Vinay Menon: The Toronto Maple Leafs are dead to me. And I am finally alive

Not caring if they win or lose is the best way to watch the Leafs.

I know. That is apostasy inside Leafs Nation, a blue-and-white failed state that levies emotional taxes every spring. I defected a few years ago. The ensuing serenity deserves the Lady Byng. I’ve probably added five years to my life.

When the Leafs face off against Tampa on Thursday – trying to win their first playoff series since … 2004? – I will tune in, mostly because the Jays have an off-day.

No matter the outcome, I won’t lose any sleep.

The Leafs are dead to me. And I am finally alive.

If I had a time machine, I’d go back and grab my junior high self by the Lacoste popped collar: “Why are you doing school projects on the deke prowess of Greg Terrion? Why are you begging Mom and Dad for a hamster so you can name it Allan Bester?”

When we were kids, and dawn-to-dusk road hockey games started with spats about who got to be Bill Derlago, there was no greater insult than “bandwagon jumper.” That was the schoolyard equivalent of “snitch” in prison. The crazy part is there was little reason to be a Johnny-come-lately when a regular season ended with 48 points. There was never a lately. If your team doesn’t make the playoffs, which the Leafs rarely did in my formative years, there is no bandwagon upon which to jump.

Now there is. And you know what? It is a sweet ride.

When the Leafs were trounced 7-3 by Tampa in Game 1, I was crying laughing at the incoming texts from shattered family and friends still trapped inside Leafs Nation. My phone turned into pinging litany of complaints that should be part of the oral citizenship test: “These bums have no heart!” “Blue-and-white disease is real!”

The first round then did a dramatic 180 and now the home squad is up 3-1.

In advance of Thursday’s possible clinch, I was watching highlights from the first four games. This 2023 edition has a level of talent reminiscent of 1993, when the team led by Doug Gilmour ended up one win short of the Stanley Cup finals. Just typing that sentence makes me want to high-stick Kerry “Vidal Sassoon” Fraser.

But it’s only now, years after defecting, do I realize the problem was always me.

I cared about winning more than the Leafs did. I was the one who skipped school to buy a John Kordic jersey upon hearing about the trade. I was the one with the prepubescent voice who donned a navy suit and clip-on tie to meet Jim Benning and Stewart Gavin one glorious evening. I was the one who got accidentally elbowed in the back of the head by Miroslav Frycer outside the Eaton Centre. It’s a fond memory.

I was the one who convinced Wendel Clark to hit up the CNE midway and play games for a story I was writing. I was the one who picked up a permanent marker to scrawl “Leafs Forever” on my new Levi’s in high school, an act of denim vandalism that almost gave my father an aneurism. His children were brainwashed lunatics inside Leafs Nation. It was disorienting. He didn’t know a puck from a pakora.

Now I see the blue-and-white light. The best way to watch the Leafs is in a reclining bucket seat on a climate-controlled bandwagon. Don’t come at me. I paid my dues. I waited in line for a Rick Vaive autograph. I asked Dion Phaneuf why he programmed Toto’s “Africa” to play during practices. Sir, that is not a song embraced by warriors.

So now on Thursday, I’m free to vacation inside Leafs Nation, hoping for the best while indifferent to the worst. The pre-game superstitions are mothballed. The rituals are a distant memory. Never again will I wear my underwear inside out or lick a pyramid or take a lonely stroll during the intermission while asking God to help the buds score five goals in the third to mount an epic comeback.

Let’s say the Leafs beat Tampa on Thursday. Let’s say Tampa wins and eventually comes back to take the series in another atomic heartbreak for Leafs Nation.

Either way, I will shrug, mute my texts and shake out a martini.

The diehard in me has died. Long live the bandwagon.

And, Wendel, that is not how you play Whac-A-Mole.

How did you ever beat up Bob Probert?

But if the Leafs do advance on Thursday, I will beg Kevin McGran, the Star’s hockey savant, to give me a roster crash course. He’ll probably make me buy him drinks at the Keg first. Fine. Just tell me, Kevin, who is this Ilya Samsonov? What happened to James Reimer? Did Kyle Dubas contractually stipulate that Auston Matthews must always sport the ’stache of an amateur Pornhub director? Mitch Marner is electric. But has anyone checked his birth certificate? He looks 12 years old. And can Morgan Rielly not emit the put-upon vibes of a door-to-door insurance salesman after he scores in OT?

Go Leafs Go? Absolutely not. Go on, Leafs. Make this worth my time.

This lapsed Leafer apologizes to every bandwagon jumper I ever disparaged.

You were right. The best way to care about this team is to not care at all.

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