By Ronald N. Guy Jr.
This can’t be considered current content anymore, not
in this age of 24/7 wire feeds. Give me
some latitude here – it’s an article I’ve written in my head countless times
over the last 35 years. I’ve dreamt about it, wrote a fictional version for a
high school assignment and flirted with it several times in this column. And for my entire life, it’s been a recurring
spring-time obsession, a time of year when it almost always had a chance of
becoming reality, but never did – until last Thursday night.
Every long-time fan of the Washington Capitals has
their story. Mine starts around 1982,
when my uncle, in his VW Bug, began regularly jetting me and my cousin up to the
Capital Centre – The Great Pringle – to cheer the likes of Dennis Maruk, Mike
Gartner and Rod Langway. Years later, a
poster of Peter Bondra adorned my college dorm room. For much of the Alexander Ovechkin era, my
wife and I have made annual trips to Verizon Center/Capital One Arena to meet
up with old friends and “Rock the Red”.
Which is to say, like most fans of this
prodigal-son-like team, the Caps are in my bones. My emotional attachment is deep and as strong
as it was in childhood. The sustained
affection is rooted in success: Having missed the playoffs only seven times
since 1982, the Caps have been, by far, the most consistent D.C. sports team. In recent years, they’ve been regularly among
the NHL’s very best, winning three President’s trophies (given to the team with
the best regular season record) since 2010.
And yet, for all this regular season success, there
was nothing, ultimately, but playoff anguish.
Unimaginable anguish. Their history
was a script for a horror film or plot for a Stephen King novel:
too-many-to-count blown 3-1 leads, only two trips past the second round, one
token appearance in the Stanley Cup Finals and numerous losses to the
Islanders, the Rangers, the Flyers and the Penguins and the Penguins and the
Penguins.
Considering the random nature of NHL hockey – follow
the pinball/puck - and the sheer number of times the Caps had sent high-quality
teams into the playoffs, this never-ending story of epic disaster defied all
statistical explanation. There was
something else in play here, some dark force that sentenced the franchise and
its poor, innocent fans to eternal condemnation. Watching it all unfold, year after miserable
year, was sports’ version of hell. Hoisting
a Stanley Cup was just something that happened to other teams in other towns –
until last Thursday night.
At the beginning of every Caps playoff journey over
the years, I have faithfully written down the number “16” (the number of wins
needed to hoist the Stanley Cup) – on calendars, notebooks or dry erase boards
- and started a hopeful countdown. For
30-plus years, I never wrote down “0”.
In franchise history, the Caps had never reached the summit, their fans’
faith had never been rewarded and the sun had never come out – until last
Thursday night…when the Washington Capitals won the Stanley Cup!!!
Oh…those…words…
I am so happy for so many: my Uncle Wayne for taking
me to so many games, the players – past and present, the D.C. sports media who
have dutifully covered losing teams and playoff heartbreaks and D.C. sports
fans, a strong and hearty lot that has been unfairly criticized during this
long streak of futility and distress. We
were always there, waiting to erupt and after 26 years of pain since our last major
professional sport championship, The Darkness – that omnipresent villain - has
been exorcised. It’s the kind of stuff
that makes grown men cry – this one included.
How did this happen?
Was there something in the water? With the Cubs (2016), the city of Cleveland
(Cavaliers, 2016) and the Eagles (2018) having won recent championships, you
have to wonder. Or did a determined
organization and core of players just keep pushing through adversity, knowing
that eventually it would all come together and be their time. Maybe it’s that simple. Maybe that’s the lesson we all learned amid
the tears and euphoria – last Thursday night.
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