Boston, the Bruins and Me

Falling Hard

The beauty of sports is that they encourage polygamy. A marriage to one club in no way precludes a fan from a full and total commitment to anther club that bears the same city on its uniform. Seasons bleed into one another so that when one organization breaks your heart, another one is there to begin the mending process.

Over the past decade, the frenzied successes by New England sports teams have not just been an exercise in speed dating, but speed marriages, speed child births, speed anniversaries, and yes, hyper-accelerated heartbreaks. In the past 10 years, Boston teams have played in 13 conference finals, the play-in games that come before championship bouts, winning 9 of them, and have brought home 6 titles overall thus far. It's remarkable, unprecedented, and, frankly, still not enough.

Because nowadays, to be a Boston fan is to want them all. People can classify this as a positive, as the fan base is informed and passionate, or negative, in that some sense of entitlement might have fostered through the embarrassment of riches, but that sort of judgment sort of misses the point.

Boston fans have honed an eye for what it takes to win titles in sports, so when a team comes up short, we have a good idea why it happened, and when they pull through with trophies and rings, we make sure to appreciate it in its fullest.

The Patriots broke the modern championship seal, and went on to set the standard in excellence.

The Red Sox romantically broke curses amidst high drama that spanned generations.

The Celtics restored a revered brand to its grand pedigree almost overnight, reminding fans that, truly, anything was possible.

The Revolution, well, they existed.

But what to make of the Boston Bruins? What is the modern legacy for the team that faces a do-or-die Game 7 at home with a trip to the Stanley Cup playoffs on the line?

They're the only heartbreak left in town, with their last Cup win coming in 1972, and their last appearance in the series over twenty years ago. They were once the class of the town. Number Four Bobby Orr is as beloved as any sports hero. Their status as part of the NHL's Original Six gives them cache and authenticity in a league where franchises are sometimes perceived as disconnected from the sport and the foreigners that are paid to play it. After years of mismanagement and disappointment, their fans are as embittered and fatalistic as they come. They have all the makings of the highest drama sports have to offer.

The Journey

But sports don't take place in a vacuum. Every fan finds their own unique relationships with teams, sports, and seasons. Sports forge communal bonds, help us demarcate time in our lives, and do it dealing out equal parts ecstasy and agony. So when the Bruins play tonight, whether it makes sense or not, lives will be changed. And not just those of the players and coaches.

When the Patriots won their first Super Bowl, I was (nominally) a high school football player. I was actually, as mascot coincidence would have it, a Patriot. I watched the professional team alongside the same young men whom I watched play Friday nights from the sidelines. I would say I had about the same impact on the outcomes of both.

When the Red Sox made their run, which began when a 2003 team that seemed destined to break curses lost in as devastating a fashion as the city had ever seen, only to carry over its successes and baggage to the next year, ending with 2004's greatest-comeback-ever-seen to the same opponents, I was a student among a massive state university fraternity that first mourned, then celebrated as one. I literally fell in love during that first run to the World Series, and perhaps fittingly that love ran its course almost to the day that the Red Sox won their second championship of the 21st century.

When the Celtics decimated the Lakers for their title, I was a returned citizen to the city's urbane streets. I had been living in another city since graduation, but came home just like the NBA's Larry O'Brien trophy. Boston was no longer somewhere to be visited on weekends or for occasions, its city streets and squares were home.

Retrospectively, those titles have given my life structure. They feed into my own personal narrative, as I am sure they feed into others', (mine maybe more-so; I am somewhat obsessed). But I am still in no way sure what to make of these Bruins.

We've casually dated before, these Bruins and me. We went on low-pressure coffee dates in 2004, as I watched Joe Thornton and Sergei Samsanov's squad underachieve. They were given the same opportunity for a stake in my heart as every other team, but when the rubber hit the road, I, like all other Bruins fans, die-hard or budding potential ones, was left feeling like a burnt skidmark.

Iron cast doubt

Everybody loses in sports. But no matter what any cliché says, how you lose really does matter. When the Red Sox lost, it felt fated, as if it were part of the franchise's core identity. When the Patriots lost, after building a huge reservoir of successes to draw from, there was nearly always a clear explanation to their losses, because it was evident that all things being equal they were always the better team to take the field. With the Celtics, their storied history was so far back in the rear view that it was almost accepted that they would never reach that level again, so instead fans could kick back and watch the athletes' potential grow without expectation.

But what were we to think of the Black and Gold Spokes? What is their modern legacy?

That 2004 team was upset in 7 games by their most bitter rivals, the Montreal Canadiens. When they next qualified for the playoffs, in 2008, they were once again matched up against the hated Habs, and while this time the B's played the role of the underdog, they still fell in that seventh game. The next year they opened once again against Montreal, only this time they swept their way to victory in 4 games. This was thoroughly cathartic until they again lost in a game 7, the very next round, and this time on the Garden's home ice to a hockey team from Carolina. Because everyone knows all the best hockey is played south of the Mason Dixon.

This was a young team, it was said, whose stock was on the rise and whose best days were ahead. But while sports narratives are often predictable, they are not always linear.

But with the 2009-2010 team, the Bruins committed one of the greatest atrocities imaginable for a sports team.

For Boston fans, there was only one 3-0 series comeback that mattered. In 2004, the battered Red Sox lost Game 3 of the ALCS by an eery score of 19-8, putting them in an 0-3 hole against the indomitable Yankees. But then, in Game 4, Millar drew a walk, Roberts stole a base, Mueller singled off the most dominant pitcher of modern times, and before anyone knew what happened the Red Sox had won 4 straight games. It was pure, unadulterated sports euphoria. The Comeback for Boston, the Choke for New York.

Well, in 2010, the Bruins sullied 3-0. In the second round, against the Philadelphia Flyers, the Bruins won the first three games of the series. Not only did they have a 3-0 lead, but by the time the Flyers had won three straight of their own and the series was forced to a climactic Game 7, once again to be held at the Garden, the Bruins thrice struck first and took a 3-0 lead in that game.

And they lost.

Now 3-0 was a set of numbers that cut Boston fans both ways. Sure, it wasn't as iconic a loss as the win was for the Red Sox, but it was still there, haunting a team that had fought so hard to earn respect in a town where attention where attention was easily diffused.

There were no shortage of valid reasons the Bruins lost that series the way they did. A young team, a younger netminder, injuries to both bodies and brains, but ultimately, sports are a results-oriented business where final scores dictate final narratives. Yearly sports almanacs don't lie. The Bruins choked. By every definition

Redemption and attention

There are real monetary benefits to be had in Boston's sports market. Perform well, and people will notice. Sports television is a monster industry in this town, across media platforms new and old. Networks use teams and sports to compete with one another. Sports personalities stake out their territory and defend it like wild animals. Sports are about the games, presumably, but even when those are done there is huge money to be made in talking about the ways and wherefores of each result, because in this town when people say “everyone has an opinion,” it really means everyone.

Beyond that, attending games is a huge premium. Ticket scalping has gone from city streets to web markets, transforming the secondary market to a legitimate enterprise somewhere along the way.

So again, it pays to be good.

Fans are passionate enough to watch, listen, and pay for entry, but that passion can also breed hostility. You have our attention, the logic seems to go, so don't fucking blow it.

Well, the Bruins finally have everyone's attention.

After last year's ugliness, it was going to take some work to get back in this town's favor. Bruins fans felt like a spouse betrayed, they were open to reconciliation, but trust would need to be earned before it was given freely.

After an up-and-down regular season, the Bruins were once again pitted against the Canadiens to open these Stanley Cup playoffs. They hosted the series, and once again, before anyone could catch their breath, they were down 0-2 headed up to Canada. It looked like it would be a short run this year.

But the Bruins battled. They won the two games in Montreal, then took Game 5 in Boston, and after dropping their first chance to close out on away ice, and after surrendering a tying goal in the final moments of the latest Game 7 at the Garden, they took the game and the series on an electric overtime goal. Finally, after the last three seasons had ended in Game 7 losses, with the last two coming at the Garden, the B's had broken through.

With one albatross off the team's back, they packed up and headed to Philadelphia. Even when the Bruins won their first three games against the Flyers, ambient anxiety remained. They'd choked away control of a series to these guys before. Throughout the regular season management had cited that the team had made the second round of the playoffs for the past three years as evidence of its successes, but fans could only lament the inability to advance deeper, and if this year didn't end with demonstrable progress, heads would roll.

But the Bruins did sweep, which, again, in the tidy world of sports' narratives, perfectly forgave the sins of the previous year. Mission Accomplished. Sort of.

And this is where Boston's string of successes returns to the fore. The Bruins are playing deeper into the playoffs than they have in almost 20 years. They are playing later into the calendar year than they ever have before. The Celtics' season ended earlier and more abruptly than anyone would have expected, the Red Sox have underachieved, and the Patriots are mired in the NFL's obtuse lockout. That the Bruins have even booked another night of drama at the Garden should be enough. We should be grateful to even be given the opportunity to root for someone, anyone, with stakes this high at this point in the summer.

But being happy to be there is for losers. The Hub won't have it.

There is a team in Vancouver that is waiting to find out who will be its dance partner in this year's Stanley Cup Finals.

There is a 37-year-old goalie who has spent a lifetime trying to earn his respect. He has made the save of a lifetime, but unless he makes a few more, it will fall to the annals of history as another great moment that was not quite iconic.

There's a Norris Award winner who has been deemed an underachiever for most of his professional life almost exclusively because of the impossible expectations set by his 6' 9” frame.

There is an alternate captain that has been forced to fight concussions throughout his career.

There's a coach looking for a trump card to play against those who doubt his acumen and ability.

There's a forty-something looking for the icing on the cake of his Hall of Fame career.

There's a 19 year old top pick desperate to prove he is more than a flash in the pan.

There's a power play that is dangerously close to writing the wrong side of history.

There are these and a million more stories, all at stake, all on the line tonight. There are old men who care only for hockey who want that last return to the Finals. There are kids who will learn how to be a fan. There are blowhards that are eager to say “I told you so,” no matter the outcome. There are the selfish masses that want the final gem to be added to Boston's crown of champions. There are people that will fall in love, people that will find faith, people that break dishes, people that gamble, people who riot, and people who will do nothing more than read tomorrow's newspaper with a little more interest.

All of this hinges on a win or a loss. A break of the puck. A lapse, an opportunity capitalized or squandered, a hit made or missed.

I'm not sure what a win or a loss will mean to me. It will depend, I suppose, on how it goes. But I know it will mean something to me.

I look back on the teams I have committed myself to for the last decade, and I regret nothing. I got as much as I gave. Even the teams that failed, even the ones that choked, even the ones that left me in tears, I think, in the moment, and as I look back, I loved them all equally.

Maybe you think sports matter too much to Boston. Maybe you look at us and wonder why we put so much energy into things we can't control. But we know better. We know that by watching, we are in control. We know our attentive eyes can, in fact, change the outcome of games.

We've seen it.

Go get 'em, boys.

-Brendan McGuirk, Professional Boston Fan

5-27-2011

So Amazing

The 2009 NBA Playoffs are in Full Effect, and I'm not gonna make it


There's nothing like the playoffs.

Finally, that 7 game Bulls/ Celtics series is over, and I'm drenched with sweat. I never want to gamble again. And I definitely never want to bet on a game I care about. My heart can't take it.

I'm not a man of great means, but I manage to make the time for things that matter to me. Such things, as one might imagine, as comicbooks and playoff games. Real fans go to playoff games. I'm sorry, but if you enjoy one of the major American sports like baseball or basketball, you make a point to go to games. After a few years, though, memories regular season games blend together into larger, amorphous impressions of the specific season and era of the team. This is probably a factor of thousands of hours spent watching Sportscenter, and millions of printed words read covering daily gamers, (not to mention talk radio, or... dare I say... blogs). The memories are just hard to hold onto.

Not so with playoff games.




I can rattle off the specifics of every playoff game I've been to in my life. As a beer vendor, I bore witness to the 2003-04 Patriots beating the co-League MVPs in consecutive weeks; first outlasting Steve McNair and the Titans in a game played with a windchill of -10°, then the next week seeing Ty Law absolutely decimate Peyton Manning while securing a Super Bowl berth. That AFC Championship was probably the most significant sporting event I've ever attended, for a couple reasons. One- it was the first, biggest ballgame at the House that Drew Bledsoe Built, Gillette Stadium. New England will never host a Super Bowl, not until some mad scientist invents an effective weather control device, so while I can imagine Gillette hosting other AFC Championship, there won't be another first one. And Ty Law won't pick off Peyton Manning three times.



There was a weirder reason this back-to-back week of games was significant, too. At the Titans game I worked the lower level, right at the 50 yard line, (which was incredible and I totally don't mean to gloat). It was remarkable that people were still drinking at this game. I mean, scientifically speaking alcohol lowers your body temperature, but realistically speaking there's no way anyone can stand sitting outside in subzero temperatures on a January night in Foxborogh unless they're drunk. Anyway I'm in this prime serving area getting people wasted while watching at the snaps, and I go back to the service bar to reload my tray. I'm on my way back when a tall guy with a goatee asks me for a drink. I'd been told pretty sternly to ID everyone I served, and being the son of a bartender, wasn't one to shirk the duty, except I knew this guy. I looked up, and it's Tim Wakefield.

Which would have been the coolest moment in my life, except for one thing-


It was January 11th, 2004. The last time I'd seen Wake was October 16th, 2003. No one blamed Tim Wakefield for being on the losing end of that Game 7 of the Red Sox/ Yankees ALCS. In fact, he had a pretty good chance of being named Series MVP if they won that game. He shouldn't have been in the game until Mariano Rivera was out, but then again, Grady Little was not necessarily blessed with a well-timed hook. Nevertheless, the last time I'd seen Tim Wakefield was at the climactic moment of the greatest heartbreak of my young life, and there he was buying a beer from me at the very next playoff game in the New England area, just taking it in as a fan, and enjoying the Boston sports scene. Tim Wakefield is the fucking man.

Earlier that October I'd gone to my first ever Red Sox playoff game. It was Game 4 of the 2003 ALDS against the Oakland A's, and the Red Sox didn't stand a chance. They didn't stand a chance all series, incidentally, after having gone down 0-2 in the best of 5 series. As would become customary in the coming years, the Sox would battle back with the hearts of champions. They won Game 3 with a dramatic Trot Nixon home run, and if they could take Game 4, they'd have Pedro Martinez ready for Game 5. But now it was Tim Hudson, who would place 4th in Cy Young voting that year, (just one place behind Pedro) squaring off against the 12-9 5.15 ERA soon-to-be professional bowler John Burkett. Again, the Sox didn't stand a chance.

Or they shouldn't have. Weird word had gotten out that day. There were rumors that Hudson had gotten into a bar fight the night before. He might have bashed a guy with his guitar like El Kabong. Either way he was out of the game after an inning, and it was on John Burkett to nip and tuck that whole game, going 5 1/3 without, as I can remember, a single swinging strike. I can't remember if that was even true, but it sure felt that way, 'cuz that guy pitched the game of his life. I mean, he still gave up 4 runs, but it was the game of his life.



Wakefield came in and mopped up for a few innings, (of course) and David Ortiz had his first signature playoff hit with a huge double off Keith Foulke in the 8th. They won the game, and looked like favorites going against the Yankees in the ALCS. That didn't happen, but I still hold to this day that it was coming back from that 0-2 deficit to that A's team that gave that team the gumption it needed to pull back from the 0-3 hole they'd dig themselves in the 2004 ALCS. So to me, even though it was just a game where a couple junkballers tried to keep it tight, it is just about the most important Sox game I'd been to in my life.


Or it was. Last year I went to Game 4 of the ALDS against the Angels, and Jed Lowrie drove in Jason Bay in the 9th inning to close out the series. Jon Lester was awesome, and it was probably the most exciting baseball game I've been to in my life.

I've been to countless games, but it is the ones with tangible consequences that really illicit the starkest memories. Last year, I basically moved back to Boston just in time to see the new-look Boston Celtics come together. I was living in Brooklyn when the monumental trades were made, and I remember going from just confused by the Ray Allen trade, to indescribably elated at the Kevin Garnett trade. I tried to explain it to my non-basketball loving friends; it was like going to bed with one team, and waking up with a completely different one. Everything about them was different, from the style of play to their League- relevance, to their viability as a champion. I didn't want to move back when I did, but knowing that I was going to be able to watch this unprecedented season was an acceptable silver lining. The New Big Three didn't disappoint, delivering the most dominant regular season I'd ever watched in total. They made me see basketball differently. I went to a couple games, and eagerly awaited the playoffs.

I wanted to be smart. I wouldn't blow my load on the first round matchup against the feeble Hawks. No, I'd wait for the prospect of seeing my beloved Celtics take on the most electrifying athlete of my generation in LeBron James. THAT would be a worthy thing to pay for, I was sure.

The Celtics famously struggled in that first round, but despite the series going 7 games, there was never any doubt to who was the better team. They advanced, and awaited the Cavaliers.

I got tickets to Game 1 of the series. It was the most intense game of my life. I love all the sports I love, but basketball gets my blood pressure up in a different way. It's just so high adrenaline. It is also a sport that can be officiated somewhat subjectively, which is not necessarily healthy for someone who argues as vociferously as I.

It was the ugliest games I watched in my entire life. But it was a win.


LeBron had my favorite double-double of all time with 12 points and 10 turnovers. Paul Pierce and Ray Allen combined for 4 points. In fact, Ray finished scoreless! It was like a Bizarro- playoff game. The only guy who played like a superstar was the Big Ticket himself, who scored 28. The game ended 76-72, but the only number that mattered, trite though it might have been, was the Celtics' 1-0 lead.

The Celtics went on to become champions. I didn't get to any more games, because as I said, I am not a man of great means, and as soon as the Celtics beat the Cavaliers in a Game 7 showdown classic between Paul Pierce and LeBron James the Celtics became the hottest ticket in town. I didn't have any regrets, but I did feel a little cheated, in that I think I ended up at the only game of the entire postseason that didn't have 1 highlight for the end-of-season reel.

This season, I was determined to not make the same mistake. As the season drew to a close, I held off on even going to a few games, thinking myself wise and prudent in my waiting for the playoffs. Kevin Garnett would be back by playoff time, and there were sure to be more than enough games to catch then. Two nights before the season ended, I made my decision to buy tickets to Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals, the second round. This, I assumed, is when the playoffs would really start.

The morning after I bought my tickets, the news came out. Kevin Garnett would be out for the playoffs in their entirety. It was like someone punched me in the stomach, stood me up, punched me in the balls, then took my wallet, and then slept with my girlfriend. It sucked.

It sucked for all the obvious reasons. It sucked because it was evident that we would not have an honest shot at defending our title, first against the Cavaliers, then against the Lakers. It robbed us of our opportunity to get in the way of the LeBron/ Kobe 2009 Finals that have seemed so inevitable to everyone who was sleeping on the Celtics. It sucked because you knew there were only so many years for this team to play together, and all the sudden this year wouldn't be one of them. It sucked because the team had worked so hard to keep the ship afloat in KG's absence, and it seemed almost unfair to ask them to continue to shoulder both the load and the expectations without their true superstar, and defensive tone-setter. And it fucking sucked because, dude, I had already paid for the tickets!

Buying tickets that early, you're not really buying tickets. Regular box-office tickets don't go on sale until the team officially qualifies, and the game is scheduled. But if you're too anxious to wait, you can use online auction services to buy seats from season-ticket holders who are guaranteed their tickets. Sure, you pay at a markup, but it's worth it to assure yourself of the seat.

Well when KG was out, the second round didn't seem like such a sure thing. In fact, it seemed like a goal. Not for the team themselves, of course, but for me. Just make it the one round, don't make me look like an asshole! I felt guilty just feeling the way I did. And that was before the series even started.



Then it went on to be the greatest playoff series anyone can remember. It didn't win a championship, although it did star a team with championship heart and pedigree. It truly was a phenomenal series, not only for the longevity of it and the unprecedented overtimes, but for the remarkable shots that were hit. Ben Gordon got as hot as anyone's ever seen anyone. Derrick Rose hit leaner after leaner in traffic. Kirk Hinrich hit tough, deep threes. Rondo hit some jumpers, and damn near averaged a triple double on creaky ankles. Paul Pierce, who struggled uncharacteristically from the line, won a game all by himself, working himself to his spot and sinking make after make. Glen Davis showed himself to be a legitimate big in the NBA, mixing in-traffic layups with a nice, consistent midrange game. Kendrick Perkins was a beast, and again, no one seemed to notice. Where Ben Gordon got hot as a pure shooter, Ray Allen elevated his game and showed the difference between a hot shooter and a great one. After a tough Game 1, Ray was unstoppable. He showed the world what willed greatness looked like. It was an unforgettable series.



And it damn near killed me.

I felt like I was in the same boat as Danny Ainge. I had the biggest vested interest a fan could have in a series without owning it like Mark Cuban, or having your house put up as collateral on a bet. All I wanted was for the series to end, and it had to be the longest, most grueling, up and down series there ever was.

By the time we got to Game 7, I was spent. After sinking money into those seats, I'd effectively gambled on the games. I didn't stand to win anything, really, or at least anything I hadn't already bought. But I did stand to lose. It was an impossible situation. In the end, going into that last game, I just prayed that the team be champions for one more night. One more display of greatness, and I'd be content. Of course, this had to echo what they were feeling going into that game. Not the 'being content' part, of course, but it was evident through the way they played that they were not going out like punks under any circumstances. They played the Bulls long enough, and hard enough, and eventually those impossible shots Ben Gordon and Derrick Rose kept hitting started rimming out, and the better team prevailed.

Now I get my Round 2 game. The team is limping, of course, with Rajon nursing maybe both his ankles, Pierce barely able to jump off the ground, KG looking dapper in suits, and Leon Powe's career in jeopardy after another major knee issue. The Magic are coming to town fresh off a few days rest, hoping to legitimize themselves as title contenders against what's left of the champs. I think the series will be pretty easy to predict- if the Magic can shoot over 43% on threes for the series, they'll at least take it 7 games, if not take the series. They are not the same kind of threat as the Bulls, because they are not the same fast-break team, and they don't have the athleticism to wear down the Celtics like Chicago did. Perkins should make for a good matchup against Dwight Howard, provided they get called evenly on fouls. Turkoglu and Pierce have had some good matchups, and while the Celtics don't have an answer for Rashard Lewis, the Magic don't have an answer for Ray Allen.

I get to go and see it, and be a part of the experience myself. I can't be any more honest in saying, it's all I ever wanted.

A Distillation of Victory

As a sports fan lucky enough to be from Boston, in these modern days, I am acquainted with the luxury and spoils brought by victory. And winning is baller.



A championship, even merely spectated, creates a shared experience that serve as validation of the investments of time and mental energy put forth by the rigors of fandom.

It is also a celebration of unity and community. In land where we spend more time griping about our differences than similarities, there are few opportunities to truly share.

And so when the clock struck 11:00 P.M. last Tuesday, and every major network announced that Barack Obama had been called to serve as the 44th president of these United States, the jubilation that erupted in the streets and on the broadcasts across the country was not personally unprecedented. It reminded me, hey, this is simply what it feels like to win.



Maybe it illicits hugs from total strangers. It may boil down to simple eye contact made with another, silently sharing the moment. Maybe you get lucky. Weeping, cheering, dancing, and drinking are all pretty acceptable options. I personally took a hint from Celtics' patriarch Red Aurbach, and coolly, arrogantly lit a cigar.

But the important thing is the embrace of the moment; the assuring knowledge that this is pretty much as good as it gets. The world is so big, and its issues so unwieldy, it is easy to forget the sensation of the good guys victorious.

It took actually happening for everyone to fully realize how much we needed this. The subtexts of this election were extrapolated upon at length, but more importantly than any particular racial hurdle, the country needed to have something “trancendent” to rally around. We needed to feel good again.






Too often, we only really share the negative. We go through economic crises together. We grow weary of our international responsibilities together. We mourn the tragic loss of brothers and sisters together.

Which is funny, because shared suffering makes up the main thrust of sports' fandom.

For years, Red Sox fans understood their lot in life. Ours was a predetermined destiny. We were the “Wait until next year,” team. This was an identity that reinforced itself more and more every year. Every loss, and every failure only dug us deeper into a state of perpetual disappointment and inferiority.

Then they overcame it. The burden was relieved, and a new era began. A new brand, a new identity, and a new perspective was granted. We made it. And due to the many years of suffering, we knew we'd earned it.




And that was what happened. It wasn't that Barack was the Black president. He was the Right president. This was not an apology by the American people to any specific community, or an exercise in affirmative action, or an optimistic roll of the dice. This was an informed opinion. This election does not change American history, but it does change the course of it. Change came to America. While the President-elect has a steep challenge ahead of him, he is only asked what we ask every Head of State; be our best. Represent our ideals, respect our wishes, make our difficult decisions and we will stand behind you.

We vote to select our leadership, but after that we are pretty much spectators. It doesn't mean what happens doesn't effect us, but we have mostly surrendered our power and are in it for the ride. Over the course of a term, or a season, there are peaks and valleys. There are big losses, and minor victories. But what we need to remember is that we are all on the same team. We all want the same things. We want to end up at the same place.



The winner's circle.

There are very few moments that truly transcend the individual experience for the societal one. What's more, when they do happen, they are too often marred by tragedy. But sometimes, if you're patient, if you're lucky, and if you back the right horse, there is a reward at the finish line. Winning feels good. And it's addictive.

Now that we've all voted, we've surrendered any sort of control. Among us, there will inherently be those who will criticize every move- Monday Morning Quaterbacks, or armchair managers ready and eager to discuss shortcomings at length. There will be others who instead defend and rationalize. We will clash and argue about it because we care about the outcome, because it is our only power.

But as we learned last Tuesday, we can celebrate together. Let's hold on to that.

See you at the Inauguration. I'll be the one with the cigar.