Blackhawks Town

All over Chicagoland, otherwise rational people are deluding themselves into thinking they might somehow be instrumental in bringing the Stanley Cup home. Without so much as lacing up a skate.

I moved to Chicago in the summer of 1985, so I did not have to wait long for my introduction to the city's love affair with its teams. The Bears' championship season was approaching, and though I had never been much of a football fan I was not immune to the charms of Sweetness and the Refrigerator, could even recite most of the players' names. The Superbowl win was dampened somewhat by the Challenger disaster two days later, but never before had I experienced the level of electricity that can light up Chicago when one of its team is having a good run. By the time the Bulls came along to dominate basketball in the nineties, I was accustomed to living in a town that regularly painted itself red and black. The team practiced in our lily white suburb, and kids otherwise unaware of racial diversity would assume every tall black man in the world was a Bull. It was a heady time.

The Blackhawks scored early in Game 5 the other night, just as my friend and I were snapping a selfie. We worked hard to replicate the pose each time the puck went our way. Another friend was in the midst of putting on a jersey when the first goal was scored, and spent a good part of the evening taking it off and putting it on. At other gatherings, people were recreating lucky seating configurations while eating recently anointed victory food. The uninvited souls, those being held accountable for earlier losses -- after all, what else could it have been -- remained safely out of sight, their empty chairs a solemn reminder of their negative vibes.

Frankly, I'm still wondering why ice hockey is being played in the middle of June, but I'm all about sharing in the glory, especially if all I have to do is put on the same filthy shirt and eat the same greasy food. It just seems like an awful lot of pressure, and, by the way, has it occurred to anyone that no matter how vigilant we are in our own little corners of the fan base we have no control over whether someone else drops the ball?

Even if the Hawks lose (perish the thought), it's been cool -- feeling as if I am a part of something. A part of somebody's game day guest list, a part of the conversation in a local watering hole, a part of a sprawling metropolitan area where devotion to sports teams takes on an almost religious fervor and allows a diverse city, at least for a moment, to speak with one voice. Sure, I'll always have the '69 Mets (dare I bring that up?) but New York was always a bit too wrapped up in itself to stop dead in its tracks for sports.

I have not yet decided where I will watch the Hawks game tonight. There does not seem to be any pattern attached to my attendance at various houses. There have been more wins than losses, but somehow I don't think I can take credit or blame for any of them. Still, wherever I end up, I will abide by my hosts' superstitions, and no doubt acquire a few of my own. I will probably borrow the jersey I wore for the last win, and I will change whatever it is I am doing at the moment if Tampa happens to score. I will stuff myself with food deemed lucky by virtue of timing (please let it be artichoke cheese dip and not raw carrots) and I will play musical chairs with the best of them.

And, like everybody else, I will secretly take pride in my own small contributions if the Hawks win or, if necessary, watch somewhere else and wear something else for Game 7.