A Dangerously Close to Love Letter

Dear Thomas Vanek,

I'm dangerously close to loving you. 

It's been a rough last couple of games, and I've been desperately looking for something positive to cling to and post about, so that I wouldn't have to spend my time photoshopping this picture with my and all other appropriate faces, and posting it under the title "The Sabres are Killing Me":

Et tu, Yo-Yo?

And that something positive is the fact that I'm dangerously close to loving you. As frustrating and sometimes depressing as these past three games have been to watch, you've found a way to put a smile on my face and a lighter feeling in my heart every time. What's remarkable is that you've been doing so without having to score. (Of course, that helps. Don't get me wrong. Please.) That's the indication that my regard for you is steadily moving beyond a mere appreciation of your talent toward a blind and unconditional love. You're not quite at the point where you can shoot the puck directly at the goalie on every shot and have me giggle affectionately instead of threatening to cut your hands off and sell them on the black market (that place in my heart is reserved for the most special of players), but you're a lot closer than most other Slugs I can name.

I already mentioned your play in the Pittsburgh game, in which you took on defending one of the best players in the league with enthusiasm, and still managed to work your magic in front of the net. You didn't find a way to put one home, but even from the 18th row of the lower bowl I could see how much you wanted to win, and watching you move the puck with confidence, swagger and creativity in the crease was still something. It may not be a flashy deke or breakaway, but if that kind of play ends with a puck in the back of the net more often than not, it's hard to hate it. It's hard not to downright dangerously close to love it.

In the Washington game you proved that you don't just play smart and you don't just play to win, but you also play tough. I'll admit I was too distracted with beating my family at Proclaim! to notice when you got hit by Ovechkin's shot, but I looked over in time to see you crawling to the bench, and I can honestly say that not only my heart, but also my pancreas, liver, and appendix were in my throat at that sight. (Granted, that could have just been my enlarged tonsils I was feeling, but the figurative meaning holds.) I'm pretty sure I could hear the collective scream of terror from all of Buffalo at that moment. I don't think you can blame me for letting myself get sucked in by the board game again after that. Down by two after two with you apparently gravely injured, I gave the game up for lost and decided to save myself the disappointment. So imagine my surprise when I turned around later and saw your number 26 flying around the ice, in one piece and, as demonstrated a couple of minutes later, in scoring form. The next night Kevin Sylvester recounted you pacing up and down the aisle during that second intermission, absolutely insistent on coming back out to play. Once again, I'm loathe to make this comparison, but even though no stitches were involved, I couldn't help but be reminded of a certain Sabre's last game in Buffalo. And as I'm certain you know from your up-close experience with that Sabre and his time here, that's exactly the kind of dedication that gets you loved around these parts. Or at the very least dangerously close to loved.

Saturday night was a little tougher. I suppose the win is the only thing that should matter, but somehow I couldn't agree with that and in your post-game interview, you didn't seem to want to, either. From the moment I saw your face during Lindy's rant after that goal with 2 seconds left, I knew you weren't going to be happy no matter what happened. From one perfectionist to another, I know that look, and I know there's no way Lindy could be as mad at you as you were at yourself in that moment. And even though Lindy was right after the game when he said it was noble, but wrong of you to take all the blame for yourself for that goal, you were also right when you said you could have done something to stop it. In a season full of guys being able to play better and needing to play better, it was so nice for once to see someone step up and say, "I could have played better. I need to play better." It was especially nice coming from you, someone who could have easily passed the buck on to guys who haven't been busting their asses all season. As high as Buffalo and that big contract have set the bar for you, it'll never be as high as the bar you set for yourself, and that brings me dangerously close to loving you. (I should also mention, speaking of televised interviews, that it definitely helps that you've somehow become legitimately foxy this season. Remember when I said I was looking forward to watching Nathan Paetsch grow into his hotness? Well, you did it, dude.)

I guess the short version of what I'm trying to say (which of course I can't say until I've already gotten the long version out), is that 1) I'm going to do everything I can to spend the Sabre Bucks I got for my birthday on something with your name on it, and 2) if I have to derive my main entertainment during this so-far maddening season (and I'm knocking on wood as I type this for fear of jinxing you) from nothing more than your play and your attitude, I... think I can do that. Of course I'd prefer it to be easier than that, but it just might be enough for me. Dangerously close to enough.

Liebe Grüße,

Gambler

P.S. Because I don't want you to think that I'm leading you on, I should let you know that the 15 second mark of this video is a prime example of why, even if I decide to strike the words "dangerously close" from this letter, you'll never be able to be anything more than second best in my heart.