Who Killed Boxing?

There is a part of our nature that enjoys watching two people beat the crap out of each other. This urge dates back, most notably, to the gladiators in the Roman Coliseum; and even further in untold stories. There is no rational explanation for it. Still, the connecting of fist to flesh forces a reaction; it matters not if we cheer or cringe. No matter how much we suppress the urge to look away, we continue to watch. Watching two people trade blows for hours is as captivating as it is shocking. But in 2012, boxing can't even appeal to that urge.

A generation ago, the sport of boxing was an art form instead of an afterthought. The name Vitali Klitschko would have had fans worshiping the fists that battered his competition. Floyd Mayweather Jr. would have been praised for his undefeated record instead of scorned for what he said about Jeremy Lin. The potential Mayweather-Manny Pacquiao fight in May would be receiving the hype that belongs to the NFL combine. And World Boxing Association commissioner Amir Khan would be the commissioner that we loved to hate instead of David Stern.

Today, boxing is a joke, an underground sport that has been predominantly banished from the mainstream. The sport that shone like sunlight off a mountaintop has been reduced to a faint shadow of the icons that once stood in its limelight. Long gone are the days of the glorified boxing champion. Muhammad Ali, Evandeer Holyfield, and Sugar Ray Leonard are all distant relics of the sport's past. The distinguished call, "Down goes Frazier!" is no longer synonymous with the knockout of heavyweight lore. And George Foreman is better known for selling grills than his career in the ring.

Surely the dead sport must have a murderer. A perpetrator responsible for taking the life of a sport that turned men into titans. Yet the culprit has not been found. There is not enough proof to convict a single victim. We don't know if boxing's killer acted alone, or if he had accomplices. The case of who killed boxing is so complicated, that both Gill Grissom and Catherine Willows both left C.S.I because they couldn't catch the culprit. Even though there are plenty of suspects.

Some say that mixed martial arts killed boxing in the dinning room with the lead pipe.

There is some reason to suspect mixed martial arts. MMA is the fastest growing sport in the country to date.   The glorified of knockouts that made boxing memorable are combined with the subtly of submissions to produce jaw-dropping fights. Pitting boxing up against MMA is like putting the Nextel walkie talkie phone against an Iphone; both can take punishment, yet the IPhone can do more cool things than just be thrown at a wall and not break. Yet because it has yet to fully mature as a sport, MMA is not the sole killer of boxing.

Others say that the lack of U.S. star power killed boxing in the billiard room with the wrench.

Compared to the days of Ali, Holyfield, Frazier, and Leonard, boxing star power in the U.S. has burned out. The most recent iconic boxer was Mike Tyson; a man who, in his prime, was impetuous, had impregnable defense, and was ferocious. However, to put it kindly, iron Mike fell into the scrap heap of American culture. Tyson's name is like his former sport, once revered, but has since degenerated into a laughing stock. Sure the U.S. has Floyd Mayweather and his undefeated record, yet his struggle for relevance is painfully visible. Also, the heavyweight champion of the world, Vitali Klitschko, is from the Ukraine. No country will care about a sport it stinks in, and the U.S. stinks at boxing now.

Some suspect that the lack of safety killed boxing in the conservatory with the rope.

This theory is plausible, but the evidence is questionable. Of course boxers would have head problems after several years’ worth of punching each other in the head. There is a fine line between safety and sports, and boxing is no more dangerous as the other sports that entertain us. America's favorite sport (football) is a collision sport that produces dozens of concussions a year. The most watched sport in the country (NASCAR) gets its shock value from cartoonish car pileups. Yet the athletes who sign the contracts to fight are knowingly putting themselves in that position despite the risks. That is common sense and a shame. But if they weren't prepared for the consequences, they wouldn't fight in the first place.

Some people claim that Don King and his hair killed boxing in the study with the revolver.

King promoted some of the most prominent fighters in the history of boxing. He paired together the legendary fight between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier for the "Thrilla in Minilla.' King reaped the huge financial gains of Alli v Frazier and went on to promote boxing icons over the course of two decades. The noteworthy names King has built up includes Larry Holmes, Bernard Hopkins, Julio Cesar Chavez, Ricardo Lopez, and plenty more.

But a man who did so much for the sport also soiled his own talent pool, as well as his own good name. Ali, Tyson, Holmes, Terry Norris, Lennox Lewis, and Tim Witherspoon all sued King. Many of these lawsuits were based on claims that King did not pay his athletes enough. King's name was also defaced by two murders. King's first kill came in 1954 when he shot Hillary Brown. King's second murder came in 1966 when Sam Garret died after a fight with King and his hair. The promoter both built up boxing and mutilated its good name simultaneously.

Every one of these suspects has at least one fingerprint on the knife that murdered boxing. All four of the aforementioned suspects belong on the prison line. Yet because of circumstantial evidence, these suspects cannot be held.  And because none of the suspects can be tried, there is no option other than to let them go, much to the chagrin of the grieving people who watched their favorite sport die in cold blood. The Kaiser Soze among the suspects cannot be determined. And just like that, the suspects walk away, and the killer is gone.

Wake Us Up

February 17 was a different day for Tim Wakefield. The Red Sox pitcher took the field in Fort Myers; just like he did every fifth day at Fenway Park for the better part of two decades. Only this time, Wakefield's number 49 jersey was visibly absent. Instead, he was dressed in a suit fitting for a wake. He gave a visibly difficult speech and battled back tears for almost the entire press conference, even cracking just slightly at the hardest part.

When Wakefield announced that he would be retiring from the wonderful game of baseball.

For Wakefield, an announcement that took less than a minute brought back a slew of memories from the past 17 years as a Red Sox pitcher. The knuckleball that baffled opposing hitters. The uplifting feeling of winning a World Series for a franchise that had not won a championship in a lifetime. The dejected emotions that accompanied a terrible pitch in 2003 that landed somewhere in Queens. The culmination of his individual success in a blowout win against the Toronto Blue Jays. These memories were milestones for different reasons, and Wakefield took everything on the field in stride.

There were the first two years of Wakefield's career when he pitched for the Pittsburgh Pirates. The then 25 year old won eight games as a rookie and came in third for the National League rookie of the year. But ask anyone from Kenmore to Revere about what team Wakefield played for and the individual usually ignores the 1992 and 1993 seasons. In terms of legacy, Wakefield will be remembered as a Boston Red Sox.

The 45 year old had a good career with the Red Sox. Wakefield's 186 wins with the Red Sox were the third most in the franchise's history. He struck out 2,046 batters in Beantown. And he threw for over 3,000 innings between stints in the bullpen and starting. His best individual season was in his first year with the Red Sox. Wakefield went 16-8 with a 2.95 earned run average and stuck out 119 batters; and finished third in the AL Cy Young race. Wakefield's numbers were not Hall of Fame worthy by any means, yet he was consistent. He was good to the Red Sox and their fans; who were in turn good to him, even after 2003.

Game 7 of the American League Championship Series was a titanic battle that lasted well past midnight. The Red Sox and Yankees were in Yankee Stadium vying for their shot to go to the World Series. Wakefield came out of the bullpen to pitch in the bottom of the 10th inning. Up to the plate stood Aaron Boone, an average player who was about to have an historic moment for some, and incredibly painful for others. The first knuckleball that Wakefield threw ended the Red Sox season. It was a playoff blunder that was right up there with Bill Buckner and Bucky bleeping Dent; coincidentally Aaron Boone received a distinguished middle name in Boston after that night. Yet the man who threw the pitch was spared the wrath of the (predominantly) Irish. Instead, then manager Grady Little was run out of Boston.

The very next season, Wakefield and the rest of the Boston Red Sox went to the World Series. And the man who pitched in the Red Sox first championship appearance since 1986 was the man who surrendered the historic home run: Wakefield. The knuckleballer did not win that first game, but as usual, he gave his team a chance to win. And win that team did. The 2004 Red Sox will be forever remembered as those who purged the curse of the Bambio, a jinx that had haunted the franchise for the better part of a century. Wakefield may not ever have a plaque in Cooperstown, but his place on that team of lore will never be taken away.

As members of the 04 Red Sox departed for other pastures, Wakefield stayed. Even when his name faded from the rotation in place of younger talent. Even though his knuckleball did not quite knuckle like it used to. Even when the rings stopped comming and a historic collapse this past season, Wakefield was omnipresent in the locker room. And Boston fans, and teammates did not ignore that.

Wakefield's dedication to the Red Sox made career win number 200 all the more special to him. On September 14, in front of the fans that praised and forgave him, Wakefield got the milestone on his eighth try.
The game itself was close throughout and the knuckleballer was far from perfect, but he left the sixth inning with a lead. When he left, the Sox offense proceeded to beat the Blue Jays into submission to give Wakefield the win he deserved.

The news of Wakefield's retirement was a just a passing blip on the national radar, but it mattered in Boston. A player who was never spectacular in anything he did was appreciated for just that. Wakefield never got a former girlfriend pregnant and left her. Or refused to go to the White House because of the way that this country is being run. Or been found guilty of taking steroids. Wakefield was exceptional in the way that he was approachable both on and off the field. Nobody ever had a bad thing to say about Wakefield, even when the rest of the team was in shambles.

As he uttered those difficult words, Wakefield glanced up towards the camera for a second. In that one look, the nation saw, if only for a moment, what Red Sox nation always knew was there. A player who genuinely cared about the team so much it pained him to leave it. The kind of athlete who shared the love that we have for our teams. And a man who, like his signature pitch, was special for being ordinary.

What Jeremy Lin can Teach us About Success

The story of Jeremy Lin's journey to the NBA is a fascinating read.

Lin went to Harvard until 2010, when he applied for the NBA draft. The point guard did well in his summer league games, yet he went undrafted. He signed with the Golden State Warriors summer league team that same summer, yet he got cut. Lin went on to sign with the Houston Rockets summer league team hoping for better luck than he had in Golden State. But Houston cut him too. After Houston, Lin got picked up by the New York Knicks; his third team in two years. He came off the bench against the Warriors, yet he got sent back down to the D-League. His final stint in the D-League was short lived. Lin got recalled on January 23rd and started his first game against the New Jersey Nets on February 4th.

Injuries reduced the Knicks to Tyson Chandler and four other guys wearing orange and white. The team's disappointment had knocked the wind out of the fanbase. New York's tabloids called for Mike D'antoni's head to be delivered to Time Square and served on a sabrett cart for the fans to devour. Everything about the Knicks appeared to be going wrong.

And then Lin put up 25 points, five rebounds, and seven assists against the Nets in a win.

In Lin's second start, Lin put up 28 points, two rebounds and eight assists in a win against the Utah Jazz.

The next night Lin recorded his first career double double (23 points 10 assists) against the Washington Wizards.

And in a matchup against Kobe Bryant and the vaunted Los Angeles Lakers, Lin put up 38 points, four rebounds, and seven assists.

After just four games, Lin has become the temporary king of a pretty rough sports town. The Knicks have put together a four game winning streak with Chandler, Lin, and three other guys wearing orange and white jerseys. New York's recent run has poll vaulted them into eighth place in the conference ahead of the injury plagued Milwaukee Bucks. Lin's story has become something of an urban legend in the New York media; getting told and retold, each time the storyteller getting just as captivated as the listener. Jeremy Lin's story is far from over, and we don't know if future chapters will be as captivating as this one.

Still, what happens when Lin misses game winning shots? Or his production drops when Carmelo Anthony and Amare Stoudemire come back from injury? Or he gets hurt frequently? Or he announces that he is taking his talents to another team in an hour long television special? Or if he is secretly involved in some kind of illegal underground activity?; such as betting on games he plays in? If two of those things happen at the same time, Lin's success will be forgotten. The city's new found love for him will turn to spite. And the very same architects that built him up will tear him down just as quickly.

Such is the Jekyll and Hyde sports world we live in.

One minute a nice story like Jeremy Lin may blossom into a beautiful flower. The next, the same hand that watched that flower grow could crush it because a few petals fell off. It happened before to countless athletes and will continue to happen long after this generation is gone. It's engraved somewhere within our society to build up the figures that entertain us, pester them until we discover their faults, and hatefully rip them from the very pedestal  that was built for them. Just like the others, Lin's success is primarily defined by the fans who watch him. Good play will shoot him past the moon and up to the stars. A dip in production can quickly turn into a bottomless pit of ridicule and torment. Or in some cases, Lin could simply get shot at the stars and vanish into the vacuum of space.

There are two exceptions to this norm. The rare athlete who never does anything wrong and ultimately rises to immortality and the humpty dumpties. The immortals of the game are the ones that fathers tell their sons about. The athletes who were unconquerable. A group of select few that get awards named after them and their own t.v. specials on anniversaries of their historic events. The humpty dumpties are the stars who rise to the top, fall off the wall, and get put back together again by all the kings horses and all the king's men; the cracks are always there, but they are masked extremely well by their play.

There is no guarantee regarding Lin's future. One thing for certain is that Lin will shed the 'flavor of the month' status and gets categorized. When this will happen we do not yet know; yet the certainty is irrefutable. For now, we can enjoy Jeremy Lin as the nice story that he is and worry about a legacy later.

Super Bowl XLVI: A Great End to a Captivating Season

"I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle - victorious" -Vince Lombardi, football coach of the Green Bay Packers.

As usual, Vince Lombardi said it best. The aforementioned quote perfectly summarized the New York Giants after beating the New England Patriots in Superbowl XLVI 21-17. Battered, bruised, but victorious none the less. 

This game was the finest hour for many of the New York Giants. Justin Tuck played perhaps his best game of the 2011-2012 season in the game that mattered most. Eli Manning stood on the same plain as Tom Brady and proved he belonged. Hakeen Nicks had 10 catches for 109 yards. Jason Pierre Paul knocked down two passes as if his arms were fly swatters. Linebacker Chase Blackburn had a key interception on a poorly thrown ball. Running back Ahmad Bradshaw had 72 yards rushing and the only rushing touchdown of the game. And of these four impact players for the 2012 Superbowl winners, only Blackburn and Bradshaw were on the 2008 Giants team that blemished the Patriots perfect season.

But that painful chapter of Patriots history had been written; this time the outcome was supposed to be different. Tom Brady was the constant, but his surrounding cast had been made over since the perfect season that was not. Randy Moss was replaced by the dynamic duo of Rob Gronkowski and Aaron Hernandez. The horrendous Lawrence Maroney was replaced by the fumble proof BenJarvis Green-Ellis. The once vaunted Patriots defense of the past withered away to the bare pads and cleats of a unit held together by duct tape and string. And the Patriots had the collective memories of Myra Kraft providing the players and coaches with a greater purpose to win than just a record. 

But as the game wore on, something happened. The field position, the mood, even to an extent the play calling reverted backwards. Almost as if Superbowl XLII had been a remade movie; you know, like the Hangover Part II. Virtually the same star cast, a few different situations that were different form the first, but the ending was the same. Like 2008, the first half was completely dominated by the Giants; even though the Patriots lead on the scoreboard. Like in 2008, the Patriots regained the lead in the second half. Yet, unfortunately for New England, like 2008, the Giants drove down the field with their last possession and delivered the kill-shot that knocked the wind out of both the Patriots, and their fans. Even down to the final similarities of where the Pats were on the field and how much time was left on their last drive were haunted by the ghosts of 18-1. 

But perhaps the most painful similarity that the New England Patriots took away from their defeat was the image of the opposing quarterback raising his second Superbowl MVP trophy. 

Eli Manning and the Giants beat Tom Brady and the Patriots for the second consecutive time in Superbowl play. The other Manning threw for more yards, had a higher quarterback rating, and one fewer interception than Brady did. Manning was sacked more times than Brady; and Peyton's little brother was hit more times than the golden boy. 

But none of that seemed to matter. 

Manning completed his first nine passes in a row. Eli lasered his lone touchdown pass of the game past a Patriot linebacker. The other Manning delivered a perfect rainbow to Mario Manningham down the sideline on the last drive of the game. For the second straight Superbowl against the Pats, Eli Manning was the better quarterback. And for the second time in four years, it was Eli's team, not Brady's, and not Peyton's, that stood at the summit of football's highest mountain.

And for the second time in his career, Tom Brady was looking up at Eli Manning.  Brady only had two really terrible plays; an intentional grounding at the beginning of the game, and the deep interception that never should have been thrown. The Patriots quarterback avoided the sack by throwing the ball 45 yards down field to nobody in that general area of the field; because Brady was in the box and the Patriots were inside their own 15 yard line, the call was a safety that gave the Giants a lead. On the deep throw, the decision making by a normally thorough quarterback was horrid. Not only did Brady air mail a pass to a tight end who spent the entire night running on a peg leg, but the golden boy severely underthrew his target. In the biggest game of the season, Tom Brady, or any other quarterback for that matter, made two bad mistakes that were too big to avoid.

Still, after the two weeks of pregame talks came to a close, the Giants and Patriots proved that they were both who we thought they were. The Giants were the hot team that rode a five game winning streak all the way to the top of the football world. Big blue killed a ten win Atlanta Falcons team, beat the 15-1 Green Bay Packers, and pulled out a thriller in San Francisco just to get to Indianapolis. In contrast, the Patriots had not beaten a team with a winning record in the regular season and finished 1-2 against teams with winning records including the playoffs in 2011-2012. In the playoffs, the Pats beat a vastly inferior Denver team and the ghost of Myra Kraft pushed Billy Cundiff's kick off to the left. The Giants were a better team going into the Superbowl and after the game, got the rings to prove it. 

Aside from the depressing lack of funny Superbowl commercials and Madonna being outshined by her own backup dancers, the game itself was an exciting ending to a captivating season. The Giants and Patriots each left everything they had on that field. Both teams traded touchdowns, great catches, and big stops on third down as the game went into the final quarter. From a statistical standpoint, Manning and Brady traded punches like prize fighters. This game had almost everything that a third party football fan would have wanted to see from the Superbowl. And despite the hurt the New England area felt afterwards, a good game was more important to entertain the masses than either team getting a blowout win. 

So with a captivating game in the books the time has come to bid so long to the NFL for now, and celebrate another successful year and the Superbowl Champion New York Giants.

My Sister, My Father, and the Boston Bruins

I will never forget that day for as long as I live.

The date was April 21, 2011, and interestingly enough the Boston Bruins playoff game against the Canadiens was on the living room TV when I walked in the house. Now the Bruins were far and away the least cared about team in the house. A lot had happened in the world since 1972, the last time the the B's had not won a Stanley Cup. Steven Tyler was better known for his role as the lead singer for Aerosmith as opposed to the main American Idol Judge. The newborn concept of free agency had just started breastfeeding. And Watergate happened. But yet here they were, Bruins playoff hockey on television in my dad's house.

Sure it was April, the month of the year where the sporting world that was about as awkward as a high school nerd who attempted to ask the pretty girl to prom. Another great year of college basketball had recently ended and the biggest winner was TruTV. (It was the first year that every game was dispersed across four networks; a fantastic idea that the NCAA should have thought of a long time ago.) Baseball season had not started for anyone other than my mom. (My mom loves baseball more than any other sport. So much so that she willingly listens to every New York Yankee game on the radio in her bathroom. From spring training to Game 7 of the World Series.) Football was an afterthought, pleasantly without the "will Brett Favre come back?" discussion. (Hallelujah!) And the Celtics, although they were in the playoffs, were not on that night. (Sorry Tommy Heinsohn) Even still, the Bruins? My guess was that either my Dad lost a bet or that he was watching Archer and the show went to commercial. 

Needless to say, I was a bit taken aback by the presence of hockey in the house. Don't get me wrong, I had no problem sitting down and watching playoff hockey. In my mind, the product that had been playoff hockey was tied with March Madness as the best postseason in all of sports. I found that hockey had always been better in the playoffs because the game itself was executed better. The unnecessary fighting had vanished, the lazy passes stopped, and the crappy cheap shots that marred the game during the regular season were nowhere to be found come playoff time.

And 2011 was a very good year to be excited about playoff hockey in Boston. Tim Thomas had broken the NHL's save percentage record and won the Veznia Trophy for best goaltender. There were four Bruins that had more than 50 points heading into the playoffs. The Bruins won the Northeast Division for the first time since the 08-09 season. The B's were fifth in the NHL in goals scored per game, third in the league in shots per game, and had a .400 winning percentage when they fell behind during games in the regular season. 


But still, the Bruins were the team that my dad would get on his brother's case for rooting for. Their championship drought and continued failure in the playoffs were not acceptable in Boston; the sports city that dominated the new millennium with championships by each of the other three professional sports franchises. But hey, anything could happen right?

And something did happen, something far more spectacular in my eyes than the final score of the game (which the Bruins won 5-4). I witnessed the birth of a Bruins fan.

My younger sister Madeline entered the room and saw that my dad and I were watching the game. Maddie was not really into sports, partly because she had heard about them ad nauseum from her obnoxious brother who couldn't stop talking about them. But for some reason, she walked right in, sat down, and never left. My sister watched as the Bruins put up three goals in the second period. She watched the Bruins overcome deficits of 1-0, 3-1, and 4-3. She saw a franchise that had been synonymous with failure in the playoffs succeed. And Maddie witnessed overtime playoff hockey. By that point she was on the edge of her seat and she was fighting to hold back her excitement. Then 1:59 into overtime, Michael Ryder scored to give the Bruins the win and tie the series.

Then Maddie cheered, and it was beautiful.

The Bruins comeback win was not the first sporting event my sister ever saw, for she went with my dad, my aunt, my uncle, and I to see the Padres play, but it was the first game that Maddie saw that she ever cared about; and in my book, the first game that a person sees that they care about is the first game they ever saw.
I would say that she remembered that Padres game, but the first Bruins game she ever saw was the game that she would never forget.

There had been, is, and always will be something magical about a person's first sporting event. A person's first game would be one of their go to memories throughout the rest of their lives. It should not have mattered if a person's first game was seen on TV or at the stadium. In my case, I still almost remembered every detail about my first game upon reflection. My first game was when I was seven years old and my dad took me to see the Red Sox play the Oakland Athletics at Fenway Park. I was awestruck. I wanted to see every part of Fenway. Touch all the cool stuff, and try all the park food. I was fascinated by the trouths that Fenway had in place of urinals, despite my dad's opinion of them. And as for the game itself, the seats were the coolest things ever. They were uncomfortable, but I didn't care. I got to see the Red Sox play. I remember that first baseman Mo Vaughn hit a home run that i swore to my mom left the stadium and landed somewhere in Vermont. I never wanted that game to end, even though my seven year old self fell asleep in the fourth inning.
And my dad loved every minute of it just as much as I did.

My dad would never admit it, but seeing Maddie's budding love for the Boston Bruins must have given him more joy than watching me fall in love with sports. Long ago my dad watched me, his little Boston sports nut, become a little unbiased sports nut instead (this was due to my mom being a Yankees fan and my dad's support of the Red Sox. At some point my little brain thought "I don't want mommy or daddy to be mad at me for picking one or the other, so I'll root for neither!"; and that mentality stuck) Maddie's interest in the Bruins gave my dad his little Boston sports nut back. Not because my sister was a little girl anymore, but rather that my dad could once again show an untainted sports mind the different facets of the game through his eyes.

It would have been nice to say that I knew the importance of nurturing a newborn Bruins fan. That I could have foreseen the growth of the sapling into the Bruins fan-hood grove. But alas, that was not the case. My father had much more experience nurturing little Boston sports nuts that I would ever hope to. Also, my dad's knowledge of hockey far surpassed my own; needless to say, the caring for the newest fan newborn was best left to someone who had a pretty good idea on how to raise people.

With the seed of my sister's fanhood planted, and my dad providing fertile soil, it was up to the Boston Bruins to add the water to help my sister grow to love them even more.

Two days later, the Bruins made it rain.

The B's untied the series against the Canadiens with a thrilling 2-1 win in double overtime. Nathan Horton put in the go ahead goal to make the TD Garden erupt.

All the while, Maddie's interest in the Bruins, and the sport of hockey, became larger by the period.

As the games continued to march on, so did my sister's questions as to how the game was played.

What was the blue line for?
How do you tell who wins a faceoff?
How come the goalies aren't allowed to leave the crease?
Why did that guy leave the ice?
What is the red line for again?

All the while, my dad answered every question with just the right amount of detail. The explanations themselves came smoother from my dad's mouth than any feeble attempt I could have ever hoped to muster. He simplified every situation that Maddie inquired about in a way that made the action on the ice slow to a crawl. I can't say for sure how much of the information she retained, but in Maddie's case, not knowing as much as Jack Edwards did not mean that she could enjoy the Bruins success any less.

And the Bruins continued to have success in the 2011 playoffs.

The Bruins mopped the floor with the Philadelphia Flyers in four games. Interestingly enough, it was the Flyers that came back from a 0-3 series deficit and a three goal disadvantage in game seven of the 2010 conference semifinals to oust the Bruins.

But not in 2011, my sister's first year as a Bruins fan.

The Bruins carried their momentum into the next series against the Tampa Bay Lightning. In a series that saw a rookie take over for two games, a hat trick, a changing of the goalies in Tampa Bay, plenty of physical play, and a yet another pressure packed game seven.

But the Bruins prevailed, and Maddie continued to watch as her new favorite team went to the Stanley Cup Finals for the first time since her older brother was born.

The backdrop for the Stanley Cup Finals was as good as it got. The Vancouver Canucks against the Boston Bruins. Canada against the United States. New school execution against classic blue collar defense. And the birth of a now heated rivalry.

The first game between the Canucks and Bruins was a fantastic defensive battle that went all the way down to the final 30 seconds of the game. My dad and sister were both on the edges of their seats with the rest of Boston as Roberto Luongo and Tim Thomas made great save after great save. The deadlock continued until Raffi Torres put one past Thomas in the game's waning seconds.

It was my sister's first tough extremely tough loss as a Bruins fan. She had been so accustomed to her team keeping games close and pulling out victories. But this loss, could have broken a bandwagoner. My sister had enjoyed the Bruins success for the vast majority of the playoffs despite their previous losses. She had not experienced the kind of difficult losses other sports fans agonized for years over. Fortunately, Maddie passed a fan test that would be the standardized equivalent of the LSAT's.

Game two gave my sister the first true look at a rivalry in the making. What turned an already chippy series into a full blown rivalry. In game one, Canucks winger Alexander Burrows bit the finger of Bruins center Patrice Bergeron (allegedly). The next meeting featured  Maxim Lapieere's attempt at humor by holding his finger inches from Bergeron's face. As for the rest of the game, the Canucks outlasted the Bruins in overtime; and the man who scored the winning goal was none other than Burrows, the most hated man in Boston that weekend.

Then came game three. The Stanley Cup Finals returned to Boston and the noise was deafening. And five minutes into the game, Aaron Rome delivered the hit that knocked Nathan Horton out of the Stanley Cup Finals. In a span of about five seconds, the course of the series was altered after one devastating hit.
The Bruins came out of that break with their hair on fire and easily won game three. And nobody was happier than my dad, except maybe Maddie.

The next three games were relatively uneventful for my sister's development as a fan. The Bruins won the even numbered games and the Canucks took game five to send the series back up to Canada for game seven.

Every single Boston Bruins fan, whether they were a new fan or a lifer, could not forget game seven.
The Boston Bruins won convincingly and hoisted the Stanley Cup for the first time since Bobby Orr's team did it in 1972.

My sister could not have known the historical impact that came with the Bruins winning Lord Stanley's cup. All of the fans who endured season after season of disappointment. 31 different seasons the Bruins made the playoffs and none of them ended with the spoils of victory.

But the 32nd season, my sister's first season as a Bruins fan, resulted in the sports enlightenment of winning a championship. No longer were the Bruins the forsaken family member of the Boston sports family. The notions that Claude Julien had to be fired were washed away with the sands of the championship drought.  The beantown triangle of champions had become the Boston new millenium square of champions. But none of that mattered to my sister.

Maddie's first experience ended with the best possible result, a championship. Whatever natural curiosity that drew her towards hockey was rewarded along with the rest of the Bruins nation. Sure she may not have been a die hard that called sports talk radio every day to complain about the game last night; but every sports fan came in different shapes and sizes. Maddie's knowledge of the game may have been minimal, and she may not have been an ace student at hockey history; but in order to just root for a team and want them to do well, none of that really matters as much as people of my ilk would like it to.

Flash forward to today, where the world is supposed to end in December and a team from Canada plays in the Southeast division. My sister's love for the Bruins continues to blossom by the day. She has already been to one more Bruins game than I have. Maddie is not afraid to let the team know when they are "playing like pansys." But perhaps most importantly, Maddie's enthusiasm for her new favorite team has shown no signs of diminishing. And thanks to the fertile soil provided by my dad, and the ample water provided by the Bruins, Maddie Dudek's love for the Boston Bruins continues to blossom.