Pink October

I find it fitting that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

A year ago today my family and I were shook to the core by the words you hope to never hear. For a disease which will affect half of all men and a third of all women in a lifetime, cancer has a way of remaining estranged in everyday life. Routines carry on and we tackle the day's tasks without acknowledging that over 1,500 people will succumb to the rapid spread of abnormal cells. All the while we carry on, unassuming, not cognitive enough to appreciate the beauty and delicacy in each breath. We let life pass by unappreciated, subconsciously classifying opportunity and occasion as arduous tasks and mundane agendas.

"I've been diagnosed with breast cancer" has a whole different tone when it comes from the same voice that would read you "Goodnight Moon". Your thoughts of staying strong for the rest of your family are thrown out the window when scenarios start to run through your head. The reassurance does little, because the pain you feel for the person you love is crippling, and you'd do just about anything to take the burden upon yourself.

It doesn't discriminate, it doesn't play favorites, and it certainly doesn't fight fair. It's a beast, and even the strongest will find themselves fighting a battle way out of their league. It's not just a firm blow, it's continuous jabs to you and those around you as you collectively huddle together in hopes of dodging the knockout punch. You've got a passionate and supportive team in your corner, but ultimately it's you who has appointment after appointment, you who takes the needles, and you who will have the scars.

But we had a fighter, a warrior, an optimist, and a believer.

Shortly after my Mom's diagnosis my Family participated in a Susan G. Komen for the Cure® walk in Concord, NH. For years my mother had collected souvenir rocks with insignia from meaningful family trips carved in to them. While the rest of us walked the grounds enamored by the outreach and support of a community we never imagined joining, my mom walked to the survivors tent, rocks in hand for each Family member. As we prepared to leave that day my mother gave us all one of the rocks. She explained to us that the power and energy of the survivor tent were in these rocks, and that any time we felt overwhelmed or scared to hold that rock. She told us of the encouragement she received, the friends and advocates she gained, and the confidence she built in her ability to overcome the diagnosis.

Now we have a survivor.

Despite everything my mom was facing, it was most important for her that her family and friends were at ease, confident, and brave. That rock has stayed with me everyday for a year straight. It's with me on flights, it sits at my desk during the workday, and it lays at my nightstand as I sleep. It's what helps to get me through hard times, and it serves as a symbol of perseverance, strength, family, love, and support. It's also a constant reminder to be thankful, to remember those who have been taken far too soon by this disease, and to welcome the individuals who will fight that same battle in to this community of advocates and supporters with encouragement and a rock of their own.

Laurie McDonald, thank you for being our rock. Your strength is unwavering, and your spirit is unparalleled. I'm so proud of your perseverance, outlook, and toughness. You are my hero and an inspiration to us all.

I hope you all will consider joining me in making a donation to the Susan G. Komen fund. My donation is in honor of my Mother, and in memory of Michelle Cadorette, Rita McDonald, and Merry Drench. Donations can be made at www.komen.org, and their Facebook page is Susan G. Komen.‪#‎LaurieStrong‬ indeed.

4x4 Flair

I never fancied myself the bumper sticker kind. In fact, I blatantly and unfairly criticized those who were. It might even be fair to say that I was adamantly opposed to bumper stickers. The sticky residue that never seems to fully come off was just one of the many weapons in my arsenal of arguments against them. My opposition was often verbal and sometimes just downright offensive. I once proudly deemed bumper stickers “The tramp-stamps of the automotive industry”. 

I guess it wasn’t the idea itself which I was against… I suppose I’m all for you supporting whatever it is that you felt passionate enough to share with the stranger behind you. Hell, this country was founded upon life, liberty, and voicing your freedom of speech in four-by-four inch flair. My opposition to bumper stickers was fueled largely by the same principle that facilitates my love/hate relationship with reality television – freedom of speech and expression from the idiots will always eclipse that of the well-informed and insightful.

It is because of these “idiots” that I really hope visitors do not find the highway or walmart parking lot to be a great microcosm for American culture. For American politics? Sure. The “some village in Texas is missing their idiot” sticker next to the “I’ll take my freedom, guns, and money, you can keep the change” sticker might help to explain why Congress is tackling steroids in baseball as opposed to passing legislature.

Then there is my personal favorite, the stick figure family with the names below them. These will come in handy should I ever be quizzed on what the owner of the blue Kia’s family would look like on a 1/1,000 scale. I’m glad they include the dog as well – I simply would not have made it through this drive had I not have figured out your dog’s name.  Oh your “son is honor roll”? This is going to be awkward if there’s a fender bender with the guy whose son “kicked your honor roll student’s ass”.

I always wondered what kind of event would evoke enough emotion to drive someone to either impair their blind-spot or risk their paint-job. I guess in hindsight I should have been envious of their passion, but I swore that would never be me. I stayed true to this mantra until I left the Northeast a little over two years ago.

After an incredible experience as a resident of South Carolina I moved to Indiana to further my career. While I had the battery sunset engraved in my mind and the faint sound of the southern accents ringing in my ears, I still felt like my identity as a Carolinian was fading all too quickly. I felt like people knew me based on who I am, but many did not know why I am the way I am. Much of that identity was created through past experiences, South Carolina included. I suppose I felt indebted to the Palmetto State for what it had shared for me and who it had made me. It is because of these experiences that I crossed my former beliefs and purchased the most recognizable South Carolina attribute to stick on the back of my trailblazer – the palmetto and moon. 

The Palmetto bumper sticker proved to be the gateway drug. For Christmas this year my mother inadvertently summed up my regional loyalty by including a Boston Bruins sticker in my stocking. For me, out of all the Boston sports franchises the Bruins have best represented the people of New England… loyal, hard working, gritty, appreciative, and consistent. Maybe a little hard-edged at first, but ultimately loving and caring. Up until last year the Bruins were the only major New England sports franchise that had not enjoyed the fruits of their labor by capturing their respective championship over the past decade. The 2011 Stanley Cup Championship was more than just a sports win for me, it was a two month stretch where despite being 1,000 miles away from my family and friends, for two hours each night we were parked in front of the same program, listening to the same voices, and screaming and celebrating in unison. While living in six states in six years and traveling five months out of the year in and out of hotels, the broadcast by Jack Edwards and Andy Brickley was home to me. A few weeks ago I proclaimed my allegiance to my home away from home by slapping that Bruins sticker on a corner of my rear window. 

Finally, the most common sight in the bumper sticker world is the omnipotent yet ambiguous acronym sticker. I’m convinced that deciphering what the three letter acronym on the car in front of you means and trying to get close enough to read the explanation below is responsible for more accidents than texting and driving is. ACK, IRE, MV, LI, HI… I’ve seen fewer abbreviations in a teenage text message. I definitely swore off these ones for life. That was until I found myself in a gift shop on Block Island last week…

I’ve been blessed with an incredible family. Each and every year for the 4^th of July we all come together to celebrate our Countries independence on the small island of Block Island off the Rhode Island coast. With all of us scattered across the map this serves as the only time we can really all be together. From cousins to aunts and uncles, grandmothers to great aunts, we all put our daily stresses aside and just enjoy each other for three or four wonderful days. We dance away the night and lay out and talk amongst each other during the day. Block Island represents my family, and is a constant reminder to me that my family has had a tremendous influence in making me the person who I am today. 

So I picked up the BI sticker with the infamous island outline sketch and stretched it across the naked side of my window. 

Maybe I am hoping that someone else will see the sticker and have a story to share with me about where they were when the Bruins won the cup, what their favorite beach on Block Island is, or what is the best restaurant in Charleston. Or maybe I’m just proud enough of the people and places that make up those stickers and the profound impact they’ve had on me. 

I guess I’d have to consider myself a bumper sticker kinda guy now. And as a bumper sticker guy I guess I have to stand up for my people by saying, it’s the story behind the sticker that justifies the flair…  

                                                   A Block Island Afternoon...

The American Dream...

Twenty-six years is a long time when considering the lifespan of a goldfish or a mosquito. Despite the new age group that must be marked on my next road-race application and my rising health insurance cost, I can't help but to feel blessed and forever indebted when acknowledging all of those who could not make it to ring in their 9,490th day. Yet the towering oaks and weathered stones serve as a constant reminder that time is merely relative, and the highs and lows of today are simply the experience and maturity of tomorrow.

Despite cinema adaption and style transformation, the mid-twenties All American experience has remained... for lack of better words... desirable, admirable, and comfortable. While local banks gave way to Fannie Mae and the milk man became the cable man, the white picket fence and golden retriever equation always seemed to be just an engagement and school district away. With the divorce rate climbing to almost fifty-percent you can still bring the sparkle of hope and optimism to twenty-something year old's eye with the proclamation "they lived happily ever after".

Lately it never seems to unfold like the country song goes. I always reflect on our parents at our age and where they were, and no matter the circumstance you can't help but to feel behind. The cinematic vision of the mid-twenties seems to be consistent with the one's that were spewed across our playroom walls as our neighborhood sweetheart insisted on playing house. Even the most macho of us men developed a nice little SIMS family with a caring mom and hard working dad who said things like, "honey, I'm home", and "how about we go play a game of catch, would you like that?".

I think the problem with our generation is accepting the fact that times have changed. The trouble with letting go of our adolescence is the struggle to understand that the next step may not yet be drawn out in a paint-by-color. While most of this blog has served as a speakoutloud kind of experience, it seems more relevant now more than ever that I remind myself that sometimes we just need to let this entire experience unfold as it will.

I think that once we are able to come to terms with the fact that we have no idea where this is going, then we will finally start to understand that the "right path" may not be a path at all. Maybe it's time to put aside the fences, retrievers, and anxiety that's associated with what comes next, and start to thrive in the uncertainty that exists in this awkward time at this awkward moment. But who knows, as always I'm just talking aloud anyway..

You Stay Strange, Boulder..

My new job has brought new influences new faces, renewed inspiration, and most importantly, new and abstract experiences. On friday I wrap up a ten week road trip that has brought me to call the desert and the rocky mountains home. My struggles to answer the seemingly omnipotent query of where I call home has become increasingly difficult, as these temporary left coast stays add to a resume of locations that have shed their hospitality on this Northeast native.

These new atmospheres provide for infinite opportunities, and I have pleaded with my sleep cycle to make cultural submersion a priority at each new home. During our family vacations my parents always made sure that we experienced some aspect of the local culture during our stay. When I was younger this was often unwillingly forced upon me, as Dad usually felt that we should experience both the good and bad pieces that made up local folklore and cultural norms. My Dad has some unexplainable sense for sniffing out the dive bars and tourist free restaurants which offered the most authentic cuisine and conversation in the area. I feel blessed as that same curiosity and desire to engage has given birth to a new generation of wandering and exploring.

I find the best answers to the 'how come's' are experiences not explanations; and the catalyst of cultural clarity is diving head first in to the waters and body surfing the local tides to the shores of influence, perspective, and inspiration.

Boulder, Colorado is a warm dish composed of local ingredients. It best served by the ambience of the reflections of the moon off the flat irons that pierce out of the sides of the foothills like the jagged teeth of a jack-o-lantern. Boulder is a trendy kind of simple which is almost undefinable. Upon my arrival I was continually notified of the significance of the area, however after five weeks here I can personally contest that no preparation will do your experience justice.

As I reached the top of the final hill on Interstate 36, the city of Boulder came in to view for the first time. The large stone buildings of the University appeared miniature against the backdrop of Foothills, and the white tips of the Rockies undermined those same Flatirons. As I exited the Denver Boulder connector two homeless men stood next to the stoplight with cardboard signs. The first sign read, "Unemployed Deadhead, anything will help", and the other read, "4:20 pm, God Bless".

When I think about Boulder I can't help but to draw upon my experiences in Tucson, Arizona for the five weeks before it. While both exist as towns that play host to a college, it is difficult for me to define both as college towns. While Tucson exists almost as a community to serve the college, Boulder exists as a town with a college in it, undefined by the fact that 34,000 college aged students reside within it's city limits. Boulder the city has it's own vibe, it's own culture, it's own swagger.

The restaurant was dimly light at the corner of Pennsylvania and 13th. When I asked the bartender if he had anything local he immediately replied, "everything's made with local ingredients". When he realized I was asking about the beer he replied with a slightly different answer, "we only serve local beer." Of course you do, this is Boulder. The neighboring mountains seem to shield the local culture and atmosphere from the craziness of the outside world. Even with Denver less than thirty miles away, the buzz of the big city seems distant and abstract. The towns and cities of Colorado exist as identities seemingly larger than that of the state, and this is especially true in Boulder. When I asked my friend, an Oregon native residing in Boulder to rank whether the city was overrated or underrated her answer spoke volumes. "Both" she said, "it's underrated to everyone else in the world, but overrated locally because everyone who lives here thinks it's the greatest place in the world."

Boulder has been called the most liberal City in America, and the fact that marijuana dispensaries outnumber Starbucks may very well lay some foundation to this claim. The politely carefree attitude that exists below the peaks harbors a easy-going vibe that is unrivaled anywhere else I've been. The store fronts are littered with Garcia tapestries, eat local stickers, and posters for concerts.

Despite the liberal feel, the city has an eerily conservative undertone to it. Kegs are not allowed to be seen from the street, even in "The Hill" community that serves as the primary off-campus housing site for CU Students. This conservative nature exists in compliance with the identity of Boulderites, a community which refuses to be nailed down as just a college town. A few years back a proposal came in front of the town to take the open fields leading in to Boulder and fill them with Buffalo herd, paying tribute to the long running mascot of CU. The town ultimately shot this down with no real reason as to why. However, if you have the pleasure of staying in Boulder for a few days it is obvious why.

With the Universities recent decision to leave the Big 12 for the Pac 12, CU will be forced to move the Buffalo statues around campus. I found it most fitting that these statues were positioned so that their butt's faced the direction of their past conference rivals, because it almost seems like the entire town's rear end faces that of the rest of the world. It's a polite and unique kind of arrogance which is rightfully earned.

The significance of Boulder can be summed up with the experience I had at a bar way outside of the city. When I asked the Bartender about Boulder she explained that it was "a distance away" and "a weird, hippy town". When I asked her if she had a local beer on tap she answered me with, "have you had Coors?"

The community is extremely welcoming, and I am confident that it is impossible to visit without Boulder leaving an imprint on some aspect of your existence. The cities unparalleled beauty is only a small aspect of it's indescribable appeal. In two day's I'll be leaving Boulder, with three CD's of local musicians, two concerts under my belt, and one unforgettable experience. 'Til next time, you stay strange, Boulder.

Recommendations:
Upslope Brewery: "Cabernet IPA", (currently only distributed in CO).
The drive from Denver to Breckenridge (passing the Continental Divide).
Twisted Pine Brewery: Jalapeño Beer
A football game at CU (One of the Nation's prettiest stadiums)
Mountain Sun Brewery: "Illusion Dweller IPA"

Times they are a-changin'

It's been a long time since my last post.. embarrassingly long in fact. When we last connected I was fully submerged in the blissfulness of a South Carolina summer with a part time job. My day's consisted of exploring the cobblestone of downtown Charleston followed by sunset swims in the bath-like waters of Folly Beach. Life was easy, and I'll be damned if it wasn't enjoyable as well. But like the branches of a New England Maple in late fall, change was in my future. Like the leaf peepers themselves, my car was packed and my compass pointed North... Northwest to be exact.

It was fitting that the most beautiful South Carolina sunrise I had ever seen would be visible only in my rear view mirror as I began the descent down the James Island Connector for the final time.The rippled reflections of orange and yellow off the Ashley crept lower and lower as the pavement behind me hogged the reflection and reminded me of the 600 miles more of it that lie ahead.

The end of Highway 26 marked the end of the Lowcountry I had come to know and love over the past year. Palm trees turned to pines, and the long flats gave way to windy hills that would lead me through the Palmetto State's older sister. In the distance the Blue Ridge mountain's mocked me as I drew upon the only comparison I had over the past year, the adjacent towers of the Arthur Ravenell bridge.

My ear's popped as I climbed the intricately paved path to the clouds and the morning temperature dropped from eighty-two to seventy-three in half of an hour. My visions of marshes were replaced by creeks that wound through the tangled forest which stretched over the two lane road. The billboards of Lowcountry seafood became markings for local moonshine, and as I neared the border of the Volunteer State low fuel and hunger brought me to stop at a small gas station which looked like it had been placed in the hills by God himself.

As I pulled to the pump I found the couple next to me gassing up their motorcycle which hung an Indiana Hoosiers flag from the back. Curiosity and quick conversation led me to see that I was not alone on my path, asthey had mapped out the exact path that I had... only in reverse. I couldn't help but find it ironic that retirement would bring them to Charleston and employment would bring me to Indiana.

Highway signs pointed me towards Knoxville, and as I crossed over the state line I could not help but to note the significant difference between the hills of East Tennessee and the plains of the West. As I pushed on I recalled the story of General Burnside scaling these same mountains to relieve Chattanooga and I couldn't help to feel blessed that I was pulled by the power of 290 horses and not just one.

The highway split outside Knoxville just as my first book on tape ended. I headed North towards Lexington and it was now apparent to mewhy they call UT "rocky top". Waterfalls appeared to fall from the sky as they scaled the mountainside beside me. A dense fog hung above the blacktop and made every turn an adventure. My next stop was in Kentucky where the landscape change served as an entranceway to the highway towards the Midwest.

With the mountains behind me and the straight and narrow ahead I noticed that this was a whole different kind of low country. It appeared as if it had been raining for weeks as the sprawling cornfields on both sides were flooded up to the roadway. Western Ohio was an unnoticed segway to Indiana as the farmlands appeared to be borderless. Each farmhouse seemed to serve as the postcard for my midwest stereotypes, reminiscent of "Hoosiers" and bad tornado movies.

The long lonely highway intersected with what seemed to be every other highway in the world as I reached the outskirts of Indianapolis. Twenty miles and three right turns would put me in the parking lot of my new apartment. With memories of great friends and a hell of a year in the back of my mind I had officially begun my newest adventure in Carmel, Indiana, a beautiful community twelve miles north of downtown Indianapolis. As I entered the offices and signed my lease it occurred to me that this would serve as solidifying my residency in the sixth state in as many years.

While I'm excited and thankful for my next step, I can't help but acknowledge the profound impact each of these provinces has had on who I am today. I continue to be thankful for every blessing along the way, and I look forward to sharing my next big adventure with anyone who will listen... or read.

'Til next time...

The Estranged Harmonious Muse

I envy those with the ability to express themselves through the beauty of notes through airwaves. I always have, and I certainly always will. And despite the fact that I am musically disabled to a harmonica, I have an indescribable connection to those who broadcast brilliance by emotions through a connection between their hearts, minds, fingers, and lungs.

And it's a curious matter too. I've been given every musical advantage any child could possibly be presented with. My father is obsessed with harmony and displayed this attraction in every possible amplifier throughout my life. This passion was transferred through the crackle of a James Taylor record on Rumford Street, to an obscure folk CD on the way to a youth hockey game, and on to my mothers request of "Fields Of Gold" through the towering speakers that spewed an unutterable connection on to the floors of our kitchen. With my brother thousands of miles away, our late night chats often revolve around our feelings that were so better represented in the words of others.

The modern day music atmosphere presents an entirely different means of finding the lyrics to match our emotion. Pandora and Itunes "Genius" allow for an entire night of searching to be reduced to one click. While I love the ability to locate a song a the drop of a hat, technology has almost taken away the beauty of the unexpected. Thank God my father refuses to upgrade to the newest technology. Dad is still willing to navigate through his 100 disc CD player with a compass that consists of an outdated typed-up list of album titles. Every time I come home we as a family spend the late hours of the night singing, dancing, making requests, and trying to guess which Artist will come up next. And despite the hundreds of thousands of options, somehow my father still remembers the exact track number of the song he is looking for.
This is something that transcends every branch of my family. With each Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Grandmother and Grandfather I can find a connection through much more than just family genes; through the rhythms and sound waves that played a part in making me the person I am now, and play an even bigger part in ensuring I don't forget where I have come from.

Even this past weekend when I visited my cousin Sarah in Charlotte; when the night was winding down and we were collectively heading towards our sleeping arrangements, there was a desire for a mutual request that need not to be voiced, and I knew this to be true when I laid down to James Taylor. We both had the pleasure of growing up to the rhythms that helped to bring us all together and to help to project the strong feelings we all had for each other in the collective singing and smiling to the next song selection. So while at times pop seems too obscene, folk seems to abstract, and country seems all too familiar, it is both the familiar and incidental aspects of songs that bring us exactly to where we want to be.


And in a shameless plug, check out somehow who does an incredible job of expressing himself musically! "Like" my cousin Frank Hurd on Facebook, (http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/FrankHurdMusic), or check out his page on Youtube by searching, "Frank Hurd".

The Pink Sox

An excerpt from an email from my Father to myself, dated April 6, 2011. One day before the Red Sox and their high payroll would lose their six straight game, dropping them to 0-6 on the year.

"Theo, boy blunder, the architect of this dysfunctional mess. I cannot support a franchise that insists on Neil Diamond between innings, and pink-hatted sycophants who robotically sing along. Tradition? It’s all so bloodless. Tasteless purveyors of overpriced, over hyped schlock in the house of the splendid splinter. Bring back Haywood, Buddy and the Yawkster. I liked it better when they were lovable losers, and henceforth am switching my allegiance to the Cubbies and the romance of the curse of the billy goat. Gentleman Lou Gorman is spinning in his freshly-dug grave as Henry attempts to find a solution in his algorithms, and Epstein consults with Bill James and interns from MIT. No baseball men in a front office and owners’ suite populated by celebrities, merchandisers, quants and financiers. Open distain for you, the unwashed fan, from the ultimate gated community. They make even the Kraft family look conscientious. I, for one, cannot continue to drink that toxic cool aid. I urge an immediate boycott of Fenway and the martinis, escargot and brie they peddle to the big firm lawyers, venture capitalists, hedgies and investment bankers who can afford to join this exclusive club. And those hapless cheerleaders on captive NESN keep pumping out the happy-talk. Red Sox nation? My ass."

New England sports fans by nature overemphasize each individual win or loss.. This passion is evident in the harsh New England accents pouring their heart and souls over the airwaves of 850 AM each morning and evening commute. One day the Celtics are playoff bound and the best coached team in the league, and the next day we are calling for Doc Rivers' job. This is the nature of the beast, and every coach and player understand the dynamic of playing professional athletics in New England before they take their first swing, their first snap, or walk the tunnel on to the Garden's historic surface.

The background of each New England team is very different, however they have all converged in the same decade to demand the same outlandish results. For the longest time New England sports fans were a product of their own self fulfilling prophecies. Through the late eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands our franchises were the lovable losers. This was back when tickets to Fenway could actually be purchased for face value, Drew Bledsoe was the face of the hard nosed New England Patriots, and the Garden struggled each night to even come close to filling the stands to watch their sinking teams with little playoff hopes. The Red Sox had not won a World Championship since 1918, and the Celtics were merely mice covered by the shadow of the Giant that was the franchise only a decade or two ago.

So while we as New England sports fans do our best to justify our recent success by explaining that we suffered for far too long, it is important to remember that in fact the current longest tenured New England Athletes, Paul Pierce and Jason Varitek, both arrived in Bean Town in 1998 and 1997 respectively. So we must face it, the current look of our beloved organizations do not even resemble those of the years when Championships were scarce. We as a town love the idea of being underdogs, the lovable losers; but for the last decade New England has earned it's reputation as "Title Town". Since 2000 New England has earned six World Championships. Three for the Patriots, two for the Red Sox, and One for the Celtics. We have been spoiled! Those who can claim my generation or younger have known nothing but success. After an eigthy-six year drought the Red Sox won two World Championships in four years! Many die hard Sox fans lived without witnessing a single Red Sox World Series victory.... I witnessed two in my four years of College alone. The Celtics went from worst to first in a single season by signing three of the top fifteen players in the entire league. The Patriots made four Super Bowl appearances in eight years, and I am almost embarrassed by the payroll of this years Red Sox team.

But we've come to expect it. We think we deserve it, and we really have not had to face adversity over the last decade. The 2004 ALCS would mark the end of the era of the lovable loser yet persistent franchise, and the beginning of the new look professional sports makeup of New England. The Red Sox off season acquisitions mirrored everything I hated about the late 90's and early 2000 Yankees teams. The Red Sox ownership runs a NASCAR racing team, and recently purchased a European soccer team that is also now partly owned by Lebron James. Lebron James! The face of everything that an old school New England sports fan hates. At a Sox game you can spot more pink hats than scuffed up worn out and faded caps. Being a Red Sox fan has become trendy and hip. It's only a matter of time until tickets come with your choice of the most recent Financial Times or Maxim magazine to read while you suck down the Starbucks you bought at Gate E.

So I exaggerate a bit, what can I say, that's the old school New England sports fan in me that lives and dies by every victory and loss. So while this 0 and 6 start does not necessarily mean we are already out of the playoff race, it does provide some insight into the old days. The pre-Brady/Belicheck/Garnett/Papelbon days. This is the very reason that Bruins fans are the purest of all New England fans. We still live in a world where the playoffs are not a given, every game is an adventure, and we are still suffering through a thirty-nine year Championship drought.

And look at me now, complaining about our recent success! Only a New England fan could complain that their own success has brought them to conflict with their affiliation. The Bruins grasp on to the one remaining aspect of what it means to be a New England sports fan; the idea that maybe this could be the year.