Timing, we are again reminded, is everything.
With double-figure unemployment, world-class foreclosure rates and the prospect of three and a half more years of Rick Scott, this town needed a diversion–other than the Rapture countdown–in the worst way. Thank you, Tampa Bay Lightning. Thank you, Jeff Vinik, Steve Yzerman, Guy Boucher and relentless players–marquee and “grinders” alike.
However this ends, a Stanley Cup run deep into May has been a galvanizing community jolt. Imagine, 500 fans turning out on a Sunday morning to form a human lightning bolt at the airport. And by achieving the biggest turn-around since Lazarus, the Bolts have become a most welcome, can-do metaphor for a city that sometimes forgets how resilient it really is.
Some additional thoughts:
* Ever notice how rare it is to see a Lightning player making news for the wrong reasons? There are no Aqib Talibs on skates. Even tough guy Steve Downie is a well-spoken, pleasant sort off the ice. A big difference between the penalty box and the slammer.
* One of the rewards of making it to the finals is the opportunity to play a Vancouver or a Calgary for the Cup. That means few fans accompanying such teams across the continent. And when they do, they act like Canadian visitors enjoying hockey amid palm tree ambiance. We hope they ride the streetcar too.
But to get out of the Eastern Conference, Tampa Bay has to go through the likes of Philadelphia, Boston, New York or New Jersey. Their fans come with attitude, like some mutant, entitlement gene–even if their team hasn’t won a Cup since Lord Stanley was a baron. A sense that it’s a sacrilege to even be playing hockey in Florida. A sense that this is truly off-off Broadway. And, ironically, that goes for those who actually LIVE HERE.
My wife and I attended game three of the Eastern Finals at the Forum. The arena was dotted with mini enclaves of Boston Bruin fans. They were easy to spot. By their uniformed look, every one was seemingly named Orr–but none, curiously, named Esposito. Many, indeed, live among us–we sat next to some–and they assuredly keep that vice grip on their hometown allegiance. It’s irritating.
Put it this way: You have to be born somewhere. But if this is where you choose to live, act like it.
Moreover, here’s a take from Phil Esposito, the NHL Hall of Famer who played 9 seasons with the Bruins and was a member of their last two Stanley Cup winners (1970 and ’72). Espo, of course, helped found the Lightning in 1992, is the team’s radio color commentator and lives here full time.
” I don’t care about Boston,” says Esposito. “Tampa Bay is my home. … I hope we smoke ’em to tell the truth.” Yeah.
* Attending a hockey playoff game, however, is not, alas, for everybody. It’s not, for example, for some couples looking for a sports-themed, fun night out. Splitsville would be safer. Let me explain.
Attending a hockey game is different from, say, attending a football game. Once a football game begins, it’s pretty much about football until halftime. Cue the marching bands and cheer-providers. With hockey, in order to appeal to more than the hardcore fan (of which there aren’t enough), it’s about the “fan experience.”
Dates and kids are not there to dissect penalty kills, bemoan lost face-offs, analyze giveaways that lead to “odd-man rushes” or rhapsodize over someone “roofing a short-side ‘wrister.'” They are there for the scene. They want in on the ambiance. The game comes with it. The loud music, cool visuals and video hijinks are sensory-overload, fun stuff.
And it’s not just pre-game. It’s during the game as well.
But fun is still fun–except when your team is losing. And you know just enough to be frustrated by its unexpectedly flat performance.
Then all of the up-tempo dissonance, contests, promotions, laughing and waving is, well, annoying. I’m on the edge of my seat. I’m not happy. Boston fans are in throaty, full-Monty rapture. Just let me brood and yell. It’s the Stanley Cup playoffs and defeat seems increasingly imminent, unacceptable, awful and just not right. How dare the good guys not win!
My wife, who enjoys watching athletes skate and roots hard for the home team, doesn’t get it. She’s surely not alone. She still wants to have fun–and can deal with the disappointment of an impending loss like an adult. Plus, she supported a good cause: the home team. Playoff hockey as a civic shout-out. Can’t win ’em all. How disgustingly mature.
On the other hand, I want to vent and curse the hockey gods for a lousy interference call. Party on without me.
And, come to think of it, those tickets are pretty pricey to have to countenance a loss.
But sometimes you just have to take one for the team. Go, Bolts.