Some say The Masters is a tradition unlike any other. Well apparently, those folks have never had a limb broken in six different places, lost a par-5’s-worth of teeth along the boards, or donned a flak jacket instead of a green one. The NHL’s Stanley Cup Playoffs feature a menagerie of bearded weirdoes who are more likely to run over than to play through. It is unlikely you will hear any cries of “fore” before an opponent is laid out during the forecheck. The NHL may not feature much of any polyester, plaid and checks, and you’re more than likely to see a defenseman pull a sand wedge out of his trunk for reasons other than hitting a little, white ball. Forget about foursomes, hockey has gruesome down pat.
Every April marks the beginning of perhaps the most grueling and intense two-month period this side of watching Ken Burns’ Baseball beginning to end … Everyone from Bernie “Boom Boom” Geoffrion to Bernie Parent, Guy Lafleur to Guy Lapointe and guys named Roy, Orr, Gretzky, and Richard, who have ever strapped on the skates, and at some point probably should have been strapped down, cemented their legacy in this human demolition derby on ice. The goal: Lord Stanley’s Cup.