One of the high priests of the Cult of Anaheim engaging in a propitary pre-game ritual.
I woke up late on Sunday morning, and the first thing I did- before even the shower, the coffee, the slow migration to the couch for a day of under-18s and the very last game of the regular season- was put on my talisman. It’s not much, as talismans go, a single silver charm in the shape of a C with an H inside, but it won’t leave my wrist until the Canadiens leave the postseason. A small, feminine token, maybe, but it’s the only one I have. None of my attempts to grow a playoff beard have ever succeeded.
Around the NHL, Sunday and Monday and yesterday and today, fans are commencing their little rituals. Lucky socks are being dug out of drawers and lucky underwear pulled on, to be worn every day for weeks, or at least until the luck goes bad. Jerseys are being customized to read STANLEY 13 and posters are being painted LEAFS SUCK. Thousands of mock Cups are being made, out of duct tape and tin foil, cake and yarn. Thousands of patches of stubble are being tended. Somewhere out there, a man has a sacrificial octopus in his freezer.
The media will interpret all these rites as indicators of excitement. They’ll film themselves standing in front of screaming hordes painted blue and say, “Bob, spirits are high today in _______ as hockey fans get geared up for the Stanley Cup Playoffs,” and the horde will wave their foam idols high until the final “Back to you” sends the broadcast away to the studio. There will be articles written about how very happy all the fans are that the halcyon days of real hockey competition have at long last arrived.
Bullshit. The rituals and talismans aren’t about excitement. They’re not effusions of pure happiness made flesh and facial hair. They’re wards and protections and sacrifices, and they don’t come from joy. They come from fear.
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