The New York Rangers had finally won the Stanley Cup! I was long past the youthful years of devoting my energies for “living and dying” for my teams. The Colts had recovered from the disgrace of losing to the Jets in Super Bowl III by beating the Cowboys a couple of years later (and the Cowboys were another team worthy of hating nearly as much as the Jets). The Dodgers had won a couple of World Series in my time. Although not as big a Knicks fan, I still took joy in their Championship Seasons…
And until the Rangers won, maybe I was reluctant to admit that there was still a bit of a kid that pounded in my breast at their inability to take home the big prize. And their final victory (done in classic story book fashion, I might add, with overtime wins, and twice pushed to the brink of elimination) put to rest my sports’ demons.
Typical of men, huh? Going thru life with the vicarious successes of their teams. And so here I was, in my mid 40s, hanging on by my finger nails to a business and a marriage… perhaps not able to express the full measure of my joy. Day after day I felt lonlier and lonlier, sinking further and further into despair.
And there was a day that brought me on an appointment to see a friend at Canter Fitzgerald in the World Trade Center (the same Canter Fitzgerald that would lose nearly every single employee on 9/11 — the Board Chairman spared that fate because he took his daughter to school and was late arriving to work — good fortune & bad turn on such happenstance). I went to Union with Glenn Grossman… he thought I was a genius at Chipp… loved what I did, and invited me down to sell special order shirts to some of his chums at Canter Fitzgerald… guys who he felt were a need of a serious upgrade in their appearance.
After working my way thru a handful of guys… I made my farewell and headed for the street. Pleased to have gotten some business (but not nearly enough to cover the checks we were on the verge of failing to cover); but hardly feeling good. And as I turned to head back up town I noticed a series of barricades linning the street. And then it took my breath away as I looked around… I was at the start of the ticker tape parade route for the triumphant New York Rangers… and there in the lead vehicle, about ready to strike out, standing in the back of the truck was Messier, Richter & Leetch holding Lord Stanley’s Cup aloft.
Their route would take them on a snaking path thru the canyons of lower Manhattan… and the folks linning the route… and from the buildings above created a roar that just reverberated against the narrow defile. It was chilling.
I can remember hearing the muffled sounds of distant cheers when arriving late to a game at Yale Bowl… the crowd telling of an Eli success on the field. But nothing prepared me for the encompassing sound of that roar of appreciative fans that celebrated their team’s long awaited victory.
And this morning I lay in bed… mesmerized at the sound of the wind cascading thru the trees. My window need not have been opened to hear the power of that wind; but the slight aperture added the dimension of coldness to give that sound further authority. There was a majestic quality to it… not purely frightful like a hurricane’s wind… rather something that was marching and accumulating speed as it moved the trees bare branches in wave after steady wave of force.
Hard not to feel excited, hard not to feel small…