For Washington Capitals fans there have been electrifying moments. Hunter in alone on Hextall. Joe Juneau poking a loose puck behind Dominic Hasek. Joel Ward eliminating Boston in overtime. But, especially in the playoffs, most of the memories are of bitter failure and disappointment. We know them all. The brutal ones even get their own nicknames. We lament them, we write about them, we curse them. The Easter Epic. Nedved. Gonchar falling in OT. Tikkanen missing a yawning open net. Marty St. Louis in the third overtime. Too many crushing Game Seven losses to count. Blown 3-1 series leads. Dinged posts. Deflections off defensemen's skates. Bad calls and no calls. Close calls and pratfalls. In the postseason, the Caps routinely made the impossible seem inevitable, and NOT in a good way. Each time, after remote controls were flung in disgust and red sweaters ripped off in despair, we would lick our wounds, settling into our summers of discontent confident that we would never see the Capitals win it all. We would console each other with the trite notion that all the heartache and dismay would make it that much sweeter when the Caps actually, finally, impossibly won the Cup.
Guess what. On that last point, trite as it may have been, we were absolutely right! Last night, we watched OUR guys do the impossible. And vicariously sipping from Lord Stanley's Cup was sweeter than I could imagine. The victory doesn't sweep away all the past disappointments, in fact, it does the opposite. The victory galvanizes those bitter memories into a healthy resolve, into a fun righteousness proving us correct for sticking with our Caps for all these years. Look at what those guys accomplished. During a season in which some thought they might not even make the playoffs, the boys in red, faced and exorcised all the demons of yesteryear. It is easy to say the law of averages finally worked out, but we know better. The hockey gods make you earn your breaks, and earn them Washington did. On the ropes in Columbus, The Holtbeast returned in the nick of time as the Caps stormed back to win four straight. Evgeny Kuznetsov bookended goals in the first minute of Game One and the winning goal in overtime of Game Six to get by Pittsburgh. Just when it looked like another here-we-go-again demise after coughing up a 2-0 series lead in Tampa, Andre Burakovsky returned from injury and the doghouse to propel Washington to the Stanley Cup Final. Brandishing a team defense and depth of scoring that previous Caps' teams have so often lacked, Washington swaggered into Vegas and cashed in on their first title. It was not without difficulty. Facing nemesis Marc-Andre Fleury, and one last demon in holding a 3-1 series lead, the Caps endured things in Game Five that would have sunk them in the past. A deflected goal against, hitting the post twice, untimely penalties. Yet, this time the Caps backed up their talk by actually being different. A new identity was formed as new memories were etched. Gone are the choking dogs, replaced by clutch champions. New memories and new heroes immediately legendary among the fan collective. THE SAVE. Bottom six heroes like DSP, Lars Eller, and Chandler Stephenson emerging. Orpik standing tall. Shot blocks by the grinders and the millionaires. Tom Wilson pulverizing anything in opposing colors. THAT power play saucer pass from Backstrom to Ovechkin symbolizing the excellence of an entire era.
So, now we've got it. The big honkin' silver chalice on which the players's names will be engraved in immortality. We have the Stanley Cup. And yes, I say we. I didn't earn it on the ice, of course, but I have been with this team for thirty-plus years. So I like to think this victory was for all of us. Players and fans, past and present. This win was Ovie and Backy. For Kuzy and Trotz. For Ted and Abe. But it was also for Dale and Kono. For Bonzai and Calle Jo. For Olie the Goalie and Donnie B. It's even for ketchup-faced Brucie and George McPhee. And it is for the fans. For everyone that braved the traffic to reach the big potato chip in Landover. For everyone that rocks the red at F Street. For a group of guys that lept off the couch squealing like little girls when Juneau scored twenty years ago and wept when Dale Hunter's number was raised to the rafters. For a group of guys that invested so much emotionally in what others consider a frivolous passion. For a group of guys that has cheered and cursed together, wondering if we would ever see this day. The day has arrived. Enjoy it. For today, whether you have been with this wonderful, enigmatic, torturing, amazing team for thirty years or thirty days, we are ALL CAPS.
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