Stanley's Cup

Every morning when I get up, I check my email on James' computer. Inevitably waiting for me is some baseball webpage discussing the minutiae of the Dodgers line-up or the statistical chance of a hit deflecting off of the pitchers out stretched glove, arcing though the air directly into the hands of the third baseman, who tosses it to the second baseman who does a pirouette mid air to send it to the first baseman who catches the ball with his teeth for a triple out. (It happened once in '43 in a double header game between the Yankees and the Cubs!)

As you can imagine, I don't tolerate much baseball talk. Poor James in his desperation for baseball conversation has had to lower himself to discussing the Dodgers with a local dumpster cat. I have presented the photographic proof.



Hockey, on the other hand, I can occasionally tolerate and even enjoy. When we were coming though the T.O. airport recently, I happily sat down and watched the last period of a game. There is something very comforting about the sound of the announcers' Canadian accents, the whack of a slap shot, the thunk of a player against the boards and the woosh of skates against ice as a player makes a 180 degree turn.

Now that it is so freaking hot in Jerusalem, the thought of ice, sweet cool frozen ice, makes my eyelids sink to half mast and my mouth release a sigh of desire. And don't think it is the hockey players that are the object of my affection. Despite years in Hicksville, Ontario, I have never had a thing for the toothless wonders wearing pull up diapers over knee high socks.

But last night I actually had a dream about the Stanley Cup Finals. Sad but true.
So given that it is game seven of the Stanley Cup finals on Friday, and I am actually dreaming about it, I will be getting up at 5 am to watch the third period. So if you are watching the game, think of me bleary eyed and drinking instant coffee, rapturously watching the computer screen just to get in my little piece of home.