Bad Medicine in Toronto: Bon Jovi, Meet Maple Leafs Nation

I sat down, and was ready to be rocked.

Chris Daughtry followed by Bon Jovi—not a bad combination.

We got to the Air Canada Centre by 6:30, and were in the doors and seated by 6:50. We got a program (or a glorified photo album), three t-shirts (me, mom, and my dad's bosses daughter), and some...er...refreshments.

Then I noticed it.

It stared at me the entire time, as we looked around the arena, watching people finding their seats, seeing what they picked up from the merchandise table, and trying to figure out if my father was the oldest man there (Just so you know, he wasn't. Turns out Tico Torres—Bon Jovi's drummer—is a year older than him).

But it just kept staring at me—following my every move, watching me as my eyes wandered, trying to find the box where I watched the Raptors' playoff-clinching game last season, following my as my eyes darted to the "Gondola" where Joe Bowen has made his living in the lasting memory of Foster Hewitt.

As a sidenote: I don't like boxes. For being "premium seats" they're too far from the action, it's $20 for a slice of pizza, and instead of being with the real fans, the other people in the box (I was there with co-workers) can't stand the real fans. I'd rather be at ice level (or courtside) with the real fans while a 400-pound guy drops a beer down my back than sit in a box with a bunch of stiffs.

You just couldn't avoid it.

1967—the 100th anniversary of Canada's independence, the Boston Strangler (Albert DeSalvo) is convicted to life in prison, Elvis Presley got married, and the Maple Leafs won their last Stanley Cup.

That's right. While I was waiting for one of the best concerts of my life, I was avoiding the shadow being cast by a banner that represents years of futility for one of the most legendary franchises in sports.

If you've never been there, or seen the banner, then you might not know what I'm talking about. But if you have, you know about the aura. You look up at it and, no matter how proud you are of the Leafs, there's a small amount of shame tugging at your heart.

A voice echoes in your head: "1967....forty-one years....1967" and you can't look at it for more than a few seconds until you're just overcome with embarrassment and disgust.

Needless to say, it's not something to be proud of. And it's not something that you can "misremember" if you partake in too many beverages (I didn't try this last night, as I wanted to remember the concert, but I've used this strategy before and it doesn't work).

There isn't even a name for this "curse". The Cubs have their goat, the Red Sox had the Bambino, and the White Sox (to an extent) had the Black Sox scandal, but what does Toronto have?

We aren't known as the "sufferers of the _______ curse" amongst the hockey universe, we're just known as the arrogant fans who think they're better than they actually are—who throw hope around faster and more frequently than Jose Canseco can stick a syringe in his own ass.

You may as well call it the "Curse of the Timbit" because to the rest of world, it's just that insignificant—our drought is the cut-out part of the donut that is the NHL; the part that is supposed to fill that hole, but actually causes it—we separate oursleves from the rest of the league.

And the "late season charge"? Well, imagine the bitter aftertaste after eating a stale timbit: It's what you want, but never ends in the preferable way; you never actually find the satisfaction you desire.

In a lot of ways, Maple Leafs fans are sad. Not boo-hoo kind of sad (well sometimes we feel that way), but more three-legged cat—we expect to be pittied. And when we aren't, it's us against the world.

We waffle, we bounce back and forth, we're indecisive, and we are in fact arrogant.

I mean, how else can you explain my thought process as Daughtry struck the first chord of It's Not Over? The only thing I could think of was that the Leafs were playing that night, and how if they won it still wasn't over. There was still a chance.

There's always a chance.

That was something that my parents taught me from the day I was born: No matter what you want in life, there's always a chance for you to achieve it. The probability of you achieving it however, is decided by your comittment and perseverance.

Unfortunately that theory doesn't carry to sports. Me, Ian, Kyle, the Woz, Trevor—any Leafs fan could believe until they're blue (or white) in the face, but they don't decide who wins the games, no matter how badly they wished they did.

All we can do is believe in those that make the games matter, and hope that they share our commitment, our energy, our passion, our frustration, our love...for our team.

Vesa Toskala has played a majoirty of the year with a sore groin.

It's not over.

Mats Sundin, the most consistent facet of this team all season, is day-to-day with a sore groin at the most important time of the year.

It's not over.

The Leafs took three of a possible four possible points from the Flyers in back-to-back games. I can't shake the feeling that they'll end up ninth, behind the Flyers by a single point, but I still believe...because it's not over. Not yet.

The city of Toronto isn't satisfied—they hardly ever are. But maybe these "surges" for the playoffs in the waning moments of seasons past is what they need.

The Toronto Maple Leafs are like bad medicine, and bad medicine is what Toronto needs.

As Bon Jovi said last night, Toronto is a Blue Jay town, a Raptor town, a Maple Leafs town.

And that's why I love this town.