It’s only an eight game schedule but my body thinks otherwise—the season feels like 80 games. My legs burn with each stride while my lungs gasp for more air than a carburetor. But we’re in the playoffs and complaining is for sissies. Everybody’s whipped, even our rivals, and it’s time to separate the wheat from the chaff. Lose two games and we’re out until September. No one wants to hang up their skates in early May.
My Blazers entered the playoffs in the middle of the pack and I’m the middle-aged guy in our pack chasing players ten to thirty years younger. I’m a forechecker and harass opponents trying to break out of their zone. I chase, because with higher mileage and less horsepower, I’m easily caught by the younger bucks.
I enjoy my role though I pine for more offensive thrust. An unspoken scoring tension occurs during my shift similar to sexual tension in a PG movie where no one has sex. My Blazer buddies resting on the bench have no idea whether I’ll score. Tension. (more…)