Our niece’s husband works in the Vegas Golden Knights organization. He has his name on the Stanley Cup, which the Knights won for the first time, on their second trip to the finals, in their sixth season in the NHL, this past June. We were invited to join the party when he got the Cup for a day.
The lock screen on my phone displays a full-frame picture of the Cup sitting on a dock at the shore of a lake, glistening in the sun, a shining reminder of a human accomplishment few get to revel in. It’s not a stock photo. I took it myself. I’m not bragging—I didn’t win the Cup—it’s just that I’m still savoring the moment, pinching myself because I was fortunate enough to be in its presence for a while. It’s the very same trophy that one sees the players hoisting during the on-ice celebration after they win the whole thing. It has its own catalog of great stories that go back to 1892.
In this earthly life, the Cup represents unparalleled athletic achievement, the culmination, to me, of an incredible team effort—players, management, and staff finding and shaping talent, navigating and emerging victorious from what amounts to a whole regular season and then a quarter of another season in a sport that’s both beautiful and brutish and tests the limits of human endurance.
I got to drink from the cup that the likes of Bobby Orr, Wayne Gretzky, Sidney Crosby, Alex Ovechkin, Rocket Richard, and a host of other greats have all lifted over their heads, and from which have consumed all manner of libation. And in which at least two babies have been baptized.
I may not return to earth for a while yet.
3 Cents' 