During its first 36 years of existence, Lord Stanley's Cup never ventured south of the Canadian border. Now, for the second consecutive season, it will remain south of the Mason-Dixon line, courtesy of last Monday night's Game Seven victory by the Carolina Hurricanes.
Carolina. That's redneck country to us. Not exactly a bastion of ice hockey. Nevertheless, it is a region prideful of the yields of its Appalachian bosom: tobacco and redneck hockey.
If redneck hockey's roots can be traced to Carolina's first Stanley Cup Finals appearance four years ago, its high water mark came this past week with Tuesday evening's victory parade around the RBC Center, followed by a half-mile procession on Wednesday that got started in a school parking lot. Citizens of Raleigh, you must embellish your celebrations with a bit more pomp than a quick spin around the block.
There is no better way to advertise your redneck hockey lineage than to parade your stars out the south gate of the football stadium and back into the east gate of the rink. The average Caniac drives further just looking for a parking spot after paying at the gate. So, too, did my town's little leaguers on their ceremonial Opening Day stroll from our field's south entrance to its north, and most of the processional are not normally allowed to leave their backyards.
Okay, in deference to the understandable neophytism that accompanies your state's first professional championship, the parade thing might have been more hockey greenhorn than hockey redneck. So then, how do you distinguish the latter? Well, there is a body of collateral observations from which we can draw to determine whether the Caniac is indeed a hockey redneck.
For instance, if you're still wondering whatever became of the Hartford Whalers, you might be a hockey redneck.
If you took up hockey because you thought "penalty killing" was Governor Easley's latest initiative to remove the barrier that keeps you from marrying the girl of your dreams, you might be a hockey redneck.
If your trip to the RBC Center requires a pickaxe, some rappelling line, and a clip-in harness, you could be a hockey redneck.
If your date likes going to the games because she can't remember the last time she saw men with teeth, you may be a hockey redneck.
If you thought "Capitol K" was the first letter in your team's name, you have a hockey redneck proclivity.
Did you ever forget to put on a shirt before the game but found you still fit in among all the oversized red Canes jerseys in attendance? Well then, you're a hockey redneck. If your wife can do the same, she's probably married to one.
If the local youth group scheduled to perform the Star-Spangled Banner steps out on the carpet carrying washboards and some empty whiskey jugs, you're definitely in redneck hockey hell.
If you thought a two-line pass actually changed direction in mid-course before the NHL outlawed the technique last summer, you're probably a hockey redneck.
If your first impulse is to stash the fifth of Old Grand-Dad down your pants when the light on top of the goal starts flashing red, you're a hockey redneck.
If two minutes for roughing sounds too good a deal to pass up and you can't wait to get home, you're a hockey redneck.
If your niece asks you to do it doggy-style so she can watch the Brind'Amour shift, too, you're a hockey redneck.
If you sit in wonder over the seamless joints left by the Zamboni after dropping each new 4x8 sheet of ice, you're a hockey redneck.
If "pulling the goalie" sounds like a good use for a jar of hand cream and spare towel, you're a hockey redneck.
If you root for ties because they are about as satisfying as kissing your sister, you're a hockey redneck.
If you dropped your autographed puck just outside The Eye and choose to pick it up without first kicking it clear over the Virginia border, you're a hockey redneck.
If you can't make your mortgage mail order because you're still paying hush money to that sheep after a Sabres victory party gone wild, you're definitely a hockey redneck.
Now, if the house gets towed away while you're spending your last two sawbucks down at the corner bar drinking Jim Beam from miniature Stanley Cup shots instead of paying those parking tickets, you are a hockey redneck.
And if you reply to this column with messages such as "Canes rock," "Canes in '07," or "Cam Ward for President," you will remain mired in redneck hockey for years to come, which doesn't look so bad to the rest of the country right about now.
Congratulations, Caniacs, rednecks, and all.
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