Long story short (for your sanity)…I knew nothing about hockey – other then “that Islanders team won something” – for much of my life until 1994. At that time, I was moving back to the flat 48 from overseas and everyone in the NYC area was caught up with the Rangers run for the Cup.

Not wanting to be shunned by my new simple minded high school chums, I took casual notice. Yet, like much of what I set out to do, things went terribly awry when I felt more inclined to pull for the other team on the ice, the Vancouver Canucks. That 1994 team – with guys like Courtnall, Ronning, Linden, Odjick, McLean – was something special, whether I was from the city or not. More then anyone else, it was watching Pavel Bure who made the game special and kept me watching for every season after that.

True, I’ve never stepped foot in the city of Vancouver, but since that year, I’ve suffered every sling and arrow that folks who live and breath that team have. Year after year of futility? I was there. Having Mark Messier take a massive shit on the team for three years? Been there. Watching a run and gun team transform into a car wreck of Bertuzzian proportions? Yup I have the scars too (ask my neighbors).

Hopefully one day I’ll have a reason to go to BC. Maybe some kind soul will give me a reason to take in a game at GM Place (hint hint) but until then I’m an East Coast lad in another country rooting like a frothing madman for the West Coast team of another country to excel in a sport I can barely play in hopes that we can all collectively celebrate a bunch of guys younger than I am to have the chance to drink beer from a large silver chalice. It’s the stuff dreams are made of.

And the fact I get to write for all of this is amazing. Or criminal. You decide.