• alt="" data-uk-cover="" />

    All-Centennial Team

  • alt="" data-uk-cover="" />

  • alt="" data-uk-cover="" />

    Stanley Cup Champs

    All Aboard the Bandwagon!

    I'm kind of torn up after witnessing such an epic pants crapping by Tom Brady and The New England Patriots two nights ago. With an explosion feces of such a magnificent caliber, the eyes of your average Boston sports fan will be averted to the next home team and draw much deserved attention to the Bruins and a fairly decent Celtics team. With the Red Sox still weeks away from what will surely be an orphanage fire of a season, I would wager the lines to board the Boston Bruins bandwagon are going to start filling up very soon, that is, after everyone gets over the shock of seeing so much human excrement spilled across the turf at Gillette Stadium.

    As we learned from the Bruins cup run two years ago, there are inherent evils that come along with a niche sport like hockey getting so much attention, the first being the gaggle of assholes that have an uncanny ability of getting their silky hands on rink side seats. There are really only three things in this world that push me right to brink of a coma-inducing stroke. One: IKEA furniture. Really, Sweden? Not only do you lay out your stores like the labyrinth of an evil wizard but you price everything just cheap enough so my girlfriend thinks we can afford it. I then spend the next 6 hours putting together a bed frame while honestly contemplating walking outside and punching a stranger in the face. Two: When the trash bag slips off into the can without you noticing and you end up throwing an entire plate of spaghetti behind said fallen bag. Three: that couple staring into the NESN cameras like a couple of gooning Asian tourists. If it would stop the tool in the three-piece suit from getting ice level seats; he, soulless milky eyes locked, for some reason, to the Jumbotron and her, Xanax dulled thumbs texting away like a 16-year-old girl, I would pop my left eye out with a soup spoon. The day of a game, I suggest a special entrance line be created for anyone with ice level seats. If you cannot name 4 of the 6 players from the third and fourth lines, the Boston Bruins reserve the right to revoke your rink side privileges and I get to smash your iPhone with a ball-peen hammer in front of your face.

    It's not all heart palpitating anger. All that cheering from the bandwagon and fraudulent excitement from evening news anchors does bring attention to a group of athletes that are truly deserving of it. Yes, you and I may clutch the hometown players closer to the heart while shouting assumptions about a rival forwards mother at the television but it's all in good fun. Hockey players, no matter the team they have a contract with, are truly awe-inspiring competitors. Any human with an average height of 6'1 and weighing an average of 205 lbs whom is willing to put on a pair of boots with sharpened metal blades attached, skate 20 miles an hour, collide full speed with another 6'1, 205 lbs human, get up, and shoot a 6 oz frozen vulcanized rubber puck 100 mphs at a 4 x 6 net for 20 minutes night after night is one person on a very short list of people who actually deserve celebrity.

    Honestly, the best thing about the squeaky wheels of the band wagon pulling up to the Garden is turning someone completely ignorant to hockey into a Bruins fan. The progression is slow, a lot like rabies in the way it comes on. We, the carriers of this wonderful malady of Bruins fandom watch as the virgin mind twists into a snarling steel trap of statistics, history, and fervent opinion. 
    Stage one, or the prodromal stage, is characterized by an overall change in the behavior. Game by game fewer questions are asked as the game rules and regulations soak into the mind. Bathroom breaks are only taken between periods. Finally, in the eyes of the infected, Jack Edwards becomes less a raving maniac but more and more an amusing and insightful commentator.

    The second stage, or the furious stage, finds the infected often screaming at Milan Lucic to "pick it up" through the television screen. He or she will often question if Claude Julien understands the concept of a power play. The final and most disturbing symptom of the furious stage is the presentation of wandering. Between commercial breaks or periods the infected will pace between rooms incoherently muttering. An example of this is the mumbled questioning of a rival goalie's sexual orientation followed by a flurry of curse words both of and alien to the English language.

    Around the time of the playoffs the paralytic stage, the last stage of Bruins fandom, develops. The reflexes slow as alcohol consumption increases. Carpets, couches, and clothing are at great risk during this stage. Arms and legs will flail randomly throughout a game turning full bowls of salsa or beer bottle into projectiles that will indiscriminately stain and destroy. Should the Bruins be knocked out of the playoffs, the final symptom of the paralytic stage will rear its ugly head. A depression of monumental significance will develop and last, on average, until the Stanley Cup is presented. From that moment until the start of the following years training camp, at which point symptoms will speed and intensify, the disease will go into complete remission and the infected will regain control over their life and emotional well-being.

    So, while the groundskeepers of Gillette Stadium hose the poop off the turf, I will take these next few lines to offer a welcome to the riders of the Bruins bandwagon. You're coming in at a good time. Boston has started off this abbreviated season on the right track, opening the season with a grinding 3-2 win over the rival New York Rangers. Yesterday afternoon, in a show of true Bruins hockey and astounding penalty killing, they beat the Winnipeg Jets 2 -1 in a shootout. 

    Welcome home.

     Keep your eyes on the game and your hands off your goddamn cell phone.