This piece is in tonight's Committed Indian. I usually don't personalize things too much here, as I'm only 50% of the site. I wanted to write this though, and am grateful to Sam for letting do that. I wanted to post it here as well, for those among our tens of readers who can't make it to tonight's game.

As the Blackhawks embark upon the journey that is the postseason (or, for those who have been through the experience to its completion refer to it, “The Real Season”), and the excitement reaches a higher pitch than any regular season game, even one against our rivals from the festering hellhole somewhere in Michigan, look around for a second.
No, it’s OK, this will still be here when you look back down. I can wait.

OK, you’re back. See any kids with their fathers? Cool.

See, that was me and my dad back in the ‘60s.

My mother was pregnant with my sister when the Hawks won their last Cup. Dad actually gave serious thought to naming her Bobby, had she been a boy. By the time I came along in the fall of 1962, cooler heads had prevailed, and I was named for my grandfather. No, my grandfather’s name wasn’t “Forklift”, smartass.

Anyway, my dad took me to Hawks’ games for longer than I can remember. My first one was back in Original Six days. We used to get seats in the same spot, up in the corner of the Second Balcony. I’m guessing he got them from a season ticket holder. Even as I got older, I still wondered if those damn stairs would ever end.

Together, we saw an awful lot of hockey. We also saw a lot of awful hockey. When I was in my teens, we moved to New York, and we’d see the Hawks when they came to town. As time passed, I started working, and was able to start taking him to games. I think we pretty much broke even, and we saw a lot of guys come and go. One thing we never saw was the Chicago Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup. Not together, anyway. On April 1, he passed away.

We certainly had our differences, as fathers and sons do. However, the qualities he passed along to me were the love of the Cubs, Hawks, and bad one-liners.

He would take me to Morrie Mages, and get me a Blackhawks’ sweater with Stan Mikita’s number. I’d always wear it until I outgrew it, substantially. Hell, if you see me tonight, I still wear a Mikita sweater.

I wish he could see this. He never got back to Chicago, so he never saw the inside of the United Center. No matter where we went to games in New York (and we went to all three buildings), he’d say, “This is nothing like the Stadium”. Of course he was right.
So, here’s hoping the Hawks carry this journey to its conclusion.

Not just for my dad, but for all the dads who aren’t here with their kids, and grandkids.

I can only speak for me. Win for Jim.