Jul 17, 2013 3 min read

Every spring I put myself through a brutal hazing process.

The beginning of the Stanley Cup Playoffs means that, as an ice hockey hoser, I feel honor-bound to grow a beard to send some karmic mojo to the hometown Pittsburgh Penguins.

The only problem with my plan is genetic: I have the facial hair of a 16-year-old scumbag. My old man blames our Native American blood for the Kendeall clan not being able to grow a proper beard. But of all the men in my family, my mug is by far the worst.

It’s a hockey pastime to grow a beard during your team’s run in the playoffs. Traditionally, you shave before the first game and trim only after losses.

It’s one thing for a player with an NHL contract to grow a wild-man beard, but I’m a full-grown adult who has to work in a professional environment. So last year, shortly after I was hired by the Observer-Reporter, I turned my back on the tradition in favor of showing up to work clean-shaven.

I think it was Yogi Berra who said, “It’s bad luck to be superstitious,” but the Penguins’ sorry first-round exit from the playoffs last year had convinced me that the team needed me for the 2013 campaign. Ignoring the ramifications a “beard” would have on my dating life, I dove into this year’s cup race face-first.

Ice hockey can be a brutal mistress. The thing is, you can love her with all your heart, but that doesn’t mean she’ll love you back.

I have a complicated relationship with the hockey gods, to say the least. Lucky dishes dictate my diet during the playoff season, and lucky jerseys mustn’t be washed after wins, regardless of how much wing sauce and beer is spilled on them. But the beard superstition is the only one that affects my daily life.

Even though I look like an absolute clown with this beard (which actually could more appropriately be described as a creepster-‘stache/mutton-chops/pirate-goatee combination), it isn’t all bad. I went on a six-game goal-scoring streak in my men’s ice hockey beer-league with the beard, and I was also able to get a lot more street cred in the Lawrenceville/Bloomsfield scene.

I wonder if hipsters hate the playoffs because they aren’t the only ones with ironic facial hair.

This year’s playoff run meant that I had my beard for a good bit of time. But the Penguins’ relative success was overcast by the sting of being swept by the Boston Bruins in the Eastern Conference Finals. So I have a while to ponder, do I try it again next year?

Oh, well, c’est la vie, right?

Because of the Pirates’ two decades of losing seasons, I haven’t had the need for superstition when watching baseball. However, Mountaineer and Steelers football seasons are right around the corner. I better start stocking up for the bratwurst and moonshine sacrifice needed to appease the football pantheon.