Last night the Chicago Blackhawks ended a 49-year Stanley Cup drought by defeating the Philadelphia Flyers 4-3 on Patrick Kane’s weirdly anti-climactic overtime goal. As some of you may know, I actually care about hockey because, indeed, I come from the land of hockey. Every year, not unlike the last day of school, the end of the hockey season marks the beginning of summer for Canadians, a bleak, iceless expanse of haze and ennui as unrelentingly banal as the drive from Kelvington to Moose Jaw.
But this year is a different. Because, you see, tomorrow marks the start of the world’s greatest sporting event: the World Cup.
And insofar as New York City is a microcosm of THE ENTIRE WORLD, it’s a truly wonderful city to be in for the quadrennial return to pure and arbitrary tribalism expressed through national athletic teams. As such, we’ll be sending our writers to the far flung corners of the five boroughs to take in opening round games with fans of the more obscure teams (go Ghana!)—because we can’t afford to send anyone to South Africa (or even Jersey). For example, I’ll be at Zebulon tomorrow for the France v. Uruguay fixture, and Berry Park on Saturday for England v. America, and Marco “Van Basten” Asch will be at Fort Greene’s South African restaurant Madiba to watch the host nation take on Mexico.
This is going to be fun.