She is famous.  She is sought after.  She is craved.  She is earned.  Men live lifetimes with the hope of attaining her.  Wherever she goes, there are hoards who want to be near her, to see her, to touch her if they can.  She travels with guards to protect her.  Her fans are rabid, sometimes unhinged and drunk with her presence.

Men toil for years, for decades, for lifetimes only to fail at winning her.



There are many men who would give anything to win her.  Many boys dream of her even in their youth.  Some young men have made their passage into adulthood by holding her above their head, dipping her vigorously to their upturned head to give her the kiss of victory.  They have brought her home during summer months to share with their family and friends.  She has been taken to mountain tops.  Some have taken her to local watering holes to fill her with beer and champagne and other celebratories, passed her among any in the bar who would celebrate her.

She is the Stanley Cup.


(Apologies to Brian Zeglen who would no doubt pay better tribute.)