In a dogged attempt to maintain some faint relevance to hockey, these thoughts occurred to me while watching the young’uns Crosby and Setoguchi and hearing that veteran 49er Bryant Young is retiring after a fifteen year career.


I give you the stages of life:

In your twenties, you are bombarded by media depictions of revolting over-achievers who made their first million in their teens and now own small countries or who signed obscenely large contracts to play a sport they once played for free. You think to yourself, “why isn’t that me?” And if you don’t think that, at least occasionally, you are certifiably overly well-adjusted and should probably be committed or at least have your brain biopsied to find out what makes you tick.

When you reach your thirties, you become aware that your are supposed to be an adult. You think to yourself, “Surely, by now I should be:
a) rich
b) famous
c) president of something
d) house broken
when you are actually e) None of the above. And, while you deal with your first mid-life crisis (yes, I did say first), you come to realize that life is what happens while you’re busy thinking about something else.

When you reach your forties, you realize that you will most likely never achieve (a) through c), although you still have hopes for (d). You see that, while inside you are still twenty-eight, on the outside you are starting to resemble an apple-doll. Pretty soon you’ll require scaffolding to prop up your neck, your spare tire has passed the sub-compact stage and is well on its way to becoming a semi-truck and/or your boobs are dangerously close to getting caught in your belt buckle.

When you reach your fifties, you realize you are older than anyone playing any professional sport, including Vinnie T., Chris Chelios and Ricky Rudd. Oh, wait, is Morton Anderson still around? You remember the rookie seasons of players who’s kids are now seasoned veterans. You remember the days when hockey players didn’t wear helmets, wide receivers were fair game and you could go to a movie for a couple of bucks. You dressed in a way you’d never admit to now but, at the time, you were pretty darned cool in your bell-bottoms.

When you reach your sixties, you cease to care what other people think of you because life is too short to sweat the details. You think people in their forties are just getting started, people in their thirties are kids and anyone younger that that is an embryo. You do what you want, when you want and you only hope that your team will win the:
a) World Series (sorry to Cubs fans)
b) Super Bowl (ditto to Minnesota and Buffalo fans)
c) Stanley Cup (go Sharks and Sabres)
before you shuffle off this mortal coil.

When you reach your seventies, you think to yourself, “Dang, now where did I park the car . . leave my keys . . put my teeth?” Several of your body parts are now detachable and many others only work a part-time shift. You start to use phrases like ‘new-fangled’ and ‘in my day . .’ and boring the trousers off the slower moving members of your family with stories about your glory days.

When you reach your eighties, you don’t remember your glory days. You’re not even completely sure which spouse belongs to you. You have the unnerving tendency to fall asleep in inappropriate situations, like while driving or standing in line at the discount lunch buffet. If you’re a man, you belt your trousers directly under your armpits. If you’re a woman, you start wearing lime green polyester leisure suits and coloring your hair blue. (I’m not sure why this is but it does appear to be a requirement).

When you reach your nineties . . . well, at this point I’d say it’s all gravy . . . and whatever else may happen, in every stage of life, there’s always hockey.


Happy Holidays