Woke up this morning terrified. We lost game seven. Luongo finally cleaned it up. I turned my phone alarm off and rolled back in bed. Surely, my boss would understand if I was a little bit late. After all, one of the core values of our school is compassion. As I heard the swift movements of my housemates getting ready to work, I realized it must have been a dream. No one can move that fast after such a catastrophic end to hockey season. Game seven is yet to happen.
Quickly, I threw on my black and gold (more yellow in actuality), brushed my teeth, and ran out the door. I put on 98.5 hoping the rest of the world would be as jazzed as myself.
Lebron, Lebron, Lebron. Really? I’m up with Game Seven Terrors, and the people of Boston are talking about Lebron? Yawn! I need to hear hockey. I need someone to calm me down or pump me up. But I don not need my mind filled up with Lebron trash. Then it happens.
The montage of the whole Bruins season. Start to finish. The music as dramatic as it was in my dream, but a bit more uplifting. They have audio clips of the Sequin trade, the seventh game victory over the Habs, Horton’s hit, Bobby Orr holding a number 18 flag, saves from Thomas, Luogongo being taken out, and fans chanting “WE WANT A CUP!”.
Before I know it I have to take my fogged over sunglasses off. I am in tears. I look to my right at the traffic light and see a bus full of students from my school. And I realize no stories, no communication tips, nothing can teach them the importance of a Game Seven. Especially, after thirty-nine empty years.