"Like some hot chick you used to date"

This past Saturday night, in the middle of a cocaine-infused, 5-whiskey handle, pack-and-a-half of Marlboro Reds bender, my girlfriend looked over at me and calmly said that I looked a bit whimsical. We were riding in the back of our stretch Bentley limousine when someone errantly put She's Outta Your League on the jumbo 78 inch flat screen. The movie sucked, but there was a moment...a scene...that gave me pause. ...enough pause that I had to lean back and raise the divider to keep the noise down from the roiling hot tub scene happening right behind my captain's chair. That cavalcade of Norwegian strippers...who knew they'd ever get that loud?

The plot line from the movie is irrelevant here. This rather average guy is BEING CHASED by a chick who is certifiably batshit crazy for even considering him when she could easily engage men of a higher caliber with bristling pecs, bulging bank accounts and knowledge of at least seven languages. Men like Petrella and me.

Anyway, their first real date is to a hockey game. They're Pen's fans, which was disappointing and distracting...and immediately put everyone in the hole in terms of "character issues"...but either way, this was the first time in months that I'd seen our great game on my living room television screen. ...I mean...the tv in the Bentley.

My girlfriend Deya, who in her own right is a legitimate piece of grade-A tail, looked over during that scene...saw me with this longing face...and said that it looked like I'd just seen some superfine girl I used to date. It was a far-away look. It was a lonely look.

Baby...I want you back.

As we settle in for another grating Monday of expense reports, billable hours and ducking our bosses, I'm pining for The Game. I'm beginning to think about what life will look like when hockey returns full-force. I'm imagining the scene...where I rush home from work for some East Coast game...throw some week-old pilaf in the microwave, dig through the fridge for a non-Natural Light beer...and settle in for the evening.

I can see the setup: Laptop for taking notes, blackberry for messaging various game-related characters (and my mother...OK...I admit it). I'm picturing the feel of the couch, the intro music, the sounds of Larry Murphy rambling through intermission analysis about our blueliners. I've visualizing Mick, mustache and all, in the booth talking about players getting off a slide...or running a defensemen. ...or maybe he's just dropping a few pearls about how to live a better life.

I can feel the frustration of a period where we got close...but didn't cash one in...or the anxiety late in the game when we're up by one and they're surging. ... or the elation when Tiberius makes a save you're used to seeing go through Ozzie's legs. ...or that sense of anticipation when Flip darts up-ice and you wonder if Hank's about to flash into the frame.

I'm ready. I'm ready to have our game back. This summer has been torturous. LeBron...LeModano...I'm tired of it. I want a real game...with real men...playing for a storied franchise. I couldn't care less about baseball highlights. Much as I'm nostalgic for the Tigers...and Ernie...I'm tired of Sportscenter being completely consumed by Web Gems. I'm exhausted by Chris Paul thinking LeBron had a good idea. I'm pissed that some old ass QB from Mississippi can't make up his mind about whether or not he wants to pick up a few mil more for playing a game.

Go Fuck Yourself. Honestly.

The best news I got all weekend was seeing a Freep column about Downey trying to get back on the club. Will he make it? Probably not, but I love that kid anyway. He's the kind of guy that would never make it in the NBA. He doesn't have the flash or the entourage to pull it off. He's a grinder. He's outspoken about wanting to play for one franchise and he's the kind of guy you'd happily buy about seven Bud Heavies and shoot pool with.

I'm done with this summer business. Give me the game. Give me the stress and the hopes and the letdowns. ...and the elation. Give me that raised eyebrow when we're down three goals midway through the third and we pot one. Give me that pensive Sunday night where you look at the upcoming week's schedule and wonder where we can pick up points. Give me the ass-clenching games against the Blues and the Sunday afternoon rallies against the Hawks. Give me the late-season stretch where we're clinching the Central...or rallying for relevancy...or silencing the latest round of armchair Bowmans telling us that we're too old, too tired and on our way out.

I'm ready. Anyone else?