Spring is in full swing and summer is not far behind, so naturally it’s time to talk about hockey playoffs.
I’m a born-and-raised Winnipegger, so I’m not too familiar with NHL playoffs. I kid. Well, at least for Jets 2.0.
In the early ’90s the Jets were a competitive team, only hindered by the dreaded Smythe Division, and more specifically, the Edmonton Oilers.
I truly think that the 1990 team — had it finished off the Oilers in the first round — could have done some deep-round damage that year. As it is now, the Jets 2.0 are still casting off elements of the dreaded Atlanta Thrashers franchise like barnacles from a boat. Until they develop or trade for a goaltender who can steal games from A-level teams, they may not make the playoffs for a few years, let alone go deep.
True, they have the league’s most exciting young sniper in Patrick Laine and up-and-coming stars like Nik Ehlers and Mark Scheifele, but they need a Carey Price or Pekka Rinne to really contend.
If you glazed over while reading those last two paragraphs, my apologies. You’re likely going to binge-watch some form of dark, British drama on Netflix instead of watching NHL playoffs, and that’s OK. I’m a big fan of Inspector George Gently, myself.
If you’ve never expended emotional energy following a sports team in the playoffs, let me try to describe what it’s like.
The first step is qualifying for the playoffs. If you’re a fan of the Jets — or worse — the Leafs, you’re throwing a parade if your team even makes it in. The idea is that once your team is in, anything could happen. A hot goaltender can do amazing things for an underdog (see Patrick Roy, 1986).
Playoff NHL hockey is all about high-stakes and intense series where the first team to win four games moves on to the next round. An average playoff game hits 10 out of 10 on the excitement meter. When it goes into sudden-death overtime, it jumps to 15. The suspense of sudden-death OT is almost too much to take. I know some fans who can’t watch it for fear of emotional collapse.
But when your team wins in overtime, it’s a colossal thrill.
My best memory is from that 1990 series against the Oilers. I was in the crowd when Dave Ellett scored on a power play with a shot from the point that beat Oilers’ goalie Bill Ranford low to the stick side. It was double-overtime. I’ve never experienced a moment like that since. The crowd jumped up and down for a solid two minutes, screaming and hugging and cheering at full volume. The Jets were now up three games to one in the series and surely that meant round two was soon to follow. (Morgan Freeman’s voice: “It was not.”)
Once we finally left the arena, we joined the thousands of delirious fans outside. We high-fived people hanging out of buses, we hugged random strange men, we agreed that the Oilers were the somewhat inferior team, in fewer words. The instant closeness and sense of community was electrifying. And this was only after a first-round non-game-seven overtime win. I’m frightened to think what would have happened had the team actually won the series.
When the Jets lost Game 7, I finally shaved off the playoff beard. It was a relief to all around me. I looked like a teenaged elk with mange.
Still, in times of strife — be it personal or Trumpian in nature — there’s an intense lift when joining in the playoff ritual.
And no, I still can’t cheer for the Oilers.