I haven’t seen a hockey game since somewhere between Milli Vanilli and “Can’t Touch This,” but every year about this time I’m reminded by everyone from a cold-weather-state, with an officially licensed sweater, and a soccer-like infatuation for a sport played with a paddle and a frozen Ding Dong, that I’m missing out on the premiere post-season in professional sports.
And I have no response.
Why? Because I’m incapable of mustering-up the level of interest worthy of a three hour television stint and/or Sportscenter highlight montage, appealing enough to vest me in a sport on the outskirts of the outskirts of my sports fanatic radar.
I broach this due to a never-ending sentiment that this town needs hockey. That’s not to say that the Winterhawks aren’t “hockey,” but more so that they’re a lesser version of a big-boy alternative which a faction of Portland clamors for on a year-to-year basis.
Do I think an NHL team would work in this market? Absolutely. The Winterha