NHL: Keeping the faith

I hate this time of year. Hate it. The playoff posturing, the trade deadline stress, and the injury prone days of the late season are enough to turn a girl's hair from lovely auburn to premature gray. But let me add, Mr. Roenick, that the fear of picking up a paper every morning to find you might be gone without me having a chance to say goodbye will drive me to distraction. And probably to drink as well. And it won't be $700 bottles of wine I'll be downing, but some Merlot I will find on sale in the liquor aisle at Trader Joe's.

Today was a typical Monday morning; washing remnants of game-day paint off the little one's face (one cannot go to school with Landon Wilson's #28 painted on your cheek, we have been told), getting the older sibling out of bed and into clothing (a miracle every morning it happens), and chasing the Roenick and Tkachuk kitties out of the toy box where they were sleeping amidst the teddy bears. I chose not to check the morning paper… running late, need Starbuck's, lets GO.

My mistake was not getting stuck in the middle of all those police cars in the middle of Country Club Road that made me 20 minutes late, nor was it choosing the drive-up for my café mocha instead of walking inside the coffee shop when it became apparent that the woman in front of me was ordering espresso in all its forms for the entire office.

My mistake was checking the morning sports page on-line once I got to work, while I was of course working on web pages in the other window. (Of course, I was. In the other window.)

Big mistake.

"Negotiations between the Coyotes and star center Jeremy Roenick on a contract extension have led absolutely nowhere to this point," read the Arizona Repulsive... I mean the Republic.

I had survived the traffic, the cops and their accident, the little one losing her backpack and dissolving into tears, spilling coffee in my lap, and a rather spiteful discussion with her father about how I spend more money on hockey than groceries (and I cannot deny that it wasn't the truth), but this was too much.

I burst into tears.

Thankfully, after a decade at work at the University, I have finally earned a for real grown-up office, with walls and even a door. I closed the door, sat at my computer, and blubbered like a child, goddammit. And this was just for contract negotiations. I dread the day I open the sports page to a trade. Or worse yet, the looming spector of free agency. You have, JR, made me afraid to read the sports page.

I have kept the faith, low these many years. Mr. Hollywood, they called you in Chicago, who loved the fast lane too much. The Punk-ass (I have never been able to decide if that is one word, two words or hyphenated), with the big mouth and the attitude problem. Other names, other stories. And I defended you through them all. Even when some of the stories and the nasty comments were directed at me, about me, still I defended you. I'm keeping the faith, Billy Joel sings, and I did.

And I still am.

I'm keeping faith in your statements that you want to retire as a Phoenix Coyote. I'm keeping the faith that you want to remain in Phoenix, and will do what it takes to stay here. I'm keeping the faith that you will realize that your best chance for a Stanley Cup is to play for Wayne Gretzky and the Yotes, even if the Islanders have pots of money to throw at you if you seek free agency. And I’m keeping the faith that the desire to stay will outweigh the desire for cash, and I won't have to make a decision between letting you leave without getting to say goodbye, or saying goodbye and having to survive it.

I'm keeping the faith, Jeremy. And, as Billy Joel sings, "… now I'm going outside to have an ice cold beer in the shade, oh I'm going to listen to my 45's, ain't it wonderful to be alive when the rock 'n' roll plays, yeah, when the memory stays, yeah, I'm keeping the faith, yeah, yeah, I'm keeping the faith."