That would be Ohio resident and inexplicable 'Canes fan Tony from Have You Met Tony?
6/14/2006 - Edmonton 4-3 Carolina - Carolina leads 3-2
This happened last night:
(Favorite bits of that thing, which I have committed to memory: the desperate roar from the crowd once Pisani gets in, the expression on the newly-liberated face of Staois, and Craig MacTavish making some sort of offensive gesture -- possibly six fingers for game six -- to a 'Canes fan in the stands, hopefully the child on the verge of tears. HT: Offwing. Also: "Pisani Scores: the Celebration").
And thus the Stanley Cup is cruelly ripped -- at least temporarily -- from the grasp of the only arena in the country in which the players have more teeth than the fans. The Stanley Cup Finals return to the league's northermost outpost, where 18,000-some banshees await the Hurricanes. Covered In Oil, as always, says it best: Suddenly, I'm Glad to Be Alive.
Hockey! AAAAAH!!!!!! HOCKEY!!!!! When Pisani intercepted that pass and was clearly in alone, I did something I cannot recall doing before: I leapt from my chair, fist-pump at the ready, awaiting the moment of truth. When the puck hit the twine the fist pumped, I leapt into the air, and unleashed a shameful torrent of overjoyed profanity directed at the wonderful Oilers, the shameful refs, the dastardly 'Canes, and ... ahem, swearing ... "you motherfucking NASCAR motherfuckers." I do apologize for the shameless regional stereotyping. Nonetheless, it was a good time.
Yesterday was validation time for the whole tantric sports idea, with Germany bashing shots off the bar or the keeper seemingly every six seconds against Poland until the frenzied crowd was ready to keel over from the shock of it all; Oliver Neuville's stoppage time winner set off the largest collective orgasm in Germany since David Hasselhoff was invented. That was preceded by Tunisia and Saudi Arabia's ridiculous 2-2 tie and followed by the Pisani shortie from heaven. At some point one has to shrug and say there's no accounting for taste: if yesterday didn't do it for you, nothing ever will.
No doubt various Southern readers will ruefully smile at my strange obsession with this weird Canadian game, but I'm telling you: watch game six. Try to find the bar in town that proudly advertises Labatt Blue or better still Kokanee*, find the CBC feed, and watch it from top to bottom.
*(In terms of "likelihood of having a bunch of mounties talkin' aboot boots and watchin' the game, eh," not in terms of flavor. All Canadian beers taste exactly like Budweiser.)