With the 2015 Stanley Cup Finals starting in a few hours, fans of the Tampa Bay Lightning and the Chicago Blackhawks are poised for what should be a six or seven-game series, dreams will appear and then disappear with the maneuvering of a composite stick on vulcanized rubber, and lives and schedules will be rearranged to accommodate this frozen crucible.

Stan Mikita and Coach Billy Reay

But I am still stuck – rigidly and obstinately – on the failure of the New York Rangers to reach the Stanley Cup Finals. The Rangers’ failure has simplified my life: I can continue to slog through Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall that is taking me longer to read than King Henry VIII’s courtship and marriage to Anne Boleyn; there is more time to devote to a sixth grade research paper on uber capitalist pig and then generous philanthropist, John D. Rockefeller; I can watch New York Mets’ rookie fireballer, Noah Syndergaard, record a preposterously weird pitching line of 10 strikeouts, zero walks, and seven earned runs in four innings versus the San Diego Padres and not feel a twinge of guilt that I am cheating on the Rangers; enthusiastically enjoy the Poseidon Adventure that is the Boston Red Sox; and not hear from a nine-year-old boy that I have a strange and puzzling devotion to a hockey team.

From the mouths of babes tumble pearls of wisdom, and perhaps a nine-year-old boy does have a better perspective on the failings of a Manhattan-based hockey team than does a 48-year-old middle-aged man, who falls into a two-hour funk, after witnessing the Tampa Bay Lightning conclude the 2015 Eastern Conference Finals with a 2-0 shutout of the Rangers in Madison Square Garden.

I inhabit a world where pathos is viewed as a luxury. To be down or depressed about a hockey team, which is comprised of millionaires and is owned by the truly loathsome James Dolan, and find there is scant tenderness to salve the bruised feelings of an emotionally stunted middle-aged moron is unvarnished reality. A nine-year-old has no patience for a grown man, with what some could perceive as an unhealthy obsession for a hockey team, which seems to produce more angst than happiness when one could achieve sublime happiness by pulling off the boss of all Pokemon trades. In reality, a well-crafted Pokemon trade takes far more skill than cheering for the Broadway Blueshirts.

I will watch Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Probably. But I’m not sure.

My feelings are somewhat analogous to attending a former girlfriend’s wedding, which I have never experienced nor longed to do, as I don’t believe “Asshole” would be socially acceptable on a table placement card and that no good has ever come out of a situation like this. Chances are the ex-girlfriend is going to look pretty good on her wedding day, lost some weight, bleached her teeth, shares rapturous (real or contrived) looks with her tool of a soon-to-be husband, and for the GODDAMN love of God don’t get caught by your date looking verklempt when there is the exchange of vows because after the reception you will be sharing your hotel room with a white walker. The better scenario is to attend the ex’s wedding and bring Caitlyn Jenner as your date, which is sure to deflect some attention from the bride.

So, I sit here. Pounding on this keyboard, jealous of Blackhawks fans who can root for the irrepressible Jonathan Toews, who is arguably better at his sport than LeBron James is at his sport. Yes, that is the brilliance of Jonathan Toews. And I want the Rangers to have a Jonathan Toews, but there is no else like Jonathan Toews or Caitlyn Jenner. Alex Ovechkin was supposed be Jonathan Toews, but he is merely Alex Ovechkin. Rene Richards was Caitlyn Jenner, but without the extensive Kardashian media machine behind her.

Perhaps the Rangers will return to the Stanley Cup Finals next year, where more than two months of my life will be invested in the pursuit of a freaking cup, but before that occurs, I plan to enjoy the sense of freedom that has returned to me. I won’t have to avoid newspapers for a day or two until I have found the time to watch the latest Rangers’ playoff tilt, I won’t view the making of dinner as an impediment to my playoff viewing schedule, and I won’t have to hear from my favorite Polish American how much she certifiably and unquestionably despises hockey.

My life is returning to what approaches a normal life. I soak tennis balls in ammonia to chase a mother raccoon and her three offspring from their den, because they are destroying the shed that sits above their home. I will coach Little League and hear some 10-year-old punk talking shit to our team’s first base coach, who happens to be me, and then I will respond by sending every base runner to steal second base. We’re playing that kid’s team again on Saturday, and I am all about fucking up his shit, except when the kid catches because he has a cannon of an arm.

The Rangers will become yesterday’s news. I’ll harbor an unhealthy dislike of Rangers’ defenseman and scapegoat, Dan Boyle, and that douche bag 10-year-old. I’ll start coaching a Little League All-Star team. I’ll try not to have the lawn look like napalm has been thrown on it. And I’ll think of what could have been for the Broadway Blueshirts.