Dear Diary: I’m in fucking love.

**And it’s with more than one man.

By Kelsey Eyes

(Seriously, Surly and Scribe… Can’t I be Kelsey ScrumEye? I have some major street cred to keep up here)

HolyFuckShitGoddamnFuckShitFuckingFuck.

These most sonorous and poignant syllables came pouring from my lips like the Trevi Fountain in Rome the moment last night’s game buzzer sounded and a paltry amount of confetti cascaded to the ice. My vocal fragments were as majestic and wild as the paints and palominos seen galloping through the King’s Travel Alberta commercials: musculature rippling, mane untamed. But probably more like if there was a naked dude riding them: willy flopping freely to and fro, man-boobs delightfully a-jiggle. (Note: I’m told Surly’s father enjoys gratuitous nudity, so I’ll do what I can to oblige him.)

The Fontana de Trevi’s aqueduct bath waters are famous for their ability to grant true love after a secret admirer tosses three coins to the feet of the god Oceanus.

(See also: Poseidon, 1770, by Dustin Penner. Late neo-classical sculpture depicting Poseidon/Oceanus son of Gaia as a Germanic Shepherd. Also the iconography of the Shield of Surf, which is appropriated to him.)

***Nick Nickson, Poseidon is not a yacht for the love of God I still can’t believe you said that on TV.

Poseidon

But I shall regain my ground here at any moment. The win washed over me as I sat in contemplative silence stroking the beginnings of a luxurious playoff beard. I thought maybe I would write a schmaltzy article about how the three “coins” of this game tossed into the Fountain had created “love” aka a win and then we could all play a nice game of Puff Puff Pass later as long as our mom didn’t come downstairs with the laundry and Tab.

Maybe I would write about how I loved to see Carter and Kopi rush the net and snipe again, rather than play Shooter Tutor. This of course being where the top players of the NHL gather in Quick’s kids’ basement to take turns trying to score goals on a Mighty Mite net with half sized twigs (Nathan Gerbe kills it). But this stand and shoot method unfortunately eludes Elliott about as much as the spray tan eludes Daryl Evans and Nick Nickson.

In my imaginary article I could lavish lots of attention on how I was right about Penner. He scored one of the more classically attractive men… I mean, goals… we had seen in a while. He had shots on shots on shots on goal as well as some big boy hits. *insert photo of Oshie joining Miley Cyrus’ twerk team after a glorious check by Penner here*. And more importantly I would write how you all can choose between either sucking it or lavishing this Hockey Oracle with tributes in the form of McFlurry coupons for saying I was wrong about him. I also accept Paypal.

And my third “coin” in the Fountain would have been Martinez. My pound puppies Martinez, Muzzin and AHL-erby get quite the barrage of shit most of the time and tend to bear the burden of any loss on their tiny water-winged shoulders.  But after this game, Martinez has officially joined the power rankings of Penner and Justin “Energy with Purpose” Williams into my personal playoffs A-team (which has near the same clout as Oprah’s Book Club mind you). Martinez brings offensive skill to the lineup. He watches, makes quick decisions, and when he decides to go, he goes all the way.  On the 3 on 1 for the Penner goal, he is the third man on the attack. He creates more depth and aggressively rushes the net. He ate the Cinco de Mayo bull’s testes and is ready to rock (and by bull’s testes I mean Muzzin’s, because evidently they’ve gone missing).

Oh wait hang on, I’m going to fuck up the flow of this article with a late timeout in the spirit of Hitchcock….

You guys watching this whole Game of Throne’s thing? I hear the Beckhams are leaving LA. Can I nominate a new Staples Centre game where instead of matching players to numbers we see if anyone in the audience can locate Alberta on a map? Can we call it Are-You-Smarter-Than-No-One-Knows-Anything-About-Canada-Eh?

Hitchcock and his Fresh Look Colour Contact Lenses looked mighty pleased with being able to detract from our momentum and steal a goal from it. He prides himself on weasel tactics like that. Well, and sticking his Attack-Poodle Perron on Jonathan Quick. He was either pleased or he was thinking about the bacon-wrapped Dodger dog he would treat himself to for sticking to his meal plan so well the past 72 hours. He’s a difficult read; give me a few more games to enter into his psyche completely.

I’m honestly way too FUCKING PUMPED UP AND PSYCHED AND AMPED AND FREAKING EXCITED AND I HAD THREE FUCKING REDBULLS DURING THE GAME so I won’t go through the play by play. I want to prove to the haters that I know hockey, but honestly, if you could just submit some sort of multiple choice SAT-style test for me to take, making sure it has plenty of before-I-was-even-fucking-born knowledge to make that one guy who said I reek of “been a fan since Brown lifted the cup” happy, that would be great. I’ll pass with flying coloUrs (yep.) and we can move on and focus on our team. For the record, I probably reek of rink, which is similar to Eau de Bandwagoner, but with heavy notes of blood.

What I really want to say tonight is that I love Los Angeles Kings fans. I love all your beautiful faces. I love you during the regular season and I will happily chat with you in line for the bathrooms and also when I’m sitting next to you asking if you’re gonna finish those fries. But I especially fucking love you right now, during Playoffs. You are a pack of wild, rabid wildebeests. You eat, sleep and breathe this team. Your tweets are consumed by them. Your love for every single player on the team surges in your chest. You would take a hit from an oncoming bus for any of our players. And you’ve never even met them.

The Kings playoff crowd is completely electric. The energy coming out of every warm body in Staples Centre is like being at a really wholesome rave. Well, wholesome in the sense that I’m totally going to scream FUCK in front of your three year old. You know, shit for the kids. Doughty even remarked in an interview about how they fed off of the energy and it led to their first win on Saturday night. Even last night, on TV I could hear the roar of the crowd and grinned like a Cheshire Cat at how much I fucking love LA Kings fans. You noisy motherfuckers.

We start our own chants. We yell “Hey Blues fan!!!!….. YOU SUCK” en masse in line for Popcornopolis. We yell at our players, we yell at their players, we yell at Refs. I brought a Canadian friend of mine to the game, and he even remarked, “Wow, LA has some real hockey fans”. So there ya go, Los Angeles, the official condescending stamp of approval.

But most of all I am so ready to fucking go all the way with you. Meaning I am ready to win the Cup again. Let’s not make this awkward. Why? For no other reason than it buys me more time to spend with you, the fans. We all bump the same drug. Nothing makes us higher than that big win. Carter’s smirk, Quick’s furrowed brow, Williams’ look of surprise, Brown’s toothless grin, Penner’s tweets, Richards’ “conversations” with the refs. We understand each other and speak the same language.

Before the game, I sat at Yard House at a round table of King’s fans. All discussing the team and its players, etc. As I looked around eight seats, I saw: three women, six different skin tones, five differing hair lengths, two enormous King’s fist shaped gloves, two vintage jerseys, one game-worn jersey, three different citizenships, four different religions, six different socio economic backgrounds. We spanned the ages of 20 to 50 plus and had so many different experiences in our lives. These are wonderful people I doubt I would ever know if I did not live and breathe this world. And now they are my brothers and sisters, and I would take a skate to the throat for any one of them.

I joke I’m on the team. But I think there is something to it. We are the LA Kings. Our job, when we put on the jerseys and go to the games to cheer ourselves hoarse is the same as our boys on the ice. These last two home games, we were the win. It was that amazing energy we gave them that made the difference.

Don’t take these last paragraphs as a naïve statement that Tinkerbell won’t die as long as we believe, but just as a love letter to all of you. I know and you know there are things to be worked on. But tonight was such a great win and such a beautiful time, with you, the fans, I would rather save the critique for later. For now, let us, you crazy hockey maniacs, enjoy the moment, and enjoy each other. Let’s not let a moment of this slip by. The most amazing thing about watching incredible hockey is the way you can completely disappear into the game. You come up for air, four hours and six games later, hungry and wondering where your Saturday went, but completely energized by the power of the game. I hope all of you can let yourselves go during these playoffs. Any inhibition that prohibits you from screaming for your team, speaking your mind in fear that some old guy will tell you the “correct” way to think about a certain play, or starting a “LET’S GO KINGS!” chant; release it. It is holding you back.

Let’s get crazy. Let’s have no regrets this time around. Let’s not wish we never said the things we wanted to say or lived the moments we wanted to live. I’m choosing to live them. I’m here with you, LA Kings fans, and I’m looking at all your beautiful faces. I’m not holding back my screams for my team, no matter who in the first level shushes me.

This has nothing to do with a stupid fountain and making wishes for love. Because I already found love. I love 18 thousand plus screaming, rabid people calling out for St. Louis blood. So, throw some motherfucking coins at that, Hitchcock!

Seriously. Throw some coins at that, season passes are expensive.

I love you. I’m into crazy.