Paul Balm writes once again for The Cat’s Whiskers giving a personal reflection of the Playoff Finals Weekend
I wasn’t going to go to the playoffs. I wasn’t going to the pub. I was just going to sit at home, ignore what was happening and get on with a nice quiet Easter weekend. But, I didn’t. Let me tell you about how I ended up leaving the pub at 3 a.m. (I think) on Sunday night and how it all led up to that.
For most of last week I was adamant that I wasn’t going to go anywhere this weekend. I would stay at home, keep myself to myself, enjoy some time with the family and maybe, just maybe watch the final if we managed to get there. I was determined that the quarter final against Guildford would be my final game of the season. If nothing else it seemed a fitting swansong to what had been a great year and a fine way to bow out of things gracefully particularly with a semi against Sheffield looming ahead of us.
I say most of last week because there was a little niggling voice at the back of my mind that knew my friends were going out on Thursday night and I could join them if I wanted to. The niggling voice kept chipping away at my resolve and eventually I cracked at went down to Bunkers Hill to join my friends.
Does anyone remember the days when the playoffs only lasted two days, you got up on Saturday, went straight to the pub, watched a couple of games of hockey, went back to the pub, got up on Sunday, went to the pub, watched a game of hockey, celebrated or commiserated (delete as applicable) and then went back to the pub. These days it seems more like a week than a weekend, starting as it did on Thursday and continuing on until Monday for some. Thursday night was quiet just us and a few Belfast and Manchester fans having a bit of a chat until Manchester United got involved and livened up proceedings somewhat with a late overtime winner (how we would get used to that). A chance encounter with David Clarke (and an unnoticed Zsombor Garát, sorry Zsombor) added a little sparkle to the evening as we tried to work out if it was David Clarke, watched the highlights of the league winning game in 2013 (for the record Clarke got a Gordie in that game – goal, assist, fight) and got a cheeky photo with him. Eventually the last bus beckoned and I left them to Pop World and other destinations, but not before I was making promises to all and sundry about how I would be there on Saturday.
So much for my resolve.
Friday was a quiet day (mainly due to me having a hangover) and then Saturday was a day of nerves. Thinking back, I don’t actually remember much about Saturday before I got in the pub. I got to the pub dressed in my Danny Stewart Hula shirt which I had bought back in a day when the playoffs and everything around it seemed miles away. And the usual suspects were in there plus an old friend of mine who had come up for the day to sit in the pub and watch the game on his phone. And what a game it was. In a lot of ways, it encapsulated every Panthers v Steelers game this season. It was tight, edge of your seat stuff. At 2-0 down we may have felt there was little chance for us but at least the team didn’t think that way. 2-0 became 2-1 then 2-2 and we were excited, dragged back in to a game that had seen us starting to let our attention drift off into conversations away from ice hockey. At 2-2 it was anyone’s game and when that became 3-2 there was elation. I’d say there were scenes but there were at best about a dozen of us in there so it was hardly Box Park or anything like that. I went to the bar and only heard the groans as their 3rd went in. What an odd goal that was with the puck bouncing everywhere before finally going in, I was reminded of Lacho’s goal in the 2013 final that hit the bar at the back of the goal and went in off a rapidly retreating Stephen Murphy. The scenes from the 3-2 goal were repeated with a little more vigour this time thanks to Sam Herr’s mastery and we were in to the final. I think at this point a huge shout out should be given to the Sheffield fan making gestures towards our players as they celebrated in front of them, oh and every player who waved at them, particularly Sam Herr. Now I was telling everyone that if we won the final I would be back, a quiet Sunday was what I was going to have wasn’t it?
After the game and more drinks, I went to join a bunch of friends in Bustler’s (nice place, never been in before but I will be back) and after much hugging and jumping up and down (mainly at the same time) I managed to be calm enough to enjoy a quiet drink before they chucked us out (closing time not rowdy behaviour!). That time in Bustlers felt like a moment of quiet contemplation, letting all that we had just observed sink in. I think we needed that moment as we stood around in our Hawaiian shirts letting that moment wash over us. Anyway, after we were chucked out it was back into the maelstrom at Bunkers. The bar had been 4 or 5 people deep when I left but had returned to a more normal 2 or 3 by then so getting served was so much easier. A few more drinks and a catch up with a few more people saw me on a Night Bus home.
And then there was Sunday.
Sunday was another day of getting nervous from home. Except I didn’t feel particularly nervous. I looked back over Panthers previous encounters with the Devils in the playoffs (6 – won 5, lost 1) and this season and I sort of felt like it could happen. This was the final and anything could happen and it turns out it did. So, with a packed front room (wife, kids, Son’s girlfriend and Step grandson upstairs) we set off to watch the game. What a start! Sam Herr again got us started. Was that a small Jono I could see bouncing up and down behind the goal? The game ebbed and flowed up and down, back and forth. We took a 1-0 lead into the first interval and it was around then that the nerves started to kick in. The second period started with another Sam Herr goal followed by another from Mitch Fossier and following a brief intermission to see Tyler Busch ejected for fighting Matt Alfaro (and taking his gloves off, which seemed to be the key difference) Cardiff pulled one back by the second interval.
Now in games like this when I was in the arena, I always went for a walk on my own in the final interval to try and gather my thoughts ahead of the final (hopefully) period. I had no chance to do that this time as I was at home and you can’t just say “I’m off for a walk around the garden” can you? So into the third period we went and it was all Cardiff. A quick goal made it 3-2, we bid farewell to Evan Mosey and his choice words to an official and then the heart break came as they made it 3-3 with only three minutes to go. Where was this game going to go? It was into overtime to see. Now the nerves were almost unbearable but they soon went after we scored what look like a perfectly good goal early in OT to win it. But no, it was contested and eventually ruled out for goalie interference.
Would Cardiff have another chance now, would the momentum they were enjoying in the third swing back their way? On and on it went, further and further towards the record. There was talk on Premier Sports about the Sheffield v Cardiff final that went way over 90 minutes and to our game against Ayr which went to 117 back in 97, there was even talk in our house about the longest game ever in NHL history. They seemed to have their moment when they were the ones to appear to have scored but an appeal and multiple reviews revealed another case of goalie interference and on we went.
All the talk of game records came to nothing as Mitch Fossier shot the puck home and the place erupted. There was no time for me to watch the celebrations, I had promises to keep. I had a bus to catch and a whole two minutes to do it in. I grabbed my shirt pulled on my shoes and left the house, all the time looking over my shoulder for the approaching no.16. There it was! I’d have to run, run I did and just about caught it in a race between man and machine, my hastily tied shoelaces flapping in the wind. I collapsed in my seat and felt as drained as of the players must have at that point and I’d only run about 50 yards. I basked in the moment wallowing in the feeling.
I went to the pub for a while after I got to Bolero Square and wasn’t allowed in and met up with a few people. There weren’t many happy Panthers fans in there yet and I’d passed so many unhappy Cardiff fans between Victoria Centre and the arena that it felt like they’d all left at the end of the game – maybe they had, I wasn’t around to see. One thing that is apparent about the difference between winning and losing the playoffs is where you greet your team. We were going to Bolero Square and they were all in the alley at the side of the bowling alley. As I stood chatting in the pub, I realised that I did want to be in Bolero Square after all to watch the Balcony celebrations so on a whim I downed my pint, rejected the promise of another and off I went.
It was as I walked around to Bolero Square, past the still waiting Cardiff fans and their bus, that something started to hit me. Was it a come down from nerves and adrenaline from the final? I wasn’t sure but it definitely gripped me. I walked around the corner, heard the noise before I could see the crowd and realised it was all in full swing. I looked for my friends where I was told to find them but couldn’t find them so I ended up stood near the back on my own. As I stood there trying to make out who was who in the gloom on the balcony (I’d permanently lost all track of time by then) I started to get a real feeling of melancholy. It was definitely a come down but of what sort I wasn’t sure. It felt like I was watching another team up there on the balcony, they didn’t feel like my team and I didn’t feel connected to them.
Still, I found my friends and went back to the pub after much hugging and jumping up and down (definitely at the same time). There were a few more in Bunkers now but it definitely felt quieter than previous years and after a few drinks and plenty of discussions of nerves and the game itself including whether or not either of the goals was a goal I was asked if I wanted to head over the Salt box to join the players. Now I’d normally turn down an invitation like that, I don’t always know why. I get the same levels of FOMO as everyone else but there’s usually something inside me that says no just so I can step away from things and then live to regret it afterwards (there was regret but we’ll get to that).
So back around the corner we went, we’d given the Cardiff bus a cheeky wave as they left so that wasn’t parked in the alleyway and walked straight into Salt Box where the party was in full swing. As soon as we walked in, we were grabbing photos with players left right and centre. I just want to apologise to any player we grabbed for a photo. We weren’t just total fanboys and girls but you have to grab your moment when you can. I went to the loo and had to be told that Quinn Wichers dived into it straight after me and this is when my moment of regret happened. Little did I know that when I went to the loo Jono, who we met in there, had managed to grab Danny Stewart to get a picture with the group in their shirts so they were all doing that while I was in relieving myself. I came out and was told that I’d just missed him. Oh well, something like that had to happen to me, it usually does.
On into the night we partied, grabbing players as they passed. I think we had some sort of checklist in our minds as we ticked off each individual player. We danced, we sang and we drank as the now forgotten time drifted past. We even supported Luca Sheldon’s stage dive as his body was passed towards us. Sadly, he didn’t make it much beyond where we stood, maybe we didn’t have the strength to keep him up. We laid plans to grab Sam Herr who we had spotted heading towards the loo when he came out and that worked – Sorry Sam. I told Aaron Murphy he’d been pronouncing his name wrong (Hair not Her) and was told it was her as he’d asked Sam previously. All in all, a great night with a lot of very drunk (some even bare chested) players that I wouldn’t have missed for the world.
Salt Box kicked us out (this was becoming a pattern) and it was back to a now half empty Bunkers Hill for a final drink and a chance to gather ourselves before it was all over. It was a great weekend from the Thursday night all the way through to the Saturday. So, it’s huge thank you to the likes of Adam, Tina, Ant, Paul, Zara, Sara, Andy, Beckie, Aaron, Frankie, Steve, Tony, Emma, Aden, Allie, Jemma, Noel, Sarah, all the people who said they loved my shirt, the people who said they loved Danny Stewart, the bloke who told me Danny Stewart could f*** off and everyone else we spoke to over the weekend.
And then a final taxi ride saw us home at a distinctly late/early hour in the morning. If you were in that car, can I say I was just being quiet, drinking it all in and savouring the moment.
Now, what are we left with? A series of memories to look back on, articles like this or a dread of the credit card bill coming? Personally, I managed not to injure myself this year which I’m quite happy about. I was able to get in and out of the taxi without doing anything to myself this year. Seriously though, I keep thinking back to how I felt in Bolero Square, that lack of connection to the team. What if that continues? What if I don’t feel that connection again? I think I need to go away and have a good old think about things before I have to renew my season ticket. I need to weigh up pros and cons, the disconnection against the nerves and how I felt when we won it. It’s going to be some battle I think but I’ve got a while to think things over.
One thing is for sure though. I’ll be back in the pub next year. Now I think I’m going to go back to bed.
You can follow Paul on Twitter (X) here @NotMrBalm
Paul has also just released his second book Collected: The (almost) Complete Articles of Paul Balm 2000-2024 which is available on Amazon.
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