Dear Detroit, signed Stanley

Dear the Detroit Red Wings,

On the night of Tuesday, June 9th, 2009, I sat in the bowels of Mellon Arena in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, awaiting the outcome of Game 6, contemplating what another year with your organization would be like.

Since 1997 I have spent four years with you in the state of Michigan, bearing the cold winters, all the while having visions of the Florida Panthers hoisting me the following June. Man those winters are cold.

This is when I came to a revelation: I am sick of you. I am sick of your cold winters, bored of your metropolis and if I see Lake Michigan one more time I just may scream. Your octopi and your claim to fame as “Hockeytown”, while all very endearing to the casual fan I’m sure, have simply grown tired and mundane.

You have had all of your names etched on my exterior – at this point, what more could you want? From Steve Yzerman to Sergei Fedorov to Kris Draper to Brendan Shanahan to Nicklas Lidstrom to Henrik Zetterberg – the list goes on and on. Don’t believe me? Check. I’m used to people pointing and staring.

Anyway, as I was awakened for my polishing, I became aware that Pittsburgh was holding on to a 2-0 lead in the game. Perhaps, I thought, they would get it done tonight and send us all back to Detroit for Game 7. But even if they did, what would be the difference? I just felt that in my heart of hearts you were going to win me one way or the other.

As it were, Pittsburgh was indeed able to hold on by a narrow 2-1 margin, and back we went to Octopi-Central, or as you like to call it, the Joe Louis Arena.

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Three nights later, I was again forced to endure the same shenanigans: wheel me in, wake me from my cat nap, polish me up, and of course, smile for the camera. This time though, a new home was imminent. And I just knew I was to be staying put in Detroit. Believe me, I’ve been around for a lot longer than most, and one thing I know is hockey. In the modern day NHL, the Detroit Red Wings are winners and, come hell or high water, always seem to come out on top.

I recall my emotions on the night of that historic Game 7 and how surprise had struck me when I learned that the Penguins lead 2-0 after two. How could this be? Could it be possible that the almighty Detroit Red Wings might actually lose in the Stanley Cup Finals? I didn’t believe it.

I didn’t think I had to either. Pittsburgh captain Sidney Crosby had tweaked his knee and his status was up in the air for the final period.

And there it was.

Like sharks that smell blood – or octopi in your case – this would no doubt be the opening that would turn things around for the almighty Red Wings of Detroit. I was sure of it or my name isn’t Frederick Arthur Stanley.

And so it began. As I heard a roar fill the arena – a sound so deafening it could only mean that your club had tallied – I heard the rink announcer pronounce Jonathan Ericsson as the heroic Red Wing goal-scorer.

This, I thought, was the beginning of the end. There was just no way that the omnipotent Red Wings were going to lose. Whether it was going to be two quick goals late in regulation, or a triple overtime marathon, I refused to believe that you were going to crumble and end up on the losing end.

As I waited with great anxiety on the edge of my table, I thought to myself how great it would be if Pittsburgh would be able to hang on so that I could be spared from another year of boredom in Michigan – a state that by this point I knew all too well.

Then it hit me: What is so great about Pittsburgh? I mean the winters are just as cold. So they have Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin; the bottom line is they do not have a beach. Numerous locales began dancing in my head: Florida, Tampa Bay, Dallas, Anaheim, Los Angeles, San Jose – I got warm and fuzzy just thinking about it. Why did their clubs have to be so lacklustre? Because of their lousiness, my home for the entire forthcoming year was either going to be Michigan or Pennsylvania – and you know what, I’m not really fond of either.

“Man this sucks,” I thought to myself.

Anyway, I got so caught up in my deliberations that I barely noticed as they started to carry me onto the ice in front of thousands of endearing fans at the Joe. I recall it well…

Uh-oh, looks like it’s showtime. But wait; what exactly is going on here? Why are the players in red noticeably upset? Hey, where are the Red Wings going? Come on already, let’s get these formalities over with; come claim me already so we can go get drunk and forget all about it in the morning.

Oh great, here comes Gary Bettman with his annual hand-off of yours truly.

What the? Sidney Crosby? Why is he touching me? And smiling for the camera?

Wait just a secondcould it be true? Could Pittsburgh have actually won the game and left the all-powerful Detroit Red Wings as runners-up?

And so it was.

To that end, Detroit, I thank you. I thank you for sparing me from another year in which I would have been bored beyond recognition as I would have been forced to go through the painful motions of another sightseer’s tour of Hockeytown.

Next time though, do me a favour and try to lose to a team further south. After all the joy I’ve brought to you and your city, all I ask for is some warm sand, an ocean-view and perhaps some hang-time with Mickey Mouse.

Sincerely,

The Stanley Cup

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