Stanley Cup, Here We Come!
Open Heart

Shakespuck

Well, we had tickets to Macbeth at the Folger Shakespeare Theater, the one with special effects by Teller. We got them months ago, back when the Caps were still in the basement of the Southeastern Division.

And then a miracle occurred, and lo, my boys are in the playoffs. As soon as the horn blew at the end of the game, I jumped online and bought playoff tickets. We have not had a chance to see one, single game this season -- not one! -- so it was only natural that I would immediately get tickets for the first game. After all, the first round starts Wednesday! The ninth! I was lucky; I nabbed two tickets in the lower bowl for the first game. I was confident that, when the dust settled and the first round schedule was finalized, that we would be just fine.

As I said, I was kind of hoping that our first opponent would be the Ottawa Senators, partly because the Caps swept the Sens this season -- I mean, we even beat the Senators when we were bad and they were good!  -- and partly because I wanted those Timbits from my pal. Of course, I'm assuming he would have agreed to the bet.

However, the goddamn Penguins had to go and lose to the Flyers, so we instead meet the Flyers in the first round. Normally I would experience only a mild frisson of disappointment at this, but then the NHL announced the schedule.

The first game?

Duhn duhn duhn...

Friday night.

Okay! We'll just get tickets to the second game!

Um. Sold out.

Okay! We'll just get tickets to another performance!

Um. Sold out.

Decision time.

We are simple people. Some might say we lack an appreciation for the finer things in life. Some might even call us unsophisticated boobs. I knew what I wanted to do; I asked Joe.

He looked at me. I looked at him.

C-A-P-S Caps! Caps! Caps!

Fifteen minutes after I posted the Macbeth tickets on Craigslist, they were gone. I'm sure that the very nice person who bought them will enjoy the show.

Meanwhile...

Is this a hockey stick which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have the puck, and yet I see the net.
Thou art MVP, Ovechkin, sensible
To skating for the score, for thou art but
A dagger of the ice, a fine creation,
Proceeding from the hockey-obsess'd brain.


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