It’s over. It’s over. The Chicago Blackhawks are the Stanley Cup champions for the first time since 1961. But, is it really over? While the Hawks celebrate, the City of Brotherly Love collapses around them. Toews is winning the Conn Smythe. Now he’s hoisting the Cup, the most hallowed of all sports trophies. The hardest trophy in sports to win. Now Marian Hossa has it, finally, finally after all these years and all those games, now he’s hoisting it above his head and screaming, triumphant. Even with the game’s blooper ending which, though oddly historic, will probably not be the focus of an awe-inspiring commercial next spring, the night, the whole season, does not feel over. I think back to just a few hours ago, anxiously pacing in my usual groove, waiting for the game to start. The first two periods, heavy with colliding bodies and timely goals, but marred by questionable penalties, I watched alone, at first, and then with my father after he came home from work and before he went to bed. The Blackhawks were dominating, despite the oppressive orange atmosphere and the series’ tide being generally in favor of the home team, and were ahead 3-2 as the second period drew to a close. Madden, the ex-Devil, has Lord Stanley’s Hardware now, cherising what could be the last time he will ever lift it. During the second intermission, Angus shows up at my house, unexpected, to wait to meet a mutual business associate. Or maybe expected, but forgotten, who knows?. We sit on the porch and bullshit for awhile, talk about work, and pussy before descending the steps down to The Lounge just in time to see the third period faceoff. My brother, Quick, is laying on Jabba staring at one of the two large screens playing out the final scenes of the ’09-’10 season. Angus and I assume positions on the couch and idly fuck around with the Antiques while we watch the game. He, with the Colt, watches the flatscreen on the far wall. I, swinging the Thompson around like a club, pointing it at my dogs and listening to the trigger click and then laughing, watch the old, fuzzy TV to our right because it’s closer and brighter. The third period is quiet. Chicago assumes a holding pattern. holding long enough for our associate to arrive. Angus goes outside in the rain to meet him; I walk him outside to the porch and say hello to our friend but refuse to go anywhere. The Blackhawks are about to win the Stanley Cup, I tell them like it’s a sure thing. The two of them bounce and I go back inside to discover, to my horror, the Flyers have scored. Overtime. We’re headed to overtime. This is going to be epic, amazing, heart-stopping…

…it’s over? It’s over. Kane put the game winner through Leighton’s legs and nobody noticed, except Kane, and me apparently, because as soon as 88 puts the puck on net I leap to my feet and shout, then play continues and Quick, who has joined me upstairs, looks at me like I’m retarded. But fuck him! I was right! The Flyers are stunned, the Hawks celebrate, looking out of place among the sea of disappointment. It’s over.

Niemi, with his boyish grin, lifts the Cup and hollers. Keith, Kane, big Dustin Byfuglin, they all get the chance of a lifetime. The Cup looks weightless.

I want to feel satisfied, having rooted for the Blackhawks in this series, but there is something of an empty feeling rising in my chest. Good God, have I grown to respect these villians in orange? Does the sight of Leino, and Briere, and the goalie-with-movie-star-good-looks Brian Bouche, looking devestated actually bum me out, a little? Yes, I suppose they’ve deserved my respect. The empty feeling isn’t helped when Jeremy Roenick, at the sight of his former team winning the cup, breaks down in to tears Live, on the air. I have to wonder whether or not that will be a commerical next year either.

The Blackhawks have won a hard fought, well deserved Stanley Cup. Now, next season can’t come fast enough