It’s hard to think about sometimes. But the manner in which I’ve been fashioned into a die-hard Washington Capitals fan is difficult to elaborate on without shedding a tear or two. In some ways, it’s a stretch, in other ways, it just seems right. But every fanhood starts somewhere, although by now I’ve come to call it a defense, or a “reason” for not being a bandwagoner, the explanation is defined by a journey but, hopefully you can bear with me for a little longer, and you’ll come to see why my heart lies somewhere between Maryland and Virginia.
The exact origin of this story is encoded within a sequence of nucleotides that didn’t belong in a strand of DNA that didn’t belong in a couple of cells, who decided to grow out of control in malignant fashion behind both of my eyes. Bilateral Retinoblastoma, or cancer, threatened my vision, and my life at the age of sixteen months. Fortunately, these growths were caught in due time, unfortunately I lost one of my eyes in the chaos created by a shear cellular flaw.
Now, for a Father who grew up on hockey, a boy who was also an oldest child of two other brothers, one of whom was a dynamic athlete who made varsity every year he tried out, the other who lined up with Bill Guerin for four years of his life and passed up a shot at juniors to become a cop, but a man who took pride in his varsity letters, ability to bench 300, and 4-year varsity status, most likely desired to carry on the hockey lineage. A frail child lacking vision in one eye, seemingly posed a threat to the continuation of such a feat. Doctors warned of dangers posed by hockey, family members were reluctant to say “some things are just more important”, and common knowledge clearly stated that (with one eye) a lack of depth perception and a limited field of sight would result in a less-than-average athlete, never mind a hockey player (a sport clearly fitting the definition and prerequisites for ‘difficult’).
Needless to say I was purchased a pair of hockey skates at the age of three. No crime. Soon enough I was snuck out of the house, behind the back of a scared-sick mother, the notions of the family, and the strict refusals of the doctors, where not only I was taught to skate, I was taught to play the most beautiful sport on Earth. The first shirt ever slipped over my shoulder pads? An old school, red, white, and blue, 1970’s Capitals shirt. Unfortunately this isn’t where the story of my fanhood begins. I can’t say I was a fan at the age of three, I can’t even say I knew what offsides meant, how to cross over, skate backwards, or how to get payback on my father for snowing me with a vicious stop, possibly a crime.
But seriously, my Mom eventually bought in, I still won’t ever know how she really felt about it, but she was at my first game, where I played on my first team, where in the first period, of my first shift, I scored a goal. What I can tell you is that at this point, when I was dancing and spinning [and falling] on the ice, she bought in. In that moment I had more dopamine per capita rushing through my little head than any drug or sex addict ever will. The freedom and purity of such a moment was more of a life than anyone ever planned or wished for me to have after that fateful day of diagnosis.
Yet, it’s difficult to see where this connects to the Capitals (almost). But my passion for hockey, my love of sport, and my desire to compete, and exposure of life is where it stems from. From there I’m fortunate no official ties were strung between that and the Boston Bruins (the obvious team of choice within the family). Soon enough though bonds were tied within a stadium much closer. Playfully enough my dad took me to games between the Hartford Whalers and Washington Capitals, in an attempt to plant seeds related to a strong future in hockey. I jokingly enough cheered for the Caps, but was much more enthralled by the play of a particular skater. Peter Bondra had all that a young me desired in a hockey player, outside of playing my Right Wing position, the speed and ability to score [a lot] had me crazy.
Thanks to Mr. Bondra, I followed the Caps. In the 1997-1998 season, my dad, uncles, and I ventured to Boston to watch them face the Capitals. My family was ruthless. They were getting nervous that I wouldn’t fall in love with the heritage of Bobby Orr, the greatness of Ray Borque, or just the Bruins in general. In all fairness I was rooting for Peter Bondra. But the Bruins kept beating the Capitals, my uncles incessantly taunted a 7-year old me, and a serious rebellion was uptaken. Before I knew it, I was defending names like Olaf Kolzig, Joe Juneau, and Mark Tinordi. It began.
The Capitals played the Bruins in the first round, and I watched every game. They advanced in six, and I proceeded to watch them eliminate the Senators and Sabres whenever ESPN allowed. My father is still surprised he didn’t have child services called on him, as I was tired every day at school, and thrown off completely from watching each game, or waking up before everyone to run out into our driveway in Springfield, MA firing to the sports section to see the results from a game not aired live.
June 9th, 1998. My eighth birthday. Game one of the Stanley Cup finals. What a day. My birthday wish was obvious, a Stanley Cup. The Captials got swept. When game four ended, I cried for an entire night. It was obvious, my love for hockey, a passion to win, and a relationship with the Capitals were intricately tied by an emotional root stemming deep from my past.
I've been thankful enough to attend a sum of Capitals games in my life thus far. Especially after the 1998 Red Wing debacle. There was a chunk of my life, better known as elementary school, middle school, and early high school where we sucked. I mean, we, as in the Capitals and I, were so bad that I was wishing we'd get swept in the playoffs, just so we could make the playoffs. But with the beginning of every season the hopes were still there, I watched and read about every draft hoping for some stud to come along, or for some distant Slovakian Bondra to uprise. Eventually 2004 came, we got better, for multiple reasons, and have made the playoffs these past three seasons. This past one I'll never forget being at the record-setting game as the Capitals went after their franchise-longest winning streak...against the Bruins...
Nearly three weeks ago today I turned 20. I confessed at the dinner table that for twelve years my birthday wish had been the same, a Stanley Cup. Now as a hardcore runner, chemistry student, full-time employee at Friendly’s, and nearly three years from my last legitimate hockey game, my parents laughed, and told me how ridiculous that was. They informed me to wish for something that had more modern purposes, I laughed “you’re probably right”, and closed my eyes. As my world went black I thought to myself, and thought some more how silly it would be to turn my back on a journey that seemingly begins and ends around June every year. How badly I wanted Bondra to win it, how badly I’ve felt these last three years courtesy of the Flyers, Penguins, and Canadiens, and thought to myself, maybe, and wished for the thirteenth year in a row…this is the year.
