A FEW WORDS ON FUCKING UP THEN GETTING BACK ON THE SADDLE

Howdy, gang. RA here checking in after the most epic Spittin’ Chiclets Stanley Cup Final roadie that will ever exist. I left Boston on June 11 for Games 3 & 4 in Edmonton then Game 5 in Sunrise, made a 14-hour pit stop for a laundry switch-out after Game 5, flew back to beautiful Alberta for Game 6 (via Calgary as I missed my Ottawa-to-Edmonton connection but it was great to spend a few hours in Cowtown), schlepped back down to FLA for the clincher, then pulled myself off the beach mat for the draft at the Sphere.

13 flights in 20 days. 5 of 7 Stanley Cup Final games. Some inadvertent viral moments. And you know what? It was a goddamn adventure I’m glad I hung in there for even if, In hindsight, it might’ve been a bit much for a 52-year-old circling the mental and emotional drain for the last several months.

But look, I’m a big boy. There were no guns to my head. I own it all. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

If you ask anybody who’s known me for a stretch of time, it would be basically unanimous that “McGoo” or “Rear” or “Potsie” or whatever other goofball nickname I go by was always the life of the party and always down for a good time. No crying jags. No fights. No arrests (cuffed & stuffed once at 15 but no record). No bullshit.

I got along with everybody, best buddies with cops and robbers alike. Frat boys and independents. Greasers and Socs. Townies and Yuppies. I was having a blast when I was paryting. As an insecure Gen-X kid in high-school who didn’t know that self-esteem was a thing, there was nothing like a few OG Budweisers to loosen me up and start talking to the honeydips like I was Casanova. 

So by the time my second freshman year of college rolled around, I was in a pretty good groove. Always had a fun time and enjoyed college to the fullest. And it stayed that way for a long time. Up until a couple of years ago. But by then, even Hans Moleman could see what was going on.

What was always associated with fun times and great memories very quickly became a crutch. There were concerning fissures in the foundation of my marriage and I dealt with it like a typical stubborn Boston Irish guy—by self-medicating. And for a guy with more vices than a shop class, it starts to take its toll eventually. Even so, I did a relatively good job of keeping it together.

That is, until me and the artist formerly known as The Old Lady agreed to part ways back in January. And, well, I grossly underestimated the effect something I was clamoring for would actually have on my well-being. It was gutting and traumatic to unravel almost 23 years of years of my life with somebody and, frankly, it sent me off the deep end. 

As a naturally upbeat people person who somehow avoided the family minefield of depression for 52 years, I got a crash-course in that motherfucker real quick. And even armed with a healthy knowledge about addiction and recovery (my mother ran several rehab houses and I’m proud to say she got more people clean than Ivory soap), it didn’t matter. I was doing the opposite of what I should have been doing. And I was fully aware. Some of us just have to stick our finger in the socket to really learn our lesson. 

But the other shitty part of that? I was being an awful teammate to the guys I need the most: G, Biz, and Whit. Being lost in the sauce meant I wasn’t doing my job the way it needed to be done. I feel like shit for that and I deserve the pee-pee whack.

Yet I’m not so sure I deserved the grace, compassion, and empathy those guys showed me in the last few days. No matter what, I'll always remember that and what they said at the top of today's episode. I love you boys.

I also remember what four different aspects of the hockey community did for me when I was in Vegas. A retired player, a current coach, a pair of media peers, and a fan all reached out and/or offered assistance to a friend they recognized wasn’t doing so hot. I’m not dumping on other sports because I’ve only ever covered the NHL. But, fuck, I can’t imagine any of them are better than hockey when it comes to looking out for each other. 

Life throws curveballs at everyone. Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, I could never hit a curveball. So I finally made an appointment with a batting coach to hopefully rectify that. Probably should have put myself on the couch about 30 years ago but, like a great philosopher once said, it is what it is. Better late than never. 

This trip over the finish line that was the 2023-24 NHL season isn’t exactly how I planned on ending the Year of the Warthog. But you know what? I fucked up. I’ll dust myself off. And because I know my boys got my back, I’ll climb back on the saddle and I’ll see you in September.

I love you guys and gals. Thanks for reading.

[Whether your words were harsh or kind, I appreciate you listening and continuing to support Spittin’ Chiclets. Thanks for your time. Be well.]