By Rich Lindbloom
The Hawks precipitous fall from the pinnacle of the hockey world left many of us searching not for Rhett Butler, but for the Anacin bottles when all was said and done. Intensifying the pain was the manner in which we were finally eliminated. Despite the efforts of “all the king’s horses and all the kings men,” the Blackhawk’s Stanley Cup defense was shot in the foot by a player who has a Doctorate in Aggravation. I’m referring of course to the villainous #14, Alexandre Burrows, from this point on referred to as the “Squirrel.” I wish there was a way to erase that memory from the recesses of my brain, but it keeps resurfacing like some inextricable nightmare. Furthermore, no doubt we’ll have to watch highlights of that special moment in Vancouver Playoff history the rest of this post season. Excuse me while I head to the vomitorium.
To backtrack a moment, let me try to explain Alexandre’s new nickname. My wife, the Belgium babe, has an incredible soft spot in her heart for animals. Usually we’re fostering a litter of puppies or kittens for the Humane Society. There have been some exceptions – most notably a raccoon named Rocky who drove me banana’s for about three months. I could tell you a lot of Rocky stories, but this one is about three squirrels we tried to raise that fell out of some God forsaken tree in front of our house. What really bugs me is that it seems half of Homewood calls our house when they get an injured or seemingly abandoned bunny or whatever. I can only pray that I answer the phone when they call so I can say, “No she isn’t home and don’t ever call here again!” But back to the squirrels… Read more