Dave Van Hook for the Art, the Ink, the Lettering, the Idea, etc.
I’ve been doing some research in our house and it appears everyone’s moods can be broken down into specific categories and percentages…
I’ve been dark for about two weeks because I’ve chosen to let the Stanley Cup Finals ruin my life. For something that, in reality, has almost no real impact on my day to day existance, I have emboldened the NHL to dictate my nightly plans, my eating habits, my mood.
I imagine this is how a meth addiction begins to feel after the first three weeks. It was a lot of fun at the beginning. So you keep coming back, over and over again. Then you wake up one Sunday morning and realize that a month has gone by and you barely noticed. Your wife, your poor, poor wife, has expressed concerns. You’re not concerned though. The only thing that matters tonight is the next game, the next hit.
You keep fooling yourself into thinking that you have this thing under control. That you can break out of the cycle whenever you want, but for right now you’re just having fun.
But it’s not fun anymore. The joy and elation that was your first time has mutated into a brief respite from fear and anxiety.
There’s a muffled voice near the base of your spine that keeps saying to give up now, that you’re too mentally dependent on the stimulant. “Go to the grocery store, God damn it!” it says, “You need cereal!” Right now I can barely hear that voice. It’s being face-washed by a stinky padded CCM glove.
I need a Coach to call a timeout. I need someone to ask me if I’m still in this game so I can say “No, I’m playing injured and I just want to see my family.” It’s only two wins away though.
Two wins and then what?