I have all kinds of respect for Raymond Bourque, grudgingly admired his play when he was a Bruin. I wish we'd have drafted high enough the year he came out to pick him out of Sorel, but not a chance, so anyway, he was the enemy, but I didn't hate him.
What I do dislike was how everyone fawned on him and congratulated each other how great it was to finally see him get "his Cup", or as American talking heads will often say, "his ring" (who cares about rings? This isn't football or basketball, nobody cares about jewelry, this is about winning the Stanley Cup, doing a lap around the Forum ice with it held above your head). What a crock that was. So he rode Joe Sakic, Peter Forsberg and Patrick Roy's coattails to a win, that's kind of empty. He never could get his team past ours. He never won with his team.
It's like if he was a mountaineer, and tried 20 times to climb McKinley, but every time an injury, weather, altitude sickness, weather, avalanche danger, weather, storms, or weather caused him to turn back short of the summit. At the end of his career, he says to heck with it, and gets heli-dropped on top for a cigar and a few pictures. Big whoop.
The only other 'feelgood' Stanley Cup that is more undeserved and harder to swallow is Lanny McDonald's.
No comments:
Post a Comment