So that’s what an addict feels like after leaving a methadone clinic. It was a taste you so desperately crave and it, while pleasant, falls short.

As Ewan Mcgregor put it in Trainspotting  “Three sickly sweet doses of methadone a day instead of smack. But it’s never enough. And at the moment it’s nowhere near enough”

This rookie tourney is the clinic of the hockey world. Watching the aspiring Leafs strut their stuff is both entertaining and masochistic at the same time. By the end I am overwhelmed by withdrawls, drooling and twitching in the dark, suffering flashbacks and hallucinations, shouting: “Kaberle just took a shot!” “Learn to skate Mccabe!” “Why haven’t we drafted a pylon to replace Toskala yet?”

By morning the need for the next fix is weaker, but ever present. Slowly it creeps into daily life. More and more since the first game I find myself eyeing passersby, leery of the Sens fans hidden amidst the crowd. (You are best to check them for skates, in case they decide to unleash their inner Havlat)

I may have to start carrying a hockey stick just to feel safe walking the streets here in Ottawa, perhaps even launch some preemptive strikes and see how Sens fans like the Bryan Berard treatment.

Just…Just please, is it game time?

Please just one more game, that’s all I need

I’ve got weeks to go until the start of the season. I’ve got sweat on my back like a layer of frost. I need to visit the Mother Superior for one game. One final game to get us over this long, hard month.


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