from Philip Pritchard at The Players' Tribune,
I have been the “Keeper of the Cup” for 27 years. It’s been my responsibility to accompany the Stanley Cup on its journey to some of the most remote parts of the world. In that time, I have seen a lot of strange and amazing things. I’ve seen the top of the Cup filled with popcorn by Marty Brodeur’s kids on a trip to the movies and with spuds by Adam McQuaid’s potato-farmer family on tiny Prince Edward Island. I’ve seen it launched into swimming pools (thanks for the heart palpitations, Phil Bourque), taken to the tops of mountains, and used as the ultimate prize in nostalgic street hockey tournaments.
’ve had it strapped to my lap in tiny propeller planes to reach otherwise inaccessible parts of the Canadian wilderness. Once, after it took a tumble off a table during a wine-and-cheese party, I used a policeman’s wrench to buff out a dent on the floor of a men’s room (don’t worry, it returned to the party — it’s hockey). I’ve seen, by my rough estimates, more than 15,000 cans of beer poured into it.
The Cup is not perfect. It’s got 120 years of nicks and smudges, and the names aren’t all etched on straight. But it is an inanimate object with a personality. It is the most unique trophy in all of sports, and it has an aura that can’t be explained unless you understand what it means to hockey players. One story comes to mind.
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