You are breaking my heart.
My family moved to San Jose the year you were created—I was five years old and Teal Fever took a strong hold on my impressionable young mind. Now I’m 24 and I live all the way across the country in Boston, but I’ve remained loyal through thick and thin.
I remember the Cow Palace days. I remember when Patrick Marleau was our draft pick in 1997. I was in the front row when Zyuzin scored the game-winner in overtime against the Dallas Stars (boo, hiss), and I chanted “Belfouuuurrrr” as we left that game. My brother used to put his Sharkie puppet/toy on top of the TV when we watched games, to bring you luck. One time, Mike Vernon waved at me at a practice.
I have been loyal through all the playoffs ups and down, from when you were a scrappy new team beating Detroit and Dallas, to now when you’re the top of the pack but can’t seem to get past the Conference Finals.
Which brings me to the point of this letter.
You’re breaking my heart, guys. Breaking it in two.
I have been watching and yelling and crying and cheering throughout this entire playoff season, but now, with Chicago, a cold hard depression has set in.
If you don’t make it to the finals, it will break my heart. I’ll cry. Nobody wants that—I’m not pretty when I cry.
So hear this plea from one loyal fan: kick some Chicago ass.
Sincerely and with much love,