It's Thursday, May 26, 2011, and the Boston Bruins are on their way to a game seven showdown with the Tampa Bay Lightning.  It would have been nice if they had won last night's game and prevented the city of Boston from cornering the Rolaids market, but that, of course, would not properly test the mettle of their devoted fans.  No, it is only right and proper that a frenzied Bear Nation rip out the last shreds of stuffing from their armchairs and blow a few cerebral blood vessels before they're given a pass to the ultimate series of angst-ridden evenings, the finals.  Or alternately, their prize may be another twelve months of soul-crushing frustration and humiliation.  Playing sports may be a way to build a strong body and a noble character, but watching leads to sleeplessness, agita, obesity (I mean, ya gotta drink beer), and more often than not, depression.  There is a chance that the spoked B's will dance around the ice with Lord Stanley's Cup this year, but not before we've all eaten our own livers with a good Chianti.

It's a sacrifice I'll gladly make.

Hockey fans, although fewer in number than for other pro sports, are the most loyal and devoted in the world, or at least in North America.  The rest of the world is consumed by what they call football and we call soccer, but is actually xenophobic gang violence.  And that's just in the stands.  In hockey, there's enough hooliganism on the ice to satisfy the more bloodthirsty from committing it in the balcony, and with the exception of the Olympics, there isn't the level of nationalistic fervor to incite knife fights and stampedes.  Bostonians loathe the Montreal Canadiens but have yet to declare war on the city.  Likewise, it's just plain hard to be mad at Ottawa.

And since we don't waste time bashing each other’s brains out in the loges, our nervous systems become hard-wired to the game itself.  Unlike baseball and American football where actual play occurs in small packets surrounded by endless posturing and strategy meetings, or basketball where the final two minutes can outlast the Pleistocene era, hockey is a game of continuous action.  You can be yanked from joy to despair in a heartbeat, and this can happen several times within a minute of play.  Speed is the defining characteristic of the sport, and unless you're playing the New Jersey Devils whose idea of a great game is sixty minutes spent dawdling between the blue lines, the energy and intensity are tremendous.  You've got guys on skates carrying sticks and firing a small hard rubber object at speeds over a hundred miles per hour.  And they do this without stopping every fifteen seconds to spit or adjust their cups.  Changes of personnel most often occur on the fly instead of during stoppages, allowing the game to proceed unbroken for several minutes at a time.  Soccer is somewhat similar except that players don't fly so much as amble to cover the six miles between the goal areas.

And where else can you find a position on a team as unique as the hockey goalie?  Normally, when someone is firing dangerous objects at you, the inclination is to cover up or run away.  It is the goalie's job to do the opposite and put his Michelin man-like presence in front of said objects whenever possible.  This may be why goalies are notoriously quirky.  The great goaltender Glenn Hall used to puke before every game, Gary Smith used to shower between every period, and Gilles Gratton wouldn't play during certain phases of the moon.  Talking to the goalposts is not uncommon.  The pressure on a goalie is like that on a baseball pitcher; they both play unique roles in their sport and carry more responsibility for a game's outcome.  Montreal legend Jacques Plante once described his position thusly:  "How would you like it if you were sitting in your office and you made one little mistake. Suddenly, a big red light went on and 18,000 people jumped up and started screaming at you, calling you a bum and an imbecile and throwing garbage at you. That's what it's like when you play goal in the NHL."

Do not be taken in by those naysayers who claim the sport is all about fighting.  Yes, there are fights and we fans do seem to appreciate them, but try scuffling with someone the next time you're on a rink.  It's pretty hard to do any real damage while your skates are skittering under you.  To paraphrase Macbeth, a longtime Red Wings fan, hockey fights produce a lot of sound and fury, but not much significance.  Conversely, there are moments of grace and beauty that rival the ballet.  Anyone who had the pleasure of watching Bobby Orr in his prime witnessed some of the most artistic moves the human body is capable of performing.  And lest you forget, Baryshnikov didn't have to dance Swan Lake with two-hundred-and-fifty pound goons trying to knock him on his ass.

Yes, my friends, this is the greatest sport on earth, chock-a-block with speed, violence, lunacy, and elegance.  How, you may ask, did a sensitive and artistic soul like me end up embracing this sort of mayhem?

Having spent my youth avoiding physical activity other than eating, talking, and changing the channel, I had little interest in watching games for which I had no proclivity or aptitude.  I did like Formula One racing and ski jumping, but there was little chance I would have to prove myself at Monte Carlo or Holmenkollen.  When I went off to college in '67, I did get caught up in the Red Sox World Series frenzy, but it was a short-lived fascination unlike other collegiate pursuits such as alcohol and girls.  And pot.

During the early 1970's, my good friend, Lou, lived in a house a few blocks off campus which was also the center of a small-time distribution business.  Given the high quality of the product (literally and figuratively), I paid regular visits - more frequently, in fact, than I did to classes.  And more often than not, the Bruins would be on their TV.  They were then at their peak, with Phil Esposito and the afore-mentioned Orr breaking scoring records and a talented and colorful supporting cast including Johnny "Pie" McKenzie and Derek "The Turk" Sanderson adding entertainment value.  I can't swear whether it was the game itself or the haze through which I watched it, but by playoff time, I was hooked.  And then, as has happened many times since, I got my heart crushed in the first round as the Bruins were stunned by Montreal and their "thieving giraffe" of a goaltender, a rookie out of Cornell named Ken Dryden.

In spite of my painful initiation into Stanley Cup despair, I did watch them raise the cup in '72 and have remained a loyal fan ever since.  This year is the first time in nineteen years that the team has reached the semi-finals (now called the Eastern Conference Finals) and should they win on Friday, it will be their first appearance in the finals since 1990.  We have family coming up over the Memorial Day weekend and I think it's only fair to warn them not to expect me to come out for dinner that night.  I will be surrounded by some pretzels, a six-pack, and my fondest hopes and dreams.  And a pack of Rolaids just in case.