The week before the tournament, however, we got word that the lead time on the jerseys was several weeks, so we wouldn't be able to get the cool jerseys in time. Instead, the owner of the rink would have to improvise. I figured whatever, a jersey is a jersey.
Little did I know how horribly, horribly wrong things could go.
As a Red Wings fan, there is one team above all others that I absolutely detest: the Colorado Avalanche. The Wings/Avalanche rivalry was the best in all of pro sports for about a decade. Blood was shed, punches were thrown, feelings were hurt, etc. More often than not, the road to the Stanley Cup went through either Denver or Detroit. And through all this, there was one man, one gutless, turtling, sucker-punching, cheap-shot artist that was hated more than any other: Claude Lemieux, #22. To this day, I hate him more than any other professional athlete ever. If I heard he had been hit by a bus, I'd probably just say "Huh...how about that", and then casually change the channel and move on with my life.
So, imagine my extreme displeasure last Friday night when, minutes before our first tournament game, I was handed THIS:
(An Avalanche jersey??? Could this get any worse???)
(Yup, its worse.)
I typically prefer to keep explicit profanity out of my blog posts....but this is bullshit.
As it turned out, during that first game I was so distraught by what was on the front of my jersey that I failed to realize the full impact of what was on the back. It wasn't until that night, as I was drifting off to sleep, that the horrific realization that I was essentially wearing not just an Avalanche jersey, but a CLAUDE LEMIEUX JERSEY, tore through my mind like a wrecking ball of shame. All I could imagine was the look of disappointment in the faces of my friends and family back home when they learned of such treason. It wasn't exactly a great night of sleep.
Thankfully, the tournament is over now and I have no obligation to ever again let that atrocity of a game sweater see the light of day. But as long as that thing remains intact, I just feel dirty. Sara and I have occasionally talked about getting one of those fire-pit table things for our back deck. If we ever do, I'll be putting on my ol' Dino Ciccarelli sweater and having myself a jersey burning party.....
