I was born in 1973. I’m the same age as Tim Thomas. There hasn’t been a Bruins victory in the Stanley Cup Final since I was a pre-spermatozoa. An itch in my father’s pants, if you will. I’ll cut to the chase, as you’re either reading this tonight tired or tomorrow morning hungover – I can’t believe I get to fucking type this:
The Boston Bruins have won the Stanley Cup.
Do you want me to recap the game? You watched it.
Do I need to mention the all-time save leader in a Stanley Cup final? You already want to get Timmy alone in a room with a bottle of peanut oil and a ball gag. You don’t need my help in unearthing those dormant tendencies.
The shutout? ‘Nuff said. Marchand’s empty net goal? Finally an away-game brutalization. Recchi’s swansong? Heartwarming. Again, I’ll cut to the chase:
The Bruins won. Soundly.
Why are you still here? You should be drinking something, somewhere. Be it Harpoon IPA or Gatorade. It’s finally glorious to be a Bruins fan this evening. Reward your resolution. Revel in your time.
