I can't take this anymore.
Can't take the cheering, the stomach knots, the eating, the drinking – Oh God, the drinking. I can longer survive through these ultra-highs and ultra-lows that come with having a team in the Stanley Cup final.
You think the players are tired after playing this long into June? Well, we're not used to having to cheer this long, either. And to be completely honest, I'm nearly ready for it to be done, as much fun as it may be. And make no mistake, it's been one helluva run.
But for the past two months, it seems like all I've done is eat pub food or pizza (or both), surviving on a diet of light beer, bring-your-own-appy platters and never-ending hope.
And when I haven't been eating or drinking – and watching my bank account dwindle as a result – the emotional strain has been too much. I can't sleep the night before games, I wake up early and with a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach on game days, and I can't focus on much else other than the game. And in the rare moments not spent thinking about Tim Thomas or the power play, I spend planning for the next time I'll be thinking about Tim Thomas or the power play.
Where are we watching the game? How am I getting there? Do I have to leave work early? How early? How will I get home? Who will feed the dog? Is Christene coming?
It's not just me, either. Just moments ago, I got this message from Meghan: "I'm trying not to hyper-ventilate. That's normal, right?"
Normal? Sorry, we gave up normal weeks ago. This is the Stanley Cup. This is Vancouver – normal doesn't live here anymore.
And as much as I've lived and died with the team through the last few months, I don't know I could handle a Game 7. I have enough reserve strength to last through tonight, but after that? Fumes.
Before Friday's game, I threatened the Hockey Gods to give us a victory. They politely obliged. And today? Today is not a time for threats - instead, I ask them for a favour:
Put me out of my misery. Let it be over tonight, in Boston. Let me spend my Wednesday evening with the TV off; let me take my dog for a long walk; let my bank account rest; let me go to bed happy, not nervous. Let my liver have a lunch break – my heart, too.
Please, Hockey Gods, let me live my life.
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