My bixi stand is up and running. Next week I’m removing my winter tires. But something isn’t sitting right. An emptiness has filled my heart and the reality of no playoffs has begun to sink in. I thought it would be best to express my sad feelings in the form of a poem. It might help the mood of this post if you picture me reading this poem, dressed in a black turtle neck and alone on a stage with a single spotlight focused on me and my tears.
‘Twas the week before playoffs, when all through the league
Not a Montrealer was stirring, due to losing-fatigue;
NHL ads were being run with care
Not a single Habs moment made the cut this year;
The flags are repacked, not being needed this spring
No concern for who will skate on Plek’s wing.
The horns aren’t honking, no banners displayed
For this year the playoffs – they shall not be played.
When out of the gloom the owner came to speak
“Rejoice!” he exclaimed “the future doth not be bleak!”
But no words of hope can begin to mend –
A spring with no playoffs is a winter with no end.
As April commences, let the slow wait begin
Come Draft, come Free Agency, come a GM who can win.
“St-Patrick, McGuire, Damphousse” sing the choir
With no playoffs this Spring, it doesn’t matter who they hire.
So let us remember this painful sting,
Of the season that ended, followed by the Lost Spring.