On a serious note, let me just say this:
 
I am proud to be a hockey fan. Most days (DO NOT BRING UP MESSIER), I’m proud to be a Canucks fan. Lately, I have been ashamed to be a NHL fan.
 

2-game suspension, or 1 game for each incident.
 
Chris Pronger works the cheap and dirty. Apparently being a repeat offender and having 8 suspensions in his career isn’t enough for the league to step back and say, we should maybe re-evaluate this. Instead they said, let me dust that dirty hit off of you, Chris.
 
Fuck you, NHL. And even though the league is supposedly going to “crack down on hits to the head”, they’re apparently not going to crack down the players delivering those hits to the head.
 
Thanks again, guys, for failing the fans and the game once more. It’s just another thing to add to the list of shit incidents that occurred this year.

I love this city during the playoffs. And if I should die today, with last night’s game being the last game I ever see as a Canucks fan, then I should die happy.
 
I wrote my second final in the morning, went to Authentix to finally get my playoff towel (there weren’t any left), then ran home, changed, and ran back out to bus to Legends in time for the pre-game show. By the time I reached the pub, I was thirsty enough to down a vodka sprite. My friends and I settled in, ordered some food, and got ready.
 
As soon as Luongo came on the screen, the crowd at the pub started to buzz. We deflated a bit after that goal that beat Luongo – MC had said to me a few weeks prior that the one-time shots from the point on the glove side is his weakest spot, and I remembered that as soon as the goal went in – but picked it back up in the 2nd with the power plays.
 
Things were grim in the first, I have to admit. That’s when I went through my second vodka and sprite. “I think that if I drink enough, the ’0′ will look like an ’8′.”
 
Well, I got halfway there.
 
In the 2nd, things started to spark. They were moving faster; they were winning more face-offs (thanks, Mo!) and finally, finally their PP clicked.
 
Every time the whistle blew with a call for the Canucks, the pub cheered.
 
“We’re getting closer,” I said when Ohlund hit the side of the net. “Soon we might be able to hit the Dallas logo.”
 
I distinctly remember tucking into my third drink, eyes cast down looking for the straw, while mumbling, “Not drunk enough yet,” when Sedin netted that goal. I nearly choked. The pub exploded. One of my friends jumped so high there was half a metre of air between the bottom of his feet and the floor. We screamed, and danced, and yelled.
 
Through the second, right until the third, that didn’t stop. Everything was loud and electric. Every move elicited a reaction.
 
When Trevor scored, I saw every moment, and wanted to cry.
 
I screamed myself hoarse and stumbled home crazy drunk, babbling to my best friend about the cute bartender and calamari, of all things. Right across the street was the bus back to my parents’ place and every car we passed down 3 Road had a Canucks fan in it, honking their horns and waving their flags.
 
This is the city during playoffs. This is every hope, every dream, riding on one goal, the winning one that you hope comes from one of your boys. The streets are awash with the Canucks, displaying the team’s logo history with pride. It’s all we talk about; it’s all we know.
 
Walking home – stumbling home, after even more drinking, really – was an exercise in caution (kids, don’t do this at home). But the streets were bare. The odd car or two drove past but the air was warm and I had a message on my voicemail from my sister and her husband, who were looking out from the window of their downtown apartment telling me about the celebrations.
 
Every year we wait for this. Sometimes it comes; usually it doesn’t. But there’s a buzz in the city that runs down Robson street and through the outlying areas that sings, and hums, and cheers for the one week, two weeks, month that the team makes it past 82. Every year I wait for this.
 
So here’s to round 2.