"I Don't Know How to Feel Right Now"

"The true fan naturally thinks of the team as a kind of artificial totem, through which the community enjoys and suffers together the team's varied fortunes, maintaining a common temperature, as if every citizen shared the same heart."  William Gass

Clearly, I am not a true fan, and for once, at least this morning, Mr. Gass is very, very wrong. Last night, the Sharks stunk up the ice for twenty-one minutes, and when I turned off the television, they had been outscored 8-0 in the last four periods by a weak offensive team missing its top scorer.  I didn't even stick around long enough to see the last desperate act of the white-flag waving NHL coach- switching goalies. So after I put two kids to bed and sat down to read in the peaceful quiet of my living room, I noticed a pleasant calm, a serenity that comes after the worst has happened, like the pacific expression of that keyless drunk stumbling from the tank after his DUI in a forgotten beachside town.

Of course, man was not meant for lucidity and peace of mind, and conditioning overpowers that first illusion of will power and cheap wisdom.  I turned on the fucking TV, and now it's 4-2, and the eyes roll and I've chomped down hard on the bait, knowing in a moment the lie that is free will. And then it's 4-3, and even while I'm speaking out loud to an empty room, "I ain't buying that tease," I'm whipping out the credit card for another roll in the masochist hay. 15 seconds later the Kings score when the Sharks appear to be collectively on PCP, like five teel hippies in a field. 15 seconds to remind you just how stupid your fleeting faith had been.

But we're still in the second period, and here comes another teel wave. 5-4. Joe Pavelski, the most stoned looking on that hope-crushing fifth Kings' goal, then miraculously flips a backhand over a stunned Jonathan Quick (I kid you not, this is their goalie's name) and in the inimitable words of that Frenchman stuffed into a cannon and then taken out when Joan of Arc decides boulders would have more destructive power on that Simpsons' episode mocking the classics, "I don't know how to feel right now."

The third period is naturally played more conservatively than a Barry Goldwater budget, and they're heading for OT, and I'm off for a beer. Three minutes later the mostly silent Patrick Marleau receives the puck with one hand on his stick, spins past a defender at the blue line and then threads a perfect pass to the recently incompetent Devin Setoguchi, who buries the winner on the same top shelf  Joe Pavelski hit in Game 1.
Sharks win, 6-5 and take a 2-1 lead in the series.

Ecstasy, right? Greatest playoff comeback in Sharks' history ought to warrant a solo dance in the dark and a bit of morning giddiness, but no. It's mostly disgust with their absurdly awful play and the positions they put their long-suffering fans into.  To paraphrase a buddy- I'm in a different place, and I hate being in that place, and I hate them for putting me in that place.

And I can't wait for Game 4.