Philly Phaithful
Better With Popcorn

Where am I?

Before I dive into the nonsense that is my mindset and its inner workings (which are scattered around at best), I beg all the readers out there to attend The Checking Line’s live chat during game three tonight. I’m literally on my knees begging as I type this. Please. Thank you, you’re too kind. Now, without further adieu…

I don’t know where I am right now, and furthermore, I don’t want to know. The remarkable run that has been the Flyers postseason (and the shootout on the final day of the regular season as well) has been out of this world. The funniest part about the situation is that all year, I yelled, screamed, cursed, etc. at this team. Well, they finally shut me up, which is a tough task to accomplish. They’ve rewarded me in a way that I can no longer stay justified in running my big mouth. Watching them this postseason is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. After game five in Boston, I strapped myself in. I didn’t ask how the strap worked. I didn’t ask where we were going. I didn’t even have to be told to strap in. I simply clicked the belt. It’s been a helluva ride thus far.

I’ve never had an out of body experience; therefore, I have no clue what it feels like. But at this point, I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m caught in one right now. It’s almost as if I watch the games with a cool, calm and collected reassurance that must be independent of the real Mark Trible. It’s just simply not my way. I’m spoiled right now, and I feel that if and when this six game winning streak ends, I could come back to earth. I may raise my voice level. I will probably bring my big black bag of expletives too.

The point isn’t that I’m not quite sure of what’s going on or where I am. The point is that I’m finding comfort in the confusion. When the Flyers were down 3-0 to Boston, I was resigned to the fate of the team. Many teams had gone the same route with the same deficit, few returned. I think the aspect of living on ‘borrowed’ time has finally sunk into my 12-inch thick skull. The Flyers aren’t supposed to be here. Oh wait, they are here. Not only are they here, they’re creating all different kinds of ruckus while they overstay the original itinerary. I love that. Send the check to Boston; they’ll pick up the tab. Chokers.

From Pittsburgh and Washington bowing out, to opening the playoffs with New Jersey (a team the Flyers owned all season), as well as season-ending injuries to Sturm and Krejci in the second round against Boston, everything seems to be coming up orange and black. Certainly, the Flyers had to win the games they played, they’ve earned it, but the idea of fate playing a role in this whole deal is perpetuating in my mind. When Michael Leighton throws two shutouts in the Eastern Conference Finals and the team has scored 13 unanswered goals, fate is the elephant in the room as far as I’m concerned. Soon enough, we’ll know if this run was truly fate or simply a nice little tale to get us through the off-season more addicted than we were before.

Tonight, my dream world continues. The Flyers head to the loud-as-Hell Centre with a chance to dig a deeper hole for Les Habitants. Win or lose tonight, the Flyers have put themselves in an excellent position to move on the Stanley Cup Finals. In doing so, they’ve continued to add to my out of body experience. My dream world still exists, and as long as the Flyers season continues, the existence will only become more and more unreal. I think.

If this post was far too 'Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit-hole', I understand, but it’s tough to put an intangible feeling into words. I tried. Now I’ll spend my two minutes in the box for delusional writing.

While I sit alone and slam my stick down and begin to curse at the officials and opposing players, visit my home page at and follow me on Twitter at