So, that Vancouver Canucks have swept their first series in recent memory. Four games to zero over the St. Louis Blues. Alex Burrows scored two goals, one being the overtime winner (none for Kesler). As a widely advertised Burrows fan, I feel vindicated. Without degenerating to mere fangirlishness or boring statistics, when I talk about the Canucks (namely, the playoff Canucks), I instantly turn into a ten-year-old watching the 1994 dream team in their epic playoff run.
That year, I started a Pavel Bure fan club with a bunch of other girls in my grade four class, filled my room with Bure posters, bet a grade six kid on the playground that he wouldn’t actually get the Canucks logo shaved into his head if they won the Cup (in permanence, the elementary school equivalent of a tattoo; and this was the old mouldy skate logo, too), and ripped up a Mark Messier hockey card and threw it in the cat litter box at the end of game seven. I will never accept the fact that he was ever a Canuck. Ever.
For the last month or two, I’ve been getting together to watch the games with “the guys.” I only put that in quotes to distinguish the fact that I am not one of these said “guys,” but rather a girl who blends in so well with their gender that my femaleness is really only noted by my high-pitched voice and the fact that I say “that’s what he said,” when the commentator says something like “and he’s going in deep, and now the Blues are double-teaming him….”
I do love playoff time, though. There’s always a fever in the air in Vancouver. First round was the car flags, second round will be feeling no shame in wearing your jersey over your suit to work. Without getting ahead of ourselves, third round should be … hm… kids standing on street corners with “HONK FOR THE CANUCKS” signs. Just like I did back in ’94.