It was a strange thought amid the dejection and echo of Patrick Kane's unprintable middle name in the wake of the Wild's season-ending loss, incongruous with the moment but insistent:
That was fun.
Not the game, of course, nor the sweep, nor the gnawing sensation that this team once again was not -- and might well never be -- good enough to get past the Blackhawks. Those are the wages of fandom and attachment, and by now we're used to paying them.
And what did they get us? A hell of a good time, right up until the end.