Operation: (Stanley) Cup Grab

I have the dubious distinction of being the last Chicagoan to pose with the Stanley Cup. Correction: I am the last person, who cares, to meet the Stanley Cup. When I finally reach it, probably in some overpriced north side drinkery, it will already be covered in the fingerprints, germs, saliva, and other fluids from the rest of Chicago. Never mind the bodily fluids and STD's of thousands of Americans and Canadians of years past. (Yes, I know they clean it, but herpes? That shit will follow you.)

I came so close, though.

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine sent a message stating "I'M WITH THE CUP RIGHT NOW" at Joe's Bar on Weed Street. It was already midnight at this point, and I had already been out that evening. After some deliberation, I decided to go for it. I drove all the way to Joe's bustling block in Old Town. The place was closed off and a crowd had formed outside. By the grace of Jesus and Lord Stanley, a former coworker of mine, Chris Rongey, was walking up to the door. I was more interested in saying hello than latching on, but he brought he right in along with two other guy friends. "The Ranger" was very sweet about the whole thing.

The Cup was gone. It had to go to bed at midnight, plus, it had to fly to LA to meet Jay Leno the next day. I figured if I could meet Finnish Jesus, aka goalie Antti Niemi, I'd be satisfied. Of course, every Hawk in the room was laden with drunk, spent, skinny hos, so even meeting would be a challenge.

I found Niemi talking to an older couple on the far side of the bar. Silly me, I asked the old broad to take a picture with my camera. She was too drunk, taking at least 3 pictures, most of which had her thumb blocking its view. Niemi was a good sport, posing for all of them.

(Please ignore the chunky girl and that mysterious man-hand.)

I kept the interaction very simple. I told him to have a great night... never mentioning the fact that his 40-block game literally brought me to tears. I practically dropped the beer I was holding on a table and headed for the door: I had what I needed.

Luckily, I had made an acquaintance with a nice bouncer/bodyguard named John, who assured me that Kanerrrrrr, aka Patrick Kane, was very nice and wouldn't mind taking a picture. I was standing just inside the door (which was covered by a black curtain), when John tapped my shoulder. Kanerrrrrr was standing right behind me. Shazam. I figured he was too drunk to mind the imposition. He was, literally, slack-jawed at this point. I grabbed his hand, he didn't resist, and asked if he would take a picture "with a fat girl." I could see the joke fly over his head, but he said sure. I was quite pleased that he conjured up a cute smile for our pic.

It was a small miracle that John caught me; Kanerrrrr left the club 30 seconds after I did. No Cup this time, but I did good.