I stood in my living room, fiddling with the fight strap on my authentic Chicago Blackhawks hockey jersey. Before a professional hockey game, the thick white strap that is sewn into the back of the jersey would be attached to a player’s breezers so an opponent couldn’t pull the jersey over the head in a fight. I took the strap and buckled it around the belt in my shorts. Now, I’m about as close to playing in the NHL as Amy Winehouse. But I’m Cup Crazy. I turned on the TV and watched the Blackhawks NHL playoff game.

My wife walked into the living room and looked over as I was tightening the fight strap. Sarah bluntly said, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Watching the hockey game,” I said, as I wagged a finger towards the TV.

“I can see that,” Sarah said. “What are you doing with your jersey?”

“Tying it down so no one pulls it over my head,” I replied. “Duh.”

“What the F?” Sarah said, completely dumbfounded. “You do realize that you aren’t actually playing in the NHL Playoffs. Don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, I realize,” I said. 

I’m a 36 year old stump of a man and my greatest athletic achievement is playing an entire period of Minnesota High School hockey with a bag of Skittles in my mouth. Believe me. I realize. But that’s not going to stop me from going Cup Crazy. Along with tying down my hockey jersey while I sit in my living room, my life has become ridiculous. I’ve stopped shaving so that I can grow a playoff beard. I’ve refused to cut my hair to obtain maximum hockey hair. I’ve eaten nothing but pasta for dinner for two weeks for the solid carb load. I’ve refrained from sex with my wife the night before a big game to ensure that I’m amped up and have good legs. Ok, that last one wasn’t by choice. But still. I’m supporting the Blackhawks by not getting some.

In a remarkable sign of marital solidarity, my wife sat down on the couch to watch the game.

“Who are we rooting for?” Sarah asked.

“Chicago!” I roared.

“Who are they playing?”

“Vancouver.”

“Oooo! I love Vancouver! It’s so beautiful there,” Sarah gushed. 

“No,” I said sternly. “You hate Vancouver.”

“Oh, it’s so lush there. The mountains and ocean and gardens. I want Vancouver. Why do you hate Vancouver?” Sarah asked.

“Because they’re bitches. The Sedin Twins are freak show. Ryan Kesler has a douche face. And Alex Burrows looks like Punky Brewster,” I told her. 

“I think you should root for Vancouver,” Sarah chirped, as if a fan’s allegiance can be swayed by something whimsical like jersey color and logo. Plus, this is hockey. Hatred of a certain team runs like a virus through your body for 84 games a season.

“If the Taliban had a hockey team and they were playing Vancouver I’d root for the Taliban,” I said.

“Let’s root for Vancouver together. It’ll be fun,” Sarah asked enthusiastically.

 “I’d rather take a bath with Paul Giamatti,” I said. 

“Oooooooooo Kay,” She quipped.

I turned towards the TV and watched the game. Chicago scored and I bolted off the couch, shook my fists, and pumped my crotch. Then I gave the Vancouver goalie on my TV the finger.

“In. Your. Face!” I yelled.

Sarah shook her head. “I swear,” she said, “You men are just odd.”

She leaned in and gave me a smooch. When our lips touched, she was instantly scratched by my thick beard stubble. “When are you going to shave? You look like someone who lives in the woods.”

“I can’t shave during the playoffs,” I said. “It’s bad luck.”