Source: www.newyorker.com - Saturday, April 18, 2015
In my early adolescent years, I lived in Toronto, the fiefdom of the Maple Leafs, but my hockey loyalty, then as now, belonged to the New York Rangers, who in the immediate postwar years were blazing new highroads in mediocrity. The 1949-50 team somehow squeezed into the Stanley Cup playoffs, then continued gyrating so far over their heads that that they found themselves facing the mighty Detroit Red Wings, led by the immortal Production Line of Ted Lindsay, Sid Abel, and Gordie Howe, in the finals. My Broadway Blueshirts rode the bubble all the way to a seventh and deciding game at Olympia Stadium, in Detroit. Play careened through three regulation periods, followed by a twenty-minute overtime, with still no victor. A Ranger fanboy’s pathetic hopes held on through the eighth minute of the second overtime, when a journeyman Red Wing named Pete Babando got lucky with a shot, Lord Stanley’s basin went to Detroit, and I crept into that mental crypt where life’s failed Cinderellas go to mope. See the rest of the story at newyorker.com Related: Shifting Boundaries Out Loud: For the Love of the Ice No. 4
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In my early adolescent years, I lived in Toronto, the fiefdom of the Maple Leafs, but my hockey loyalty, then as now, belonged to the New York Rangers, who in the immediate postwar years were blazing new highroads in mediocrity. The 1949-50 team somehow squeezed into the Stanley Cup playoffs, then continued gyrating so far over their heads that that they found themselves facing the mighty Detroit Red Wings, led by the immortal Production Line of Ted Lindsay, Sid Abel, and Gordie Howe, in the finals. My Broadway Blueshirts rode the bubble all the way to a seventh and deciding game at Olympia Stadium, in Detroit. Play careened through three regulation periods, followed by a twenty-minute overtime, with still no victor. A Ranger fanboy’s pathetic hopes held on through the eighth minute of the second overtime, when a journeyman Red Wing named Pete Babando got lucky with a shot, Lord Stanley’s basin went to Detroit, and I crept into that mental crypt where life’s failed Cinderellas go to mope. See the rest of the story at newyorker.com Related: Shifting Boundaries Out Loud: For the Love of the Ice No. 4
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