"..Henrik Sedin takes it from the point… drops back… passes it to Daniel… Phaneuf slams him against the boards… Daniel recovers… flips it to Naslund… he shoots… Kiprusoff kicks at the puck with his right skate… it’s against the post… it’s… it’s… IT’S IN! The puck is IN! NASLUND SCORES in sudden death overtime!”

“Ahuh.”

You’d think my husband had won the freakin’ lottery.

Mark’s up on the couch… drops back… pumps his arms in the air to the tune of “Yah baby! Yah baby! Yah baby!”… buddy, Rob slams him against the wall in a full contact body hug… Mark recovers… smacks him a single-double-triple high five… they shout… they dance… they jump up and down in a passionate embrace… dogs are barking and foaming at the mouth… it’s… it’s… it’s a wife’s worst nightmare…

It’s Canuckle fever.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I actually like the game of hockey. In fact, I like it a lot. And I’m not one of those band wagon hockey fans, either. I’ll watch the Canucks all season long. I’ll watch them when they’re hot. I’ll watch them when they suck brown, spotty bananas (which they’ve done lately). Hockey is a great competitive sport and Canuck fans are probably the most dedicated in the league. (Who else would cheer for a team who’s only run for the Cup was almost fifteen years ago?) Honestly, I think hockey is fabulous. So why wouldn’t I be thrilled about a Canuck win in overtime? The point of the matter is… I am!

What I don’t get is the hysteria: the testosterone fuelled, man-on-man, manic mayhem that inevitably follows either a win or a loss. And it’s not even the playoffs! Playoff season is like a man’s time of the month. With raging hormones, aggressive behaviour, and recurring emotional breakdowns, a man in the midst of playoff hockey makes PMS look like a tequila party. (Yes, hun, I understand the Canucks lost but I don’t think that’s why you’re bloated.)

Mark picks up the phone to call another hockey psychotic, his buddy, Paul.

“Ya, man! Did you see that goal? Slid it in the crack, man! That was totally awesome!” I pass him a napkin. He’s liable to start foaming at the mouth. Five minutes of play-by-play hockey commentary later, he’s pumped for another round.

“Ooohhhh yeeeeaaaah!”

Good grief. The Canuckleheads are dancing again.

I mean, really, can we put this into perspective? There are things I get excited about, too. Things like finding a great hair stylist, or a full-day trip to the spa, or finding a really good sale on feminine hygiene products. Could you imagine me and a girlfriend cruising down the aisles of the grocery store, finding a bonus pack of Overnight Liners with Wings and acting like this?

I claw my way to the top shelf… drop back… pump my arms in the air to the tune of “Yah bonus! Yah bonus! Yah bonus!”… girlfriend slams me against the rack in a full contact body hug… I recover… line up for a single-double-triple hip bump… we shout… we dance… we jump up and down in a passionate embrace… shoppers are cheering and foaming at the mouth… it’s… it’s…

It’s me making a point. If we make it through another round, I’m liable to lose my hearing. Besides, I haven’t seen my husband demonstrate that kind of intensity and passion since our honeymoon. Short of finding Canucks logo’d lingerie and making our bed look like a hockey rink, how can a girl ever compete with that?