Sunday morning had a bit of an unnatural feel around the city of St. Louis. Waking up and going to the early morning church service had a different buzz about it. Time moved slower, the world felt different. Neighborhoods were painted with blue flags and banners. Yards were brimming with blue decorations. Billboards printed with messages of support. Something was different. Something was on the cards. Something was happening. What the Stanley Cup means to a once starved fan base.
The church service was strange. Longer, but more more unified. In a place where people go seeking the Lord, not a soul was fully focused on the gospel. Every parishioner was wearing their St. Louis Blues merchandise or, at the very least, some form of blue clothing. In a place of worship and top dressing, the priest who would typically scoff and scorn at those in T-shirts at the celebration of mass could only muster a sly grin, for Sunday was a day 52 years in the making.
The day that the St. Louis Blues could finally lift the Stanley Cup.
An hour-long service felt like three. A mid-morning brunch left its inhabitants unsatisfied. Family time was ill-fated. Any conversation about anything else felt trivial. Sunday was all about the NHL Stanley Cup.
Time was coated in molasses. Roads descended into emptiness until the point of which many areas resembled a ghost town. There wasn’t an eye in the city that wasn’t fixated on a television set. No one would miss out on a night where history could be made. The city stood still. The eyes of the world laid upon the Gateway City, and for once, it wasn’t for the murder rate, the poverty numbers, the slowing economy or the wealth disparity. And for once, if only for a momentary blip, a city divided on the basis of county lines and politics stood together.
The evening arrived. The world stopped for Charles Glenn’s glorious final rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. It stopped and stared at Brett Hull, who simply couldn’t have been aware of his surroundings. It stopped in admiration at Bobby Plager, who was the last Blues player to glance at the Cup 49 years ago. It stopped in the presence of Bernie Federko, who’s eyes appeared to be wetting well before the puck even dropped. It stopped in joy at the beautiful face of Laila Anderson, whose inspirational fight with HLH has brought even the strongest wills to tears. It stopped in awe of the more than 40,000 fans who crowded onto Market Street, hoping to witness what would be the greatest event in St. Louis sporting history.
What a disappointment.
The game started well. The Blues looked lively in the opening minutes of the first period, much to the pleasure of the overflowing Enterprise Center. Then, Brayden Schenn happened. Conceding a penalty by throwing Joakim Nordstrom into the boards isn’t exactly what one would call a smart idea, yet here we are. Then, in the midst of the penalty kill, Ryan O’Reilly mistakenly clears the puck over the glass to create a 5-on-3.
Great. From here, you know what is bound to happen.
Brad Marchand, who has become public enemy number one in St. Louis, puts the Bruins up 1-0, and they didn’t look back. Perhaps if it weren’t for the super-human ability of Tuukka Rask and the mid-air off-the-line clearance from Charlie McAvoy, there would be a different telling of the tale. But as soon as that puck was cleared and the cheering of the presumed goal was muted, one could only assume the worst for St. Louis.
A shot from Brandon Carlo bounces in front of Jordan Binnington, who, for the first time, appeared to be shaken by a performance, as it crept in under his arm. 2-0. Karson Kuhlman fires one into the top-shelf on Binnington’s stick side. 3-0.
But what’s this? A review shows that Ryan O’Reilly’s shot went across the line, despite Rask’s incredible best efforts. 3-1, the Blues are back in it. Maybe, just maybe, the fairytale ending of lifting the Cup on home ice wasn’t dead yet.
Wrong.
Just over two minutes later and it’s 4-1 Bruins after David Pastrnak found the net, with some fans deciding that they had seen enough and ditching their indescribably expensive seats. Then, just to pour salt into the already gaping wounds, Zdeno Chara finds an empty net to make it 5-1.
The game finishes. Much like the end of Game 3, the Blues are humiliated on home ice. But this time, they aren’t jeered off to the sound of booing and grinding of teeth. They are sent away with the ringing cries of the supporters chanting “we want the cup” and “let’s go Blues.”
Tens of thousands of disappointed St. Louisans trickled back to their homes. In the midst of the disappointment, there was always going to be the shining light of positivity. There is still a chance. A 50/50 chance. One more game to decide it all.
Game 7. Boston. Something about this worst-to-possibly-first story would seem incomplete if the series ended on home ice. No. It simply needs to be finished in enemy territory. So is the hope, at least, of a city that has waited an eternity for its time hoisting the Stanley Cup.
Onto Boston. Onto Game 7.
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Wednesday. Why is it on a Wednesday?
As workers crawl out of their beds after sleepless nights and cold sweats, their morning cup of coffee would do them no good. The events of the day would keep them awake for as long as their protesting bodies could allow. Rain looked a certainty, the morning traffic more unbearable than most days, the anticipation for leaving work at an all-time high. This was not to be a normal Wednesday.
On this Wednesday, there would be a second chance for the Stanley Cup. In a season where, at one point, the rallying cries of “lose for Hughes” rand louder than the hopes for the playoffs, the Blues would have a second chance at glory. In a world exalted for its cruelty, it offered out its hand for the most anticipated night that the city of St. Louis had experienced in eons, possibly ever.
Calling in sick was commonplace. The religious made full use of their rosaries. Beards remained unshaved. Superstitions were practiced to the highest effect. Anything that could be perceived as helping to finally get the St. Louis Blues name etched onto Lord Stanley’s Cup was put into practice.
Much like the game days that preceded, the day was slow, unproductive and had the world on edge. Maybe, just maybe, tonight was the night. The night that thousands have dreamed about their entire lives. The night that would have the tattoo parlors booked for months. The night that would lead to thousands of baby girls being branded with the name ‘Gloria’ in nine months time. Maybe, just maybe, this would be the night.
The drop of the puck inches nearer. Thunder and lightning run rampant all around the greater St. Louis area. Rain falls on the thousands that packed into Busch Stadium. Anxiety coats the Enterprise Center. Ballpark Village trembles in nervousness. For the second time in their history and for the second time in less than a week, the St. Louis Blues have the opportunity to win their first Stanley Cup title.
Time began to fly once again when the puck dropped and the game finally began. And looking at only the stats would make one believe that the Bruins were walking all over the Blues. Twelve shots to the Blues four simply spelled out the opening interval. Boston dominated. But there was one man that kept the Blues in it, the 25-year-old rookie who finally got his chance this season. Save after save. Chance after chance. Jordan Binnington stood on his head to keep St. Louis alive, and all of his early efforts paid off.
On the rare occasion that the Blues had the puck in the offensive zone, it came to, of all people, Jay Bouwmeester. He took his shot just in front of the blue line, and who else but Ryan O’Reilly would be the one to get the final touch. The puck found its way past Tuukka Rask, and against all odds, as it’s been all season, the Blues found themselves ahead.
Only a few minutes had passed, and the Blues found another opportunity to take the puck forward. It found its way to the stick of the captain, Alex Pietrangelo, who made an unreal move to get the puck around Rask and scooped it into the goal to send St. Louis into celebrations that they never thought that they would see. Finishing the period two goals to the good simply could not have been thought possible during the early stages by anyone dawning the blue note as a fan, let alone a player or coach. But that’s where it stood.
Hearts pounding. Beer spilling. Blues fans simply could not help but start to envision Pietrangelo lifting the Cup, no matter how much they fought their imaginations.
The second period ran by in what one could swear was only five minutes. Binnington came up big some more, but nothing that would lay the jaw upon the floor like the world had witnessed in the first period. It was Rask that had made the big saves in the second, despite Boston, once again, taking more shots. The best chance came for St. Louis, with a shot from Brayden Schenn being saved by Rask, bouncing off the crossbar, off of Rask’s back and slowly back toward the goal. The savior was not the Finnish goaltender, but the ancient Slovak captain Zdeno Chara, who was able to get his stick to the puck and clear it just before the Blues found themselves with a three-goal advantage.
The second period came. The second period went. With hardly any nails left to bite, St. Louis watched on edge, with potentially twenty minutes standing between them and the little piece of Heaven that has eluded them from the moment that the announcement was made that professional hockey would have a franchise that would call the Gateway City it’s home.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
A simple message that one would have found impossible. No one in the city of St. Louis knows how to deal with something like this. One period. Twenty minutes. Just breathe.
For the first time in what seemed like generations, a period seemed to drag by. Boston came out flying, looking for a way to fight back and regain a chance at the game’s highest prize. A chance came for the Bruins, forcing Binnington into yet another unbelievable save. The puck quickly found its way down the ice, with Vladimir Tarasenko glancing over his shoulder to find a wide-open Schenn. The second that following moment will go down in Blues folklore for an eternity, as Schenn found the goal to make it 3-0. Shortly after, David Perron found Zach Sanford to make it four. There it was. Surely there was nothing that was going to stop this team. Nothing was going to stop this city.
Binnington was finally beaten by Matt Grzelcyk for the most empty goal and empty cheers that one could ever find.
Stanley Cup champion St. Louis Blues. A sentence that many never they would ever hear. As beer spilled and tears dripped down unshaven faces, Laura Branigan’s vocals echoed louder from the grave than perhaps even during the finest moments of her career. This was the moment. This was finally the moment. A fan base that believed that it was not possible.
In January, this team sat in last place. In November, Mike Yeo got fired, and will now probably never get another job in the NHL again. In January, none of this seemed possible.
But now, in June, everything has changed. This team is now on top of the world.
So, what does it mean? What does that trophy mean to a town that has been waiting for more than half a century for this very moment?
Everything.
Don’t believe that?
Just wait until the parade down Market Street.
