_sarah_

Well there goes THAT hockey season.

My beloved Wings lost to Anaheim last night, putting them out of the hockey playoffs. Instead of celebrating another Cup victory, I'll have to find another team to watch until June.

But it just isn't the same.

I won't get that catch in my chest when my team's colours hit the ice. Just the sight of a red and white jersey makes my adrenalin pump, and I want to start yelling about Hockeytown and the cute Russian players and how much our offense rules.

I won't get to shriek my favourite players' names in ecstasy and talk about how much I want to marry them.

I won't get to yell, "Take THAT Roy!" when a Wing slaps a shot past him.

I won't get to cackle with glee every time McCarty slams some punk ass bitch into the boards.

I won't get that rush of pride every time they say, "Detroit", which is tragedy on its own. It's one of the few times I'm happy to be from the area.

No more commercial montages with proud shots of Red Wings history coupled with intense, pumping music.

Most importantly, I'll miss that feeling of camraderie present during the playoffs. For a bit of time, every hockey fan in Michigan has that goofy grin on their face as their team plows its way toward the cup. The mere mention of Yzerman, Chelios, Federov, or Lidstrom turns any conversation into a hyped up fan session. Even people who don't normally give a smeg about hockey start wearing jerseys and scream at the TV.

Hockey is infectious. Hockey is exciting. Hockey makes the blood pump and the emotions soar. Hockey turns a cookie-baking grandmother into a violent, emotional woman who will throw those freshly baked cookies at the TV when her team fails to win after triple overtime.

Hockey is violent and sadistic, and there is no room for wusses.

And now it's over before it truly began. Like a lover that departs without a final kiss, my beloved team retreats to their home and awaits the next season.

Next season.... When we will get our revenge.

You Ducks are dead.