Lord Stanley.

[Photo credit--Detroit News]

That's better. Much, much better.

It's just as well most of you don't hang around with me during championship sporting events. I called D3 out to the living room with about four minutes left in the game to watch the finish. I was hesitant, but 3-1 felt like a solid enough lead. It was, but yikes, the finish.

When Jiri Hudler took the penalty with 1:50 left, I barked "Hudler, you dumb s--t!" Dale sitting right with me, of course. Heather tapped my arm and I grated out the apology for my bad language.

Then Hossa scored about 15 seconds later (that guy is a brilliant, brilliant player). I riveted my jaw shut.

The seconds ticked down slowly. The Boy attempted to engage in conversation, which Heather gently--and quickly--shut down.

With about 40 seconds left, my beloved mother-in-law, who had been over to watch the game with us, asked me when I thought the parade would be held. I have never said an unkind word to her, nor did I then. I simply ground out "I'd rather they win the game first." But I suspect the look on my face must have conveyed that I'd just been asked "Care to rub your face with this cheese grater?" because she didn't raise the topic again.

Thankfully, time ran out--yes, Penguin fans, Hossa's shot would not have counted--and I changed back from Werefan to me again.

I took Dale out to look for a commemorative newspaper (I got the championship copies at 7-11 this morning) and to get milk. We went up Gratiot, one of the impromptu parade routes (second after Royal Oak's Main Street in popularity) and he marvelled at the celebrating fans and honking horns. Loud and boisterous, but well mannered. And the area's finest were out in omnipresent, but not obnoxious--force.

A good time for a city not enjoying good times right now.