The time is 3:53 A.M. I am dreaming peacefully in bed. A loud, yet tender, cry for help instantly wakes me (I heard the cry in my dream before I woke up, Inception style). Cole needs his Fathers help. His diaper so saturated with urine it could no longer hold it back, soaking his pajamas. I sit up, gently warming my extremities as to not resemble a baby deer's first steps as I walk over to aid Cole Luis.
Usually, when I must awake prematurely to aid our children, those within earshot will hear a demonstrative JFC or GD or something to the effect of "This is fucking ridiculous." Nature of the beast. However, this morning, something was different. I enter Cole Luis' bedroom (nursery?) ready to tackle the challenge half asleep without any lights on. I will give the boy credit. It (usually) does not matter what plagues him. He is always happy to see his parents. Even at 3:57 A.M. After expertly removing his saturated clothing, disposing of his disposable diaper, and finding him new clothes to wear in near complete darkness, the boy is more or less WIDE AWAKE. Much to Emily's chagrin, and while staying honest with myself, I take the easy way out. I make Cole Luis a bottle.
The time is now 4:15 A.M. Cole Luis is happily draining his bottle, halfway back to sleep. The rain is lightly trickling down the downspouts and ever so lightly pelting the roof. A natural lullaby, if you will. Both father and son, well on their way to their subconscious dreamscapes with the help of mother nature.
I shit you not, my subconscious gets steamrolled by a Black and Gold freight train. CHOOO CHOOO BRUINS GAME SEVEN CHOOO CHOOO! My eyes are now wide fucking open. Cold sweats permeate the body. Heavy (er than normal) breathing. Ah yes, we are back. Bruins anxiety. My favorite.
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It is with a heavy heart that I humbly accept my own season tickets to game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. I had wrestled with the thought of not going to spare my angst. But I was convinced by several citizens to go because the Bruins may never get back here. I am forgoing selling my tickets. I am forgoing the $2,500 bounty that comes with selling them. The fucking warped, fraudulent thinking of "Opportunity Cost" truthers claim that if I sell those tickets, and pay down my mortgage, that $2,500 will turn into $10,000 over 30 years so my opportunity cost to attend game seven is in fact $10,000. Hey Fun Police, go bring someone else down. It's not a real cost if you never have the money in your hand.
In attending the game, there is a chance that I, along with several good friends, will reach the pinnacle of our sports fandom... Watching the Bruins raise the Stanley Cup in person. You cant put a price on that.
OH YOU CANT?
You want to know what the price is? Fear and anxiety. Mental Torment. In 2011, I was able to escape to the McCarthy's front lawn, stare up into the night sky and find solace knowing that we as a people, a civilization are insignificant and our problems are insignificant. While attending game seven.... you cant do that. You can medicate with alcohol and try to think happy thoughts.
Tough assignment, I know. Someone has to do it, might as well be me. Pray for me.
BRUINS IN 7!!!!!!!!
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