Though I can't speak for Kyle, I'm sure he'd echo my sentiment that hockey, like music, writing, or any form of art, has been an outlet. One that allows us to put the every day hassles and stress of life on hold, if only long enough to see the play develop in the corner, the stretch pass make it to the streaking forward at the blue line, and a clean wrist shot buried top shelf in the waning moments of a game.
"I swear my mom"
Yes. It's true. I know, I know, this is my first post this year which will coincidentally be my last, but my quiet has something to do with a bigger picture. I almost feel like I should explain myself, like a celebrity caught in a huge sex scandal, or a country who we find out later was really hiding nukes the whole time, but, what can I say that Mike didn't. I guess maybe if we were writing to even 25 people I would probably take it more seriously, but after a while I guess the things Mikey and I were writing were the things we were texting each other anyway so the blog turned into a relic for me.
I will and still always love this game. Even when I am pounding blackberry brandy, wrapped in layers of longjohns, in subzero temperatures at the AHL Outdoor game in February. Or even when I get too excited at a goal and douse the lady sitting in front of me with beer in the first period, and have to sit awkwardly with the rest of her family during the entire remainder of the game waiting to get punched.
Hockey offers something that no other game can, but you already know that if you're reading this. So go enjoy it, Sans Doc.
and of course he tried that you dunce