I thought about my dad first.
As the final seconds ticked off the clock at the Garden in Boston, I thought about watching the St. Louis Blues for the first time with my dad and brother back in 1988. Brett Hull had just arrived, stolen our hearts, and wouldn’t give them back for a decade.
Back then, the Stanley Cup wasn’t in a young kid’s vision. I was six years old. All you cared about was goals, hot dogs, and a soda at the game. Trading cards, jerseys, and more goals. You didn’t even give a piece of your mind to the ultimate prize.