Stanley Cup Magic
Just when I thought the 2013 NHL season couldn’t get any better, the Stanley Cup came to my hometown. It all started with a tip from someone, followed by a call-back telling us to keep it on the down-low because The Cup’s presence at our Civic Center wasn’t supposed to be public knowledge. No problem.
When the alleged time for The Cup’s arrival came, our neighbors discreetly piled the whole family into the car. That’s suspicious on an ordinary day. My husband asked them where they were going and they wouldn’t even give a straight answer, simultaneously suggesting we should go now, if we were going to go at all. This was getting good. My husband decided we needed to buy garbage stickers at the Civic Center. Now. And we always buy stickers together, right? Hurry up. Stealth mode on.
As we approached the building, a family adorned in Blackhawk jerseys (“sweaters” for the true devotees) was hurrying toward the Civic Center and we knew it was game time. The Mom called out to the kids speeding towards the doors, “Why don’t we wait here for Daddy?” They didn’t even look back. “Oh well, Daddy’s on his own.” Cup – 1, Daddy – 0.
Any ideas of keeping this information on the DL had obviously been about as successful as the Bruins’ last two minutes of play. People were in a wide line, snaking all the way up the stairs towards the gym. Edward Snowden probably leaked it from Russia. The line continued to grow right out of the foyer and into the street.
Eventually the Chief of Police worked his way through the crowd towards the elevator with a black trunk on wheels and an entourage. I’m surprised it wasn’t cuffed to someone’s wrist. We all watched with envy as a select group of people accompanied the Chief and The Cup into the elevator and disappeared.
Finally, people were allowed into the gym. It was just like snaking your way to the best ride at Disney. Everyone was patient. Everyone was in a good mood. I saw my dentist ahead of me. This was everyman’s ride. A couple of young ladies behind me were fantasizing about kissing The Cup, knowing it had been touched by all those gorgeous, hunky winners.
To make sure everyone who made it in had a chance for a photo-op, there were people in front of The Cup taking pictures for the giddy fans. The closer I got, the more nervous I got. My phone battery was waning. My sardonic husband was smiling like a dope. The Cup brought out the little boy in him. We strategized doing separate turns to have twice the pictures and more time with the cup. This was like a surgical strike and we didn’t want to blow it.
They had us moving so fast I didn’t even get a good look at it. I was able to touch it and get a great picture. Mission accomplished. Time to get home and post it on Facebook. Suck on this anyone who had playoff tickets!
Now here’s the part I didn’t expect. Naturally there were a lot of “likes” and comments on my FB post about how cool it was that we were able to get up close and personal with the mythical Stanley Cup, but the comments that mattered to me were along the lines of: “I’m not sure which is more beautiful, you or The Cup.” “So cute!” And my favorite, “You’re adorable.”
As a woman pushing sixty, I haven’t been called adorable since the middle of the last century. It’s a close second to the Blackhawks winning the series. I hold no false illusions about my looks, but this trophy made me feel good in ways I never expected. There is truly something magical about The Stanley Cup.