Maybe you’ve noticed that I haven’t written for something like three weeks. I hope you’ve noticed. I’ve noticed.
I also haven’t cared. Sorry to say, but as much as I love writing for you folks and often need to cauterize my mental wounds with words, not a bug of prose has bitten me, not of necessity nor inspiration. Hockey writers are always a bit starved for topics during the offseason, and sure, stuff has happened since we won the Stanley Cup, some of it even pertained to the Kings.
But does any of it matter? Do you care about any of it?
We have gazed down from the top, and all stories of mega-offer sheets, blockbuster trades (like today’s Rick Nash to New York deal) and negligible hirings (Kompon in Chicago) look mighty small from way up here. I suppose a potential lockout should interest me. Yet, nothing concerns me. Nothing agitates me. My interest refuses to pique.
Does this make me a bad Kings fan, or a bad hockey fan? Is the result of pure ecstasy always apathy, lest ecstasy renew itself? This is no mere comedown, it is a state of biding. I sit, and I wait, I do not even think, until I can next watch the Stanley Cup Kings take the ice once more and try to do it all over again. So long as there are no battles being fought, no goals scored and no hits leveled, there is only the Cup.
I’ve waited my entire life for this summer and I’m not about to waste it doing the same inane things I spent the last 20+ summers doing by giving a damn about what prospect may or may not make the team, what idiotic move a desperate GM makes or that the Coyotes are somehow still in Phoenix despite how many times and ways the entire universe conspires to make their arena as parched for ice as their city’s denizens are for xenophilia.
Am I apathetic, or elitist?
Do you miss me?
Is there anything you even care to read about? I suppose I could turn this blog into an outlet for social conventions that have been bothering me of late. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how absurd it is that walking around in my underwear would be considered uncouth. I made a really nice pasta primavera last week. My shoulder is kind of fucked up and I can’t hit golf balls, I’m extremely the opposite of apathetic about that. Batman kind of sucked, as does the circus surrounding the horrible shooting in Colorado. I love this heat.
But I yearn for the cold. The chill of stepping inside the ice rink. The fervor of fans saturated with beer. I tingle all over when I imagine the sight of the Stanley Cup Champions banner being lifted to the rafters on opening night. I don’t even know if I’ll have a good cheer in me all season, because yelling, either in angst, rebuttal or support seems silly when all it would truly accomplish is to momentarily erase the smile from my face.
What’s my point? I don’t have one, which, I suppose is the point.