I knew Lucas’s initiation had begun when we hit the sidewalk in front of the Tank, and swiveling towards us were two junk-trunkers swinging it proudly, Jersey flip-do’s flipping and doing, sporting too tight jeans shooting matching love dollops up their hips and sporting matching boob tight t-shirts reading, “We Want a Ride on the Cheechoo Train.”

Welcome to the NHL playoffs, son.

We got there early because I wanted to soak up the atmosphere, to be amongst my people and to allow my eldest to better appreciate the right kind of cathedral. Polish sausages and popcorn and plastic Bud bottles in hand, we followed the streams of teal jerseys and whooped when they whooped, booed a Flame jersey when they booed it, and made our way through the doors to behold .

The Zambonis looked like moving altarboys, and the ice was the belly of Christ. For only the second time in my life I felt the presence of God (the first was alone atop a jetty in Newport, frying on acid and wondering if a midnight swim in the Pacific would defile the sperm of the Lord), and for maybe the fifth time in my adult life I cried (the birth of three children, Game 6 in 2002, Anaheim Stadium) salty tears during the pre-game pump-up, as a giant Shark head was lowered slowly from the rafters and 17,000 fat middle-aged honkies in registered jerseys heiled white pompoms and chanted, “Nabby! Nabby! Nabby!” I had shivers on my goosebumps, as I finally embraced my inner joiner and submitted to the higher force that is collective tealdom. When you enter the Tank, you leave individual identity behind. We are as one engaged in a communal orgy of sharklove, secure in our united power. When the scoreboard flashed several players saying it takes 16 games to win a title (16 games- 16 games) and the sound system exploded with David Lee’s pig squeal on “Unchained,” I had won the battle with myself and come to love Doug Wilson.

Yes, there was a game, and yes there was a victory. The Sharks now lead 3-2 in the best-of-seven series and look to douse the Flames Sunday night in Calgary. More importantly, the boy found his godhead. I can be certain now that his wedding colors will be teal and white, and the bride will be in a lettered too-tight t. I’ll sleep well from here on.