1993

1993 is a year I'll never forget. I was proud to be finally living on my own, in a tiny, dark, cockroach infested single room apartment. The previous winter, I became hobbled by a mysterious inflammation in my right foot. My mobility was quite limited, and the pain was difficult to bear. My sole source of comfort was spending an evening slumped in my sofa, with my leg up, watching the Stanley Cup play-offs.

I had always been a fan of Hockey Night in Canada, ever since I wandered into the livingroom one Saturday night as a young adolescent, wondering why my Mom was yelling at the TV set. Her passion for les Canadiens was transferred to me like a sweet virus, and I followed their 1993 Playoff schedule with keen interest. There were teams with much more talent and depth that were expected to hoist Lord Stanley's Cup; with each series win, it seemed like the Habs were on some wonderfully dream-like journey. Saint Patrick prowled the goal, refusing to allow many pucks to zip past; John Leclair and his supporting cast of checkers and grinders thrilled me with overtime heroics that electrified an entire city. The finals clash with the LA Kings was simply fantastic: the Great One versus my hometown heroes.

I remember clearly watching the clinching game, my anxious face illuminated only by the glow from my tiny TV screen. After the final siren, I turned off the television, and couldn't stop smiling. The city outside my window seemed to pulse that hot evening, and the ecstatic cheers of throngs of fans caused the very air to vibrate. I sat quietly, the pain of my swollen ankle momentarily forgotten; I drank in the moment like champagne, realizing how special it was.

Hockey has always held an important place in my heart, and that Spring will forever remained engraved in my memory, like names on a shining silver cup.