While you wait for Ivan Barbashev to sign a contract he doesn’t really like, let me remind you of something, St. Louis Blues fans. Two months ago, they won the Stanley Cup.
Yes, you lovely bastards, it really happened. As Arnold once said, “I am not shitting on you.” They won it all, stealing Boston’s dream in the process. Seven cold hard games of relentless hockey, several bites of pizza filmed by Barstool Sports (everybody knows the rules!), and many sad Brad Marchand memes later.
How many times have you woke up in the past two months to white hot erotic arousal at this very thought? Let’s just say I am running out of money to buy new pants. I may never see this shit again, so pardon me if I remind everyone I see.
“Good morning, the Blues are Stanley Cup champions.”
“Man, this weather is a drag, but the Blues are champions.”
“Have you seen Stanley? I have. He’s sleeping with the Blues at Enterprise Center.”
“Kroenke sucks, and the Blues won the Stanley Cup!”
I sneak it into every place I go, like Deadpool ordering take-out at Chevy’s.
It’s a thing and should stay a thing until next June when the Stanley Cup Final concludes. It was 52 years in the making, so many souls waiting for that illustrious moment when Brett Hull would get stone-cold drunk and almost make out with a chinchilla. You can’t write this stuff, not even if Jon Hamm stars in and takes all the credit.
The truth is the euphoria should never end. That’s the thing about being a part of this miraculous run. The drama-fueled emotion never wears off. It may drift from time to time, especially when the team goes into a slump this coming season. People will forget, complain about goal songs and power plays, and the idea of the 2018-19 run will die off ... temporarily. And then it all comes back, like a rush of blood and Bud Light to your head.
Please keep this one close to the chest. Let it sink in. The bad times can never take away a Stanley Cup from your good times trophy room. We all own a piece of that thing in some way.
We didn’t get to dip toasted ravioli in it, make the special spaghetti sauce in it, or take it to our hometown. All of us didn’t have a chance to touch it. It doesn’t matter. We all saw it happen two months ago. The memories are as smooth as silk, waiting whenever we need a breather from hapless summer baseball, the latest heat wave, or a political opinion slicing through our ears.
Just find a safe spot, turn on the highlights, and smile. Our panic rooms have a soundtrack now. It’s called “The Blues won the Stanley Fucking Cup!”
Preseason games start a month from Friday.