Late in the evening, April 10, 1983, in the little bathroom of our upper-northwest Washington, D.C., house:
My brother and I came to blows.
It didn’t amount to much. But it was the worst fist-fight we ever had. And the last one we ever had.
The New York Islanders had just eliminated the Capitals from the Division Semi-Finals. As my poor, long-suffering brother brushed his teeth, I stood beside him, mocking the choke-artist Caps ruthlessly, with every ounce of my twelve-year-old obnoxiousness.
He finally spit out his toothpaste and took a swing at me. I had it coming, big-time. He beat me, like a man possessed with a vision of justice. We wound up in the bathtub, and I begged him for mercy that I didn’t deserve.
Since that day, now over 35 years ago, my dear brother has longed–with some of the most fundamental fibers of his being–for the Caps to bring home the Cup.
Do it, guys. For him.
[POST-SCRIPT, Six hours later: They did it! Caps win!!!!!]