Ode to Game Seven

At some point in your life, you and someone you're close to are going to have an uneasy conversation.

Maybe it will be about money. Maybe it will be about staying "just friends."

Maybe it will be about somebody else taking out the recycling for once because Jacob does it every Monday morning and he's sometimes late for work because of it and you guys are jerks.

But for me, this fateful event occurred last Tuesday as my roommate Kyle's beloved Boston Bruins were losing Game 6 of their playoff series against their hated rivals, the Montreal Canadiens.

Now under normal circumstances, its best to give your friends ample time to digest tough losses.

When the Phils suffer an especially excruciating defeat, you'd be well advised to wait a full three minutes before asking me for a high five.

Otherwise...I mean, I'll still high five you, but it won't be as magical.

But on this night, there was no time to waste.

We had tentative plans to attend a Flyers-Bruins playoff game should the two meet, but with Boston staring at a Game 7 on their home ice, a thought that can only be described as brilliant popped into my head.

But I needed to act fast.

Luckily for me, I know just how to handle these situations.

The rules for broaching difficult subjects are the same as the rules for surviving bear attacks: Don't make any sudden movements, avoid eye contact at all cost and always protect your scrotum.

So with about six minutes left in the game, I went for it.

"Hey, bro? I have a question to ask you. I know this might not be the best time...but I've always been someone who believes in planning ahead."

History will remember what I said next as the turning point in our friendship, the moment Kyle stopped thinking of me as some fast-talking nancy boy and started thinking of me as some fast-talking nancy boy who had a really great idea that one time.

So I took a breath, looked at him and asked:

"Would you rather attend Flyers-Bruins Game 3...or Canadiens-Bruins Game 7?"


We're all familiar with the majesty of Game Seven: It's where dreams come true, it's where champions are made, it's where babies come from.

Game Seven is the only reason Aaron Boone ever has or ever will matter. Game Seven is the reason Jack Morris and his killer moustache are burned into our baseball consciousness.

So it was without a second thought that I emptied my bank account to see a playoff game between two teams that I marginally care about in my third-favorite sport.

Actually, that's not being fair.

While I love baseball and really like football, in the last two years it's become clear that nothing---seriously, nothing---is as exciting as playoff hockey.

The speed and intensity of the game is unrivaled in the postseason. Fans are louder (and drunker) and the action seemingly never stops.

Last Sunday I went to make a sandwich, came back and had missed five full minutes of Game 2 between the Lightning and the Capitals.

If I had been watching the NBA playoffs instead, I would have missed all of two LeBron James free throws and three Chevy commercials.

In fact, if I had to choose between only watching baseball or hockey for the rest of my days and factored in both the regular season and playoffs, I'd still pick baseball...but I'd have to think about it for a minute.

So, yeah. Hockey's pretty cool.

The Bruins got off to a fast start, scoring two goals in the first ten minutes.

Unfortunately, every Boston goal is followed by lights, whistles and this terrible dance song, then punctuated with wrestling icon Ric Flair's signature "Woo!"

(And although the 16-time World Champion hails from North Carolina and is probably a Hurricanes fan, I doubt the Bruins factor in pro wrestlers' home towns when selecting their pump up music. That's fine. I'm over it.)

The Canadiens eventually pulled even at 2-2, when another reason to love sports became readily apparent: Banding together in irrational hatred of opposing players.

On this night, much vitriol was directed toward Montreal rookie P.K. Subban, who clearly missed his true calling as an actor or a Navy seal, because he can take a dive like nobody's business.

And normally I'm all about booing the other team, except Subban just happens to be one of the few African-Americans that plays pro hockey, so booing him is eerily similar to criticizing President Obama.

Sure, my gripes may be legitimate...but Tyler Perry movies aren't funny and it's not racist to say that.

Either way, the Bruins pulled ahead 3-2 with ten minutes to play.

But a stupid high sticking penalty gave the Canadiens a power play with two minutes to go, and our old friend Subban was johnny-on-the-spot with a slapshot to tie the game at three.

I have never heard 17,565 people shut up so fast.

(Also, nice shot and all, P.K...but let's see your birth certificate.)

But while most fans were groaning about losing the lead, I suddenly realized that Subban had given this sports fan the greatest gift imaginable...

Game Seven Overtime.

Are you kidding me?!

Game Seven is sweet because failure is not an option. Overtime is sweet because the next goal wins.

But Game Seven Overtime? Holy smokes, I can't even...


Now, hockey doesn't actually make any sense. No sports do, really.

We pretend it's all perfectly logical because we've watched enough to understand it, but if you take a step back for a moment, you'll see just how weird us human beings really are.

For example: After about six minutes of overtime, a man wearing a black and gold sweater took a wooden stick and hit a black rubber disc towards a man wearing a white sweater and mask, only the man in the mask missed it and the black disc wound up in a predetermined scoring area.

Oh, and all the men who were there had steel blades on the bottom of their shoes. And this whole thing took place on a giant sheet of ice.

I'm telling you, sports are weird.

But when Nathan Horton's slapshot trickled passed Canadien's goalie Carey Price and found the back of the net, the arena erupted.

Hockey doesn't make any sense in theory, but in practice it makes me spill my beer, hug a stranger and get a pounding headache from screaming too much.

That's why sports are awesome: Find me another activity that can simultaneously cause almost 18,000 people to howl with delight.

Maybe if you work in a very large office building and your boss announces that you're all getting free tacos.

And if that's the case, are you hiring?

Regardless, sports unite people maybe better than any other single aspect of our culture. If you're attending a home game, you are instantly amongst friends.

There's winners and losers, a sense of camaraderie and an incredible catharsis. There's suspense, triumph and cheerleaders if you're lucky.

The HD TVs and video montages make it seem modern, but the drama and spirit of competition taps into some basic human emotion and connects everyone who shares it.

No wonder we say great players "put on a show for the ages" or "turned in a great performance."

Kyle will remember that night as the highest moment in all his years of fandom. I'll remember it as the night he and I became best friends.

He'll remember it as the night that no, we didn't.

But still, it was exciting.

It was incredibly loud, incredibly expensive and totally awesome. It was sweaty, electric and absolutely unforgettable.

It was Game Seven.

Woo!