Man Meat Monday #33

I know you won't believe this, but I haven't Man Meated Sidney Crosby yet. Considering how often I talk about him, this post will probably seem offensive redundant. This week, however, I have the perfect excuse to fawn over him.

Sidney Patrick Crosby is finally returning to the Penguins lineup...for the first time since the two concussions he suffered in consecutive games (January 1st and 5th - days that will live in infamy). When the Penguins texted me this glorious news, I gave my parents a collective heart attack with my reaction:



Totally worth it. So, with no further ado, I bring you...

Sidney Crosby

Claim to Fame: Center for and Captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins

Birthday: August 7, 1987 (8/7/87 - hence his hockey number #87)

The first time I saw Sidney Crosby, I thought, "He looks like an athletic Andy Samberg." And so, a passionate love affair was born. The more I learned about him, the more I liked him. He is humble, politically correct (which is fangirl code for boring), mature, gracious with fans and the press, does more charity work than I care to list, and oh.so.talented. During my time as a proud Miami Redhawk, I fell in love with hockey. Sid took that love to a whole new level. Not only did I fall in love with him (no, this isn't an overstatement), but I fell in love with his team.

By the time the 2010 Winter Olympics rolled around, I had been stalking following him for quite some time. Although I was rooting for Team USA, I was also rooting for Sid, despite the detrimental effect my traitorous allegiance had on multiple personal relationships. When he scored the Golden Goal in overtime, it was more than cemented in my mind: Sid is hockey. In his short career, he has won just about every award possible, became the youngest captain to bring home the Stanley Cup, won an Olympic gold medal, became the face of the NHL, and put hockey on the map in America.

If all of this weren't enough, look at him. Although his nickname is "Sid the Kid," he is anything but. To me, Sidney Crosby is the human equivalent of Michelangelo's David. Seemingly sculpted from muscle and skin, he is flawless, the glorious culmination of unbelievable hard work and enviable genes. Every single thing about him makes me drool. His game-worn, calloused hands, the faint scar on his chin, his thick thighs, his deliciously pouty lips, the sweat that drips tantalizingly down his chiseled jawline during post-game interviews.

Wow.

Random Tidbit: He is highly superstitious. Trust me - you want to see this.



Only downfall?: I'm tempted to say he's kinda boring...but he really isn't. He's funny in a dorky sort of way. *lovestruck sigh* Oh yeah! He thinks that horrific excuse for a mustache is an acceptable look.

Oh, look. Always the gentleman, he's offering me a place to sit.



(I apologize. Apparently, Sidney Crosby turns me into an erotic novelist)

So, readers: It's your turn. Would you let Sid get all up in your crease?

I know I'm extreme, but for him, I'd renounce my citizenship, just so I could scream "OOOOO CANADA!!!!" all night long.

...and my work here is done. I regret nothing.