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True, “almost-great” gilds the lily of the team’s timeline since 1967 and the last Stanley Cup, ignoring the talent desert of the early 80s and the vacuous post-Sundin era, to say nothing of torturous losses to lesser teams in recent playoff runs. But ever since the Leafs landed the weight of their organizational stress on the shoulders of a Mexican-American centre nine years ago— then ably drafted in a coterie of sublimely talented forwards possibly headed to the Hall of Fame once their careers are over— there’s been an almostness to every successive year, setting franchise records in wins, and individual scoring milestones, across the regular season, only to collapse on their post season road to greatness.

Squint and you can see the gleam of silverware; dream and you can imagine the captain and his caterpillar moustache on the cover of next year’s NHL guide. Frederik Andersen makes one more save against Columbus; Jack Campbell squeezes Brendan Gallagher’s wrist shot; Joe Woll lets the Bruins score a nothing goal in the dying seconds of Game 6 instead of rupturing his knee; and Jake Gardiner skates in the easy swim of his beautiful gifts instead of filing a minus-7 in Boston. Salming doesn’t get hurt, nor does Sundin. Tie Domi’s hit sends Sami Kapanen into the Flyer bench, taking out the rest of his wretched team. Leafs gorge themselves on winning. The almost fizzes into champagne and we are drunk on the greatness that our fandom deserves.

Because we’re almost-great, we live here, stay here, raise kids here, and cheer for the Maple Leafs. We’re this close. We can feel it. But because we’re not yet the kind of place that the world points to and puts money away so they might some day visit, and because the Leafs will always appear to come close without finding a way through, we gather on chesterfields, Lazy Boys, bar stools, shed chairs, tree stumps and park benches to watch last night’s game knowing that losing is just as likely as winning, because the team, and our city, is good at both. In between. Stuck in the middle. So far along yet so far away. We imagine being swept across that last distance the way the Jays did in ‘92 and ‘93 or the Raptors did in 2019. It will just happen. It will. And then you remember who you are and what team you are following. The dread of a historically dismal loss is never too far away.

Still, it’s beautiful that we try, and maybe that’s even the most important thing. Last night, my wife and I went to an art opening at our newspaper’s office and, picking out my clothes, I reached into the closet for my Auston Matthews sweater because that’s another thing about Leafs fans: we’re aware of our condition. We know that some people will shake heads and ridicule our devotion. They’ll cat call and mock us on the street. But, at this point, the bruises and the scars are almost part of the design. Later, settling in to watch the game with our daughter, we were prepared for another loss, then a Game 7, then another loss, then a new narrative to add to the comic-tragedy. Since regular-season victories are empty calories, losing, in a way, has become our protein. It nourishes our fandom the way raw meat feeds a jungle cat. The Gods keep throwing it to us and we’ve grown used to it.

But every now and then, what we expect to happen doesn’t, and that’s what happened last night. The Leafs played a nearly-perfect hockey game, and their best players found a way beyond the almost-great, winning in the most intense circumstances. The coach, and the coach’s defence, always remembered to do the right thing, and manouevring Max Paccioretty, who scored the game winner, until he landed with the right line mates, was a lever deftly-pulled by Craig Berube, who is unlike any coach the Leafs have had. All of that and the mercurial wizard, William Nylander, played his best game. As fans, we wrenched and twisted our bodies with each rush, each point shot, then, at the buzzer, fell back exhausted from having been drawn so deeply into something happening so far away. The exhale, the release, and the satisfaction— all of this after decades of finishing games with an anvil on our hearts— reminded us that it’s ok to dream of how great all of this could be, and maybe that’s coming sooner than we think. Anything’s possible in life and sports and that’s why we keep going.

After writing this, I stepped out to the porch and pretended to smoke. The night was damp. The Leafs had won. The neighbourhood was fine and quiet.