The average fully developed man grows facial hair at a rate of roughly half an inch a month. Should his team continue to advance through the drawn-out, two-month saga that is the NHL Stanley Cup playoffs, he might find himself sporting an itchy inch-plus beard by mid-June.
The playoff beard is my undisputed favorite sports superstition-turned tradition. Beards are for grizzly, Brawny-paper-towel-man-esque fellows. Hockey players are these grizzly-esque men. Frankly, hockey players look strange without facial hair. Nothing looks worse than a face with a black eye and broken smile devoid of a furry face.
Appearances aside, it does wonders for team chemistry. What better way to reinforce team unity than a roomful of bearded men? Beards for solidarity.
The tradition started in the early 1980s with the New York Islanders, a team that won four straight Stanley Cups between 1980 and 1983. I’m not going to say the team’s string of Stanley Cups was attributable to facial hair karma being on their side, but teams rarely win four consecutive titles.
In the years since, most NHL playoff teams have followed suit. As the team continues to advance, the razors stay on the bench, the rare exception being a desperation shave in the hopes it will reverse a skater’s poor play.
The phenomenon isn’t unique to the NHL. Facial hair fortitude was a mainstay of the late ‘90s New York Knick squads led by Patrick Ewing, and more recently has been seen during playoff runs by the NFL’s Pittsburgh Steelers and New England Patriots. San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson had Bay area fans on the “fear the beard” bandwagon during their World Series run in 2010.
Beyond its presence with professional teams, playoff beards have helped transcend the ever-present divide between hardcore fans and the multi-million dollar athletes they support. Fans live with their team, die with their team and grow with their team.
Which brings me to my playoff beard complex, the lone issue I have that creates a love-hate dynamic with the practice. Despite my best efforts, I simply cannot grow a beard. To put it into perspective, my facial hair makes Sidney Crosby look like Ron Swanson.
At 21 years old, I find my follicle impairment to be a sore subject and when NHL playoff time comes around, this anxiety hits a fever pitch. It’s hard not to feel a little emasculated when you see your peers walking around flaunting their big, thick, bushy beards.
It would be bad enough if these furry faces merely reminded me of my own inadequacy, but they also serve as a painful indication that those fans’ teams are still in the playoff hunt. These lucky men complain, often citing the itchiness and maintenance that comes with their gift, but to a clean-cut guy these are petty objections. They just don’t know how good they have it.
Of course, this stance is simply because I am a bitter, jealous, baby-faced fan. I’m still hanging on to the glimmer of hope that I am a late bloomer, that my day will come and someday I will join the bearded masses.
When that day comes, my beard will be in full force; I’ll be a deep sea fisherman, drink sap straight from the tree and women will swoon, provided my team keeps winning.
Just look around campus as the Bruins continue their journey through the 2012 NHL playoffs, there will be stubbled students everywhere.
– Dylan Lewis can be reached at [email protected].
