First, let’s be clear here, that the Canucks losing tonight wouldn’t be the worst moment of my life—far from it. Despite all the histrionics, this isn’t mom telling me she had cancer, or someone telling you they don’t love “like that” anymore, or any number of a handful of personal, professional, or academic failings. A hockey game, as the term would suggest, is still, at the end of the day, just a game. Tomorrow, the sun will still rise (and it’s Vancouver, so the clouds will form, obscuring the sun immediately) and life will go on.
With that out of the way, I will say this though, while not in terms of severity, since the day I told my father that I decided that I didn’t want to be Wayne Gretzky anymore, because I wanted to be Trevor Linden instead (“because, Dad, I don’t think Wayne Gretzky has to try to be good. I bet Trevor Linden has to shoot 50 pucks everyday like me to be good”), nothing has broken my heart more often than the Vancouver Canucks.
It’s not even that they’re constantly and abjectly terrible; one could get used to that kind of failure. The problem is that they’re so good at inching towards greatness before hurtling, usually in spectacularly disappointing fashion, back to earth.
This is spot on.
