Mon - August 4, 2008
MONDAY AFTERNOON REALITY CHECK
for anyone who still gives a damn about brett
favre.
After a weekend in which I had to endure constant
headlines and updates and breaking reports about his status (Roger Goodell
will issue a proclamation on Monday, after a vigil and a prayer service!),
the Facebook taunts of a Vikings fan who seems to think that both her team and
my Eagles would be better off with Brett Favre, and several interruptions of
last night's Phillies-Cardinals game (5-4 Phils; nice clutch hitting, Shane
Victorino!) to show footage of his plane landing in Green Bay (he's not the
Pope, people!), this little excerpt from the comedy stylings of Norman Chad
(nice name!) and his couch slouch column got my week off to a pretty good
start:
Q. If the Vikings played the Packers and Brett Favre started for both teams, who would win? (Ed Werstein, Milwaukee)
A. I assume the game would end on a Favre interception, so it depends which team has the ball last.
Brilliant. And so, so true.
As I, and at least one other pundit, pointed out about three-and-a-half years ago.
Q. If the Vikings played the Packers and Brett Favre started for both teams, who would win? (Ed Werstein, Milwaukee)
A. I assume the game would end on a Favre interception, so it depends which team has the ball last.
Brilliant. And so, so true.
As I, and at least one other pundit, pointed out about three-and-a-half years ago.
Posted at 01:47 PM
Sat - August 2, 2008
SATURDAY MORNING REALITY CHECK
for the twenty-five fans they have
left.
After reading an email from a good friend of mine
who, while on his way to watch Manny Ramirez's debut with the Dodgers, took the
time to note that with a title like Sad, Silly, Desperate (and
incompetent), Thursday's post really should have been about the Pirates, and
after hearing one of ESPN Radio's most inexplicably employed talking heads get
genuinely excited yesterday because new third basement Andy LaRoche was 1-for-2
(with an infield single) halfway through the game at Wrigley Field, and
after reading a story this morning about how Andy is happy to be in Pittsburgh
and playing across the infield from his older brother Adam, I thought, Gee,
what a great story it will be when the Pirates get to the playoffs with them.
Which will be never.
Which will be never.
Posted at 09:33 AM
Sat - July 26, 2008
EXAMPLE #1,237,365
of what's wrong with professional athletes
today.
In a move that likely means Pittsburgh baseball
fans will not get even one more sniff of that occasional, fleeting whiff of mediocrity until
next season at least, the Pirates traded two of the best players on their
major-league roster to (who else?) the New York Yankees, for four minor league
prospects. Even if their team -- which, admittedly, has new management in place
(again) -- did not have a long history of trading solid major leaguers for minor
leaguers who come to nothing, Pirates' fans would still have reason to be
concerned about this deal. Consider:
Torre Tyson, a one-time batting coach in the Yankees' system but now the manager of the Class A Charleston Riverdogs, had this to say about [Jose] Tabata to the New York Times:
"He thinks he belongs in the big leagues and he's ready for it. There's confidence and there's cockiness, and he's got plenty of both... He just carries himself like a major leaguer.A lot of people don't like to play against him because he carries himself like he already is Manny Ramirez. But he thinks he's the best guy out there, and he goes out and proves it most of the time."
While batting .248. With 3 home runs and 36 RBI. In AA ball.
Perhaps Tabata ought to carry himself a little less, and start playing himself a whole lot more, like a major leaguer. And perhaps someone in the Pirates' organization ought to tell him, before he ever puts on one of their uniforms, that the minor leagues and college ranks and even the sandlots and playgrounds of every major sport are filled to bursting with people who fancy themselves as pro talents. And that the surest way to end up just like them is to think, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, that your potential has already been realized merely because it's been recognized.
Torre Tyson, a one-time batting coach in the Yankees' system but now the manager of the Class A Charleston Riverdogs, had this to say about [Jose] Tabata to the New York Times:
"He thinks he belongs in the big leagues and he's ready for it. There's confidence and there's cockiness, and he's got plenty of both... He just carries himself like a major leaguer.A lot of people don't like to play against him because he carries himself like he already is Manny Ramirez. But he thinks he's the best guy out there, and he goes out and proves it most of the time."
While batting .248. With 3 home runs and 36 RBI. In AA ball.
Perhaps Tabata ought to carry himself a little less, and start playing himself a whole lot more, like a major leaguer. And perhaps someone in the Pirates' organization ought to tell him, before he ever puts on one of their uniforms, that the minor leagues and college ranks and even the sandlots and playgrounds of every major sport are filled to bursting with people who fancy themselves as pro talents. And that the surest way to end up just like them is to think, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, that your potential has already been realized merely because it's been recognized.
Posted at 12:05 PM
Wed - July 16, 2008
TWO MONTHS...
...to the day...
...Until training camp
starts.
Which means it's time...
...for the first official LET'S GO, PENS! of the 2008-09 season.
So, LET'S GO, PENS!
(Okay. So it's time for the first two. I got a little carried away.)
Which means it's time...
...for the first official LET'S GO, PENS! of the 2008-09 season.
So, LET'S GO, PENS!
(Okay. So it's time for the first two. I got a little carried away.)
Posted at 06:37 PM
Sat - July 12, 2008
GERRY AUSTIN IS A BIG FAT STINKY FACE
and nfl head coaches say so.
It's been a while since I've written about Gerry
Austin, the now-forcibly-retired -- the league finally wised
up and sent him a letter -- worst referee in the NFL. Which means, of
course, that it's also been a while since I've received a ranting, semi-coherent email from one of his
vulgar relatives. But a little item I saw on ESPN.com last night made me
realize that it was time to write about him again, insults in my inbox be
damned.
(But don't worry, Terry. I remembered your email and the sensitivities of the grand kids, so I kept the title elementary-school-mild once again.)
It seems that ESPN asked NFL head coaches, who were granted anonymity in exchange for their candor, to name the best and worst referees in the league. The breakdown of the vote, which should not surprise anyone who watches football and possesses a functioning brain, looked like this:
Since the coaches remain anonymous, I guess it's only a matter of time before ESPN columnist Mike Sando, the guy who wrote the piece in which these results appeared, receives a batch of whiny, threatening emails from Gerry Austin's relatives. Or, better yet, before every coach in the league receives one. (I can hear Elberta now: You bastard! What do you know about football?! Huh?! Don't make me come and find you and shove a yellow flag up your ass!)
Me? I'm tempted to say I told you so. But that would be silly.
Because you already knew.
(But don't worry, Terry. I remembered your email and the sensitivities of the grand kids, so I kept the title elementary-school-mild once again.)
It seems that ESPN asked NFL head coaches, who were granted anonymity in exchange for their candor, to name the best and worst referees in the league. The breakdown of the vote, which should not surprise anyone who watches football and possesses a functioning brain, looked like this:
Since the coaches remain anonymous, I guess it's only a matter of time before ESPN columnist Mike Sando, the guy who wrote the piece in which these results appeared, receives a batch of whiny, threatening emails from Gerry Austin's relatives. Or, better yet, before every coach in the league receives one. (I can hear Elberta now: You bastard! What do you know about football?! Huh?! Don't make me come and find you and shove a yellow flag up your ass!)
Me? I'm tempted to say I told you so. But that would be silly.
Because you already knew.
Posted at 09:56 AM
Thu - July 3, 2008
A QUICK PREDICTION
could it be...satan, perhaps?
If he plays on Sidney Crosby's line, Miroslav Satan will score 40.
At least.
Posted at 03:29 PM
Wed - July 2, 2008
WHY WHITNEY'S A BARGAIN
and why it only gets better.
I've already made this argument in considerable detail, but all the free agent
signings of the last two days, coupled with the Pavlovian talk-show drooling of
the anti-Ryan-Whitney-ites who wanted to trade the Pens' brilliant young
defenseman to clear enough cap room for Marian Hossa (wouldn't have mattered)
and/or Brooks Orpik (didn't matter anyway), compels me to make it again. This
time, in simple, they-don't-lie, you-can't-possibly-dispute-'em
numbers.
Here are the career stats, ages, and annual salary numbers for yesterday's big trio of free agent offensive-minded-defenseman signings:
BRIAN CAMPBELL: .47 pts per game / +2 / 29 years old / $7.1 million
WADE REDDEN .49 pts per game / +159 / 31 years old / $6.5 Million
MICHAL ROZSIVAL: .36 pts per game / +48 / 29 years old / $5 Million
Say what you will about those salary figures -- sure, they're inflated, and of course, they're absurd -- but the market is the market, and those numbers represent the going rate for a top-four-level NHL offensive defenseman.
Now take a look at Ryan Whitney's career stats, age, and annual salary number:
RYAN WHITNEY: .61 pts per game / Even / 25 years old / $4 Million
Even setting aside all of the intangibles, or at least unquantifiables -- smart play, great positional defense, amazing tape-to-tape breakout passes -- I've detailed before, and even after an admittedly subpar year, Whitney is, according to the market established by NHL GMs yesterday, already a major bargain. When you consider that he's four (or 6) years younger than these other guys, that he will continue to grow and improve, and that, despite the grunts and chortles of fans for whom defense equates only to crunching checks, his on-ice contributions to the Penguins will become far more significant with each passing year, his salary figure will soon be akin to highway robbery. By the time the deal expires in 2013, the Pens will be getting about $12 million worth of production -- and quite possibly a Norris Trophy candidacy -- from a guy making $4 million a year.
And even then, I suspect, the knuckle-draggers will be screaming for him to hit someone.
Here are the career stats, ages, and annual salary numbers for yesterday's big trio of free agent offensive-minded-defenseman signings:
BRIAN CAMPBELL: .47 pts per game / +2 / 29 years old / $7.1 million
WADE REDDEN .49 pts per game / +159 / 31 years old / $6.5 Million
MICHAL ROZSIVAL: .36 pts per game / +48 / 29 years old / $5 Million
Say what you will about those salary figures -- sure, they're inflated, and of course, they're absurd -- but the market is the market, and those numbers represent the going rate for a top-four-level NHL offensive defenseman.
Now take a look at Ryan Whitney's career stats, age, and annual salary number:
RYAN WHITNEY: .61 pts per game / Even / 25 years old / $4 Million
Even setting aside all of the intangibles, or at least unquantifiables -- smart play, great positional defense, amazing tape-to-tape breakout passes -- I've detailed before, and even after an admittedly subpar year, Whitney is, according to the market established by NHL GMs yesterday, already a major bargain. When you consider that he's four (or 6) years younger than these other guys, that he will continue to grow and improve, and that, despite the grunts and chortles of fans for whom defense equates only to crunching checks, his on-ice contributions to the Penguins will become far more significant with each passing year, his salary figure will soon be akin to highway robbery. By the time the deal expires in 2013, the Pens will be getting about $12 million worth of production -- and quite possibly a Norris Trophy candidacy -- from a guy making $4 million a year.
And even then, I suspect, the knuckle-draggers will be screaming for him to hit someone.
Posted at 06:56 PM
Thu - June 5, 2008
WE'LL BE WAITING
and dreaming.
I will, at some point, offer up my own valedictory
for this stunning, pulsing, almost certainly more-than-we-could-have-hoped-for
season. But for now, I want to share with you a pair of emails I received last
night -- we'll call their authors R & R -- that do a pretty wonderful job of
capturing the yin and yang of what so many of us are feeling this morning:
another pair of Rs we'll call Resolve and
Romanticism.
Here's the first:
It will pass... but I feel sick.
I'm proud of the Pens. Very proud of our Pens, but sick that we lost. Let the analysts say what they will; the better team lost tonight and this series. I receive some solace from knowing that you, Wendy, Adam, Ethan, and I will see the Pens raise Lord Stanley's Cup a number of times over the next decade, but that is the hope of tomorrow, and right now I simply feel the bitter taste of the present.
I know that our young Pens feel it too. You could see it overwhelming Sid and Geno after the buzzer sounded, and you could see that it swallowed them whole in the dressing room. This is why I know our Pens will be back here next year with even more resolve and willing a different result. Though next year seems forever from now, it, and our time, will soon be here.
From one Never-Die Fan to another... Let's Go, Pens!
And here's the second:
Last night I watched a very young team fight it out, figuratively, sometimes literally, but never diffidently. Hockey is not a sport I have followed since my younger years. To me, Henri Richard and Gordie Howe and Bobby Orr are contemporary phenomena. I prefer legend to flesh. Yet, watching those men on the ice tonight, even in loss, taking the battle to the last shot, playing with grace and grit, I had to think back a few years. These guys played like [a team] of happy -- and selectively hazy -- memory. They played in the flesh what I remember in the heart. And they'll be back.
And we'll be waiting. And dreaming.
Here's the first:
It will pass... but I feel sick.
I'm proud of the Pens. Very proud of our Pens, but sick that we lost. Let the analysts say what they will; the better team lost tonight and this series. I receive some solace from knowing that you, Wendy, Adam, Ethan, and I will see the Pens raise Lord Stanley's Cup a number of times over the next decade, but that is the hope of tomorrow, and right now I simply feel the bitter taste of the present.
I know that our young Pens feel it too. You could see it overwhelming Sid and Geno after the buzzer sounded, and you could see that it swallowed them whole in the dressing room. This is why I know our Pens will be back here next year with even more resolve and willing a different result. Though next year seems forever from now, it, and our time, will soon be here.
From one Never-Die Fan to another... Let's Go, Pens!
And here's the second:
Last night I watched a very young team fight it out, figuratively, sometimes literally, but never diffidently. Hockey is not a sport I have followed since my younger years. To me, Henri Richard and Gordie Howe and Bobby Orr are contemporary phenomena. I prefer legend to flesh. Yet, watching those men on the ice tonight, even in loss, taking the battle to the last shot, playing with grace and grit, I had to think back a few years. These guys played like [a team] of happy -- and selectively hazy -- memory. They played in the flesh what I remember in the heart. And they'll be back.
And we'll be waiting. And dreaming.
Posted at 09:13 AM
Wed - June 4, 2008
OVER TIME
and beyond.
If you lived and died and screamed and cried
through four overtimes against the Caps in '96, you no doubt still feel that
same, nerve-jangling mix of elation and relief at the very mention of Petr
Nedved, and so what transpired in the blink of a beautiful wrist shot early
yesterday morning was one glorious, sweet-shooting Czech-mate of a sequel. It
was deja vu, mixed with a heaping helping of praise Jesus.
If you lived and cried and screamed and almost died after five overtimes
against the Flyers in 2000, you no doubt still feel that gut-wrenching mix of
disgust and depression at the very thoughts of Keith Primeau and Ron Tugnutt,
and so what rose from a bubbling cauldron of blood and guts and sheer,
indomitable will early yesterday morning was one glorious, karma-rewarding bit
of redemption. It was deja screw you, topped with generous scoops of
woo hoo and hallelujah and pack up that damned cup, Mike, because the boys are back in
town.
If you’re anything at all like me — and I hope, for your sakes, you’re not — you’re still catching your breath. Still shaking your head. Still stopping, at times, in the middle of whatever you’re doing, wherever you’re doing it, just to sigh and smile and revel in it just a little bit longer. You’re thinking it’s one of the best, most epic, most glorious games of hockey — or any other sport, for that matter — that you’ve ever seen. You’re thinking that you may never see, or at least feel, another one quite like it. You’re thinking it’s a story you will tell your grandchildren:
how Marc-Andre Fleury summoned the glorious spirits of Patrick Roy and Terry Sawchuck, of Jacques Plante and Ken Dryden, of Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci, keeping both his cool and his smile, contorting his wildly bendable, defiantly unbreakable body and refusing to let anything, from slap shots to caroming pucks to crease-crashing forwards, get by him, blocking and sticking and gloving and jaw-dropping left-pad saving everything that came his way, with an acrobatic, rubber-limbed, iron-willed gem of a performance;
how Ryan Malone took a slap shot to the face, gushed blood, left the ice with his second broken nose of the series, and then came back for four more periods, bruised and swollen and cotton-stuffed, almost unrecognizable except for his bushy beard and his iron will, breathing through his mouth and playing through his soul, scrapping and hitting and blocking shots, casting aside fear and pain and what must have been a fire raging in his lungs to steel himself in front of that crease again, watching one last laser of a shot sail past his battered face and into the back of that beautiful twine;
how Mad Max Talbot, who was never out there in those situations but could have been, and probably should have been sometimes, was, and did what he always does -- work like a dog, chase down the puck, take a hit, find some space, crash the net -- and, with thirty-four-point-three blessed seconds left in the season, took a second whack at a rebound and jammed it home to save the day, the night, the next two days, and the last nine months, pulling his team back from the edge of the abyss and then, through two-and-a-half more periods, convincing them to stay there, with fabulous work on the ice and even more fabulous work off it, laughing and joking and even dancing on the bench, keeping his teammates’ minds and spirits off the exhaustion, the deprivation, the desperation that must have threatened to overtake them at any frail, fragile moment;
how Adam Hall, a guy almost everyone had forgotten but who came back from injury and worked his way into the lineup and, after already emerging as one of the unsung heroes of the series, unsang again, not just with the second goal of the game, but with seven periods of relentless energy, with brilliant defense and unflappable penalty killing, turning aside rush after rush and puck after puck, passing and poking and chipping and prodding that little biscuit out of the defensive oven and back those few, precious inches to neutral ice, ever and onward toward Game 6;
how Marian Hossa proved once more, and for all-time, that anyone who ever said he couldn’t perform in the playoffs should have never, ever been allowed to opine on the sport again, scoring the all-important first goal of the game with a typically blinding flash of his soft, ferocious hands, turning backhand to forehand and whipping a rocket of a wrister past Chris Osgood and then, for a hundred more minutes, willing his body up and down and all over the ice, launching twice as many shots as anyone else on his team, backchecking as well and and as diligently as he forechecked, exhibiting a drive and a passion that, though evident in every strong and graceful push of his skates, you remember best and most in the look on his face, part joy and part deliverance, when, after helping mob Max near the end of regulation, he looked to the heavens and finally exhaled;
how Jarrko Ruutu, who probably should have played more in the series and especially in the game before then, came over the boards time and again in the OTs, providing a shot of adrenaline and a chaser of grit and guts that inspired his teammates and, at least in little doses, gave hope to everyone watching at home, if not for the promise of fresh legs, then for that grand and glorious shift with Geno and Petr in the first OT, and for that heart-stopping, nearly heart-breaking moment in the second when his shot flew over Osgood’s glove but clanged off the (just-too-)far post;
how Pascal DuPuis and Tyler Kennedy and Gary Roberts rocked 'em and socked 'em and kept on keeping on, delivering valuable minutes and invaluable moments, keeping that puck moving, that team pulsing, that hope surviving;
how Sidney Crosby, surely a Kid no more, rang up 34:37 of ice time, the most of any forward on the team, spreading his wildfire tempo and hellfire will all over the ice for six periods, leading, as he always did, by tireless, ferocious example, ringing up two assists, racing for every loose puck, and, at least twice late in the overtimes, giving up his body and everything else to slide across the ice, deep in the defensive zone, to block a Red Wings’ slap shot and keep his teammates, who were standing atop his shoulders just as surely as he stood atop his goalie’s, playing on;
how Jordan Staal was just so damned good in every zone, rushing and skating and swooping, working that big frame and that even bigger big reach, his stick and his body always in passing lines, cutting off time and sealing off space, killing penalties -- as always -- with the smarts and composure of a player twice his age, then using that youth to his advantage in the fifth and sixth periods, churning those young legs, winning races and battles in all four corners, almost always matched up against the Wings’ best scorers and preventing them, time and again, from getting a clean look at the net;
how Evgeni Malkin, a league MVP candidate and the single biggest reason the Pens made the playoffs that year, exorcised some demons and maybe silenced at least a few of the fair-weather, instant gratification fans who’d lately turned on him, coming to life in the overtimes, working and battling until he’d collapsed from complete exhaustion at the end of a long shift in the first OT, accounting for the Pens’ two best scoring chances in that frame, and then a few more in the second, making some more mistakes, yes, but also backchecking with abandon and breaking up plays in his own zone time and time again, extending the game and buying some time until that last glorious chance, when he corralled the puck behind the net and slipped a perfect pass on to Petr Sykora’s tape, the second-to-last Pen to touch the puck before the glorious eruption;
how Petr Sykora, who had not played a great game but battled through it anyway, and who was playing the series almost certainly injured, took that pass from Geno and unleashed one of his typical, fluid, how-did-he-shoot-that-already? wristers over the sprawling body of Henrik Zetterberg, over the spasming shoulder of Chris Osgood, and into the dream of a Game 6 that waited, ever so patiently, just behind that gorgeous goal line — but not before telling his teammates, and even that annoying little snapping turtle of a Pierre Maguire between the benches, that he was going to do it, entering the rarefied realm of delivered-upon sporting predictions somewhere just south of Babe Ruth and Joe Namath, and perhaps just north of Kevin Stevens;
how Sergei Gonchar, a guy once thought soft by much of the league and still not thought of as what he was — one of the best defensemen in the league for at least a half-dozen years — did not play for more than three periods after giving up his body once more to pressure a second period shot that, were it not already remembered for Fleur’s physics- and physiology-defying save, would have been remembered for his outrageous effort, and for his headlong, bone-and-cartilage-crushing collision into the boards, came back in the third overtime and sat on the end of the bench, waiting for a penalty call that finally came, and that sent him, heart on his sleeve and courage in the air, back over the boards to glide that puck up the ice and atop the umbrella, from stick to stick and back again, setting up, with typical grace and precision, the shot that led to the rebound that led to the pass that led to the game-winning goal;
how Hal Gill and Rob Scuderi and Brooks Orpik and Darryl Sydor, in the absence of Gonch and in what sometimes felt like the absence of all hope, hit and worked and dived and skated and sprawled and crawled their way to loose pucks, clearing the crease and crowding the corners, standing tall and proud on skates upon which they would have been forgiven for not being able to stand at all, four gutty, gutsy defenders who gave heart and soul and shin, hands and legs and finally one beautiful, bloody chin, for a cause they would not dare surrender;
how Ryan Whitney, after a season of some inconsistency and far more than his share of abuse from the team’s often fickle (and uninformed) fandom, rose fiercely and brilliantly to the occasion, logging 50:46 of ice time — that was 5:22 more than the great Nick Lidstrom, and 7:04 more than Rob Scuderi, the next closest Penguin — and making it almost possible for fans and announcers alike to forget that his team played the last four periods with only one defenseman, going over the boards again and again (and again and again), on the ice every other shift, sometimes double-shifting, playing great, smart, positional D, riding guys to the outside, poking pucks off their sticks, making crisp breakout passes, always making the safe, sure play to get the puck out of the zone, meshing seamlessly with four different partners across three exhausting OTs, not getting a point and not making a big hit, and so barely mentioned in the aftermath of the game, but eating minutes and protecting the net and never, ever tiring in, absent the goalies, what was the most physically demanding role of the game, all-the-while firing three shots on goal, finishing with a +2, and ending the game on the ice, atop the umbrella with Gonch and Sykora, making one of the heady plays and great passes that lead to the winning goal, and producing, perhaps, the defining, upward-surging moment of his sure-to-be storied career;
how, when Max scored, you leapt off the sofa and ran around the room and screamed at the tops of your already laboring lungs, then ran back to the sofa to high-five and hug their Dad (or their uncle), and then to the love seat to hug and kiss their Grandma, and then, three periods, three intermissions, a couple of phone calls, and a second snack of milk and cookies later, after all those almosts and near misses, all those oh my gods and holy hells, when sweet Petr Sykora finally scored, you leapt to your feet again, and screamed, though you were not sure how much was actually left to come out, and clapped, though your hands were almost beaten and worried raw, and you felt like you could cry, and you knew you just might, so you leaped, headlong, back onto the sofa, atop their Dad (or their Uncle), to hug him and kiss him, because, even at 14 and starting to become more self-conscious about such things, the joy and the memory of the moment demanded it — and, anyway, it’s impossible to be self-conscious when a game of hockey, even one played by such inspiring young men, has reduced you to blubbering — and then, when you’d finally broken free from that delirious embrace so many hours and chills and thrills in the making, up and over again, to the love seat once more, to kiss and hug and rejoice with their Grandma, whose work ethic and spirit and fierce determination would have made her one hell of a Penguin, and who you have not seen this hockey-happy since the Penguins last won the Cup, when you were both as young as some of these kids you root for now, before you had kids of your own or dreams of grandkids to whom, one day, you could tell all of this, and maybe even do it justice, all this raw and silly and perfectly wonderful swelling of emotion that occurs when a team, a town, a family gives of itself and to each other, trading passion for joy and joy for a lifetime of memory;
and how, finally, just as you’d hoped when you’d seen it and felt it and written it all down the first time, there was still a whole lot more to the story...
(LET’S GO, PENS!)
If you’re anything at all like me — and I hope, for your sakes, you’re not — you’re still catching your breath. Still shaking your head. Still stopping, at times, in the middle of whatever you’re doing, wherever you’re doing it, just to sigh and smile and revel in it just a little bit longer. You’re thinking it’s one of the best, most epic, most glorious games of hockey — or any other sport, for that matter — that you’ve ever seen. You’re thinking that you may never see, or at least feel, another one quite like it. You’re thinking it’s a story you will tell your grandchildren:
how Marc-Andre Fleury summoned the glorious spirits of Patrick Roy and Terry Sawchuck, of Jacques Plante and Ken Dryden, of Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci, keeping both his cool and his smile, contorting his wildly bendable, defiantly unbreakable body and refusing to let anything, from slap shots to caroming pucks to crease-crashing forwards, get by him, blocking and sticking and gloving and jaw-dropping left-pad saving everything that came his way, with an acrobatic, rubber-limbed, iron-willed gem of a performance;
how Ryan Malone took a slap shot to the face, gushed blood, left the ice with his second broken nose of the series, and then came back for four more periods, bruised and swollen and cotton-stuffed, almost unrecognizable except for his bushy beard and his iron will, breathing through his mouth and playing through his soul, scrapping and hitting and blocking shots, casting aside fear and pain and what must have been a fire raging in his lungs to steel himself in front of that crease again, watching one last laser of a shot sail past his battered face and into the back of that beautiful twine;
how Mad Max Talbot, who was never out there in those situations but could have been, and probably should have been sometimes, was, and did what he always does -- work like a dog, chase down the puck, take a hit, find some space, crash the net -- and, with thirty-four-point-three blessed seconds left in the season, took a second whack at a rebound and jammed it home to save the day, the night, the next two days, and the last nine months, pulling his team back from the edge of the abyss and then, through two-and-a-half more periods, convincing them to stay there, with fabulous work on the ice and even more fabulous work off it, laughing and joking and even dancing on the bench, keeping his teammates’ minds and spirits off the exhaustion, the deprivation, the desperation that must have threatened to overtake them at any frail, fragile moment;
how Adam Hall, a guy almost everyone had forgotten but who came back from injury and worked his way into the lineup and, after already emerging as one of the unsung heroes of the series, unsang again, not just with the second goal of the game, but with seven periods of relentless energy, with brilliant defense and unflappable penalty killing, turning aside rush after rush and puck after puck, passing and poking and chipping and prodding that little biscuit out of the defensive oven and back those few, precious inches to neutral ice, ever and onward toward Game 6;
how Marian Hossa proved once more, and for all-time, that anyone who ever said he couldn’t perform in the playoffs should have never, ever been allowed to opine on the sport again, scoring the all-important first goal of the game with a typically blinding flash of his soft, ferocious hands, turning backhand to forehand and whipping a rocket of a wrister past Chris Osgood and then, for a hundred more minutes, willing his body up and down and all over the ice, launching twice as many shots as anyone else on his team, backchecking as well and and as diligently as he forechecked, exhibiting a drive and a passion that, though evident in every strong and graceful push of his skates, you remember best and most in the look on his face, part joy and part deliverance, when, after helping mob Max near the end of regulation, he looked to the heavens and finally exhaled;
how Jarrko Ruutu, who probably should have played more in the series and especially in the game before then, came over the boards time and again in the OTs, providing a shot of adrenaline and a chaser of grit and guts that inspired his teammates and, at least in little doses, gave hope to everyone watching at home, if not for the promise of fresh legs, then for that grand and glorious shift with Geno and Petr in the first OT, and for that heart-stopping, nearly heart-breaking moment in the second when his shot flew over Osgood’s glove but clanged off the (just-too-)far post;
how Pascal DuPuis and Tyler Kennedy and Gary Roberts rocked 'em and socked 'em and kept on keeping on, delivering valuable minutes and invaluable moments, keeping that puck moving, that team pulsing, that hope surviving;
how Sidney Crosby, surely a Kid no more, rang up 34:37 of ice time, the most of any forward on the team, spreading his wildfire tempo and hellfire will all over the ice for six periods, leading, as he always did, by tireless, ferocious example, ringing up two assists, racing for every loose puck, and, at least twice late in the overtimes, giving up his body and everything else to slide across the ice, deep in the defensive zone, to block a Red Wings’ slap shot and keep his teammates, who were standing atop his shoulders just as surely as he stood atop his goalie’s, playing on;
how Jordan Staal was just so damned good in every zone, rushing and skating and swooping, working that big frame and that even bigger big reach, his stick and his body always in passing lines, cutting off time and sealing off space, killing penalties -- as always -- with the smarts and composure of a player twice his age, then using that youth to his advantage in the fifth and sixth periods, churning those young legs, winning races and battles in all four corners, almost always matched up against the Wings’ best scorers and preventing them, time and again, from getting a clean look at the net;
how Evgeni Malkin, a league MVP candidate and the single biggest reason the Pens made the playoffs that year, exorcised some demons and maybe silenced at least a few of the fair-weather, instant gratification fans who’d lately turned on him, coming to life in the overtimes, working and battling until he’d collapsed from complete exhaustion at the end of a long shift in the first OT, accounting for the Pens’ two best scoring chances in that frame, and then a few more in the second, making some more mistakes, yes, but also backchecking with abandon and breaking up plays in his own zone time and time again, extending the game and buying some time until that last glorious chance, when he corralled the puck behind the net and slipped a perfect pass on to Petr Sykora’s tape, the second-to-last Pen to touch the puck before the glorious eruption;
how Petr Sykora, who had not played a great game but battled through it anyway, and who was playing the series almost certainly injured, took that pass from Geno and unleashed one of his typical, fluid, how-did-he-shoot-that-already? wristers over the sprawling body of Henrik Zetterberg, over the spasming shoulder of Chris Osgood, and into the dream of a Game 6 that waited, ever so patiently, just behind that gorgeous goal line — but not before telling his teammates, and even that annoying little snapping turtle of a Pierre Maguire between the benches, that he was going to do it, entering the rarefied realm of delivered-upon sporting predictions somewhere just south of Babe Ruth and Joe Namath, and perhaps just north of Kevin Stevens;
how Sergei Gonchar, a guy once thought soft by much of the league and still not thought of as what he was — one of the best defensemen in the league for at least a half-dozen years — did not play for more than three periods after giving up his body once more to pressure a second period shot that, were it not already remembered for Fleur’s physics- and physiology-defying save, would have been remembered for his outrageous effort, and for his headlong, bone-and-cartilage-crushing collision into the boards, came back in the third overtime and sat on the end of the bench, waiting for a penalty call that finally came, and that sent him, heart on his sleeve and courage in the air, back over the boards to glide that puck up the ice and atop the umbrella, from stick to stick and back again, setting up, with typical grace and precision, the shot that led to the rebound that led to the pass that led to the game-winning goal;
how Hal Gill and Rob Scuderi and Brooks Orpik and Darryl Sydor, in the absence of Gonch and in what sometimes felt like the absence of all hope, hit and worked and dived and skated and sprawled and crawled their way to loose pucks, clearing the crease and crowding the corners, standing tall and proud on skates upon which they would have been forgiven for not being able to stand at all, four gutty, gutsy defenders who gave heart and soul and shin, hands and legs and finally one beautiful, bloody chin, for a cause they would not dare surrender;
how Ryan Whitney, after a season of some inconsistency and far more than his share of abuse from the team’s often fickle (and uninformed) fandom, rose fiercely and brilliantly to the occasion, logging 50:46 of ice time — that was 5:22 more than the great Nick Lidstrom, and 7:04 more than Rob Scuderi, the next closest Penguin — and making it almost possible for fans and announcers alike to forget that his team played the last four periods with only one defenseman, going over the boards again and again (and again and again), on the ice every other shift, sometimes double-shifting, playing great, smart, positional D, riding guys to the outside, poking pucks off their sticks, making crisp breakout passes, always making the safe, sure play to get the puck out of the zone, meshing seamlessly with four different partners across three exhausting OTs, not getting a point and not making a big hit, and so barely mentioned in the aftermath of the game, but eating minutes and protecting the net and never, ever tiring in, absent the goalies, what was the most physically demanding role of the game, all-the-while firing three shots on goal, finishing with a +2, and ending the game on the ice, atop the umbrella with Gonch and Sykora, making one of the heady plays and great passes that lead to the winning goal, and producing, perhaps, the defining, upward-surging moment of his sure-to-be storied career;
how, when Max scored, you leapt off the sofa and ran around the room and screamed at the tops of your already laboring lungs, then ran back to the sofa to high-five and hug their Dad (or their uncle), and then to the love seat to hug and kiss their Grandma, and then, three periods, three intermissions, a couple of phone calls, and a second snack of milk and cookies later, after all those almosts and near misses, all those oh my gods and holy hells, when sweet Petr Sykora finally scored, you leapt to your feet again, and screamed, though you were not sure how much was actually left to come out, and clapped, though your hands were almost beaten and worried raw, and you felt like you could cry, and you knew you just might, so you leaped, headlong, back onto the sofa, atop their Dad (or their Uncle), to hug him and kiss him, because, even at 14 and starting to become more self-conscious about such things, the joy and the memory of the moment demanded it — and, anyway, it’s impossible to be self-conscious when a game of hockey, even one played by such inspiring young men, has reduced you to blubbering — and then, when you’d finally broken free from that delirious embrace so many hours and chills and thrills in the making, up and over again, to the love seat once more, to kiss and hug and rejoice with their Grandma, whose work ethic and spirit and fierce determination would have made her one hell of a Penguin, and who you have not seen this hockey-happy since the Penguins last won the Cup, when you were both as young as some of these kids you root for now, before you had kids of your own or dreams of grandkids to whom, one day, you could tell all of this, and maybe even do it justice, all this raw and silly and perfectly wonderful swelling of emotion that occurs when a team, a town, a family gives of itself and to each other, trading passion for joy and joy for a lifetime of memory;
and how, finally, just as you’d hoped when you’d seen it and felt it and written it all down the first time, there was still a whole lot more to the story...
(LET’S GO, PENS!)
Posted at 11:57 AM
Tue - June 3, 2008
DIE SOFT
with a vengeance.
I will have more -- much more -- to say on last
night's epic, season-saving hockey game later today, but after reading a couple
of articles in this morning's Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, and after narrowly
preventing my head from exploding at one particularly maddening point, I have to
say this first...
In a season when Pittsburgh media types seem to have gone out of their way to seek, to find, and to report on Penguins faithful who really are anything but, this may be the most infuriating, offensive sentence of all:
Die-hard Penguins fans Dan Lennon, 20, of Millvale, and his buddy, Dan Schwartzmier, 21, of Millvale, were on their way out of the arena last night when Max Talbot scored with seconds left in regulation to tie the game.
Note to Dan Lennon, Dan Schwartzmier, and especially to PG reporter Dan Majors (it must be the name): die-hard Penguins fans do not bail on a one-goal hockey game, much less a one-goal Stanley Cup Finals hockey game, with less than one minute left, when their team -- goaltender pulled, extra attacker on, the fate of a magnificent season hanging in the balance -- is still working its collective ass off trying to tie the score and send the game into overtime.
That's what die-soft Penguins fans do. That's what quit-early Penguins fans do. That's what fair-weather, close-enough, can't-be-bothered-to-hang-on-til-the-very-end-cause-it's-all-about-us Penguins fans do.
There are a whole hell of a lot of them out there. And if you media folks want to cover them -- hell, you've been doing it all throughout the playoffs; why stop now? -- great. But please spare the true faithful, the true die-hards, all the true fucking fans who support the Penguins all the way to the end, whether that end is victory or defeat, the indignity of association with people for whom an extra forty-five seconds, and one last burst of hope and will and belief and support, are just too damned much to muster.
In a season when Pittsburgh media types seem to have gone out of their way to seek, to find, and to report on Penguins faithful who really are anything but, this may be the most infuriating, offensive sentence of all:
Die-hard Penguins fans Dan Lennon, 20, of Millvale, and his buddy, Dan Schwartzmier, 21, of Millvale, were on their way out of the arena last night when Max Talbot scored with seconds left in regulation to tie the game.
Note to Dan Lennon, Dan Schwartzmier, and especially to PG reporter Dan Majors (it must be the name): die-hard Penguins fans do not bail on a one-goal hockey game, much less a one-goal Stanley Cup Finals hockey game, with less than one minute left, when their team -- goaltender pulled, extra attacker on, the fate of a magnificent season hanging in the balance -- is still working its collective ass off trying to tie the score and send the game into overtime.
That's what die-soft Penguins fans do. That's what quit-early Penguins fans do. That's what fair-weather, close-enough, can't-be-bothered-to-hang-on-til-the-very-end-cause-it's-all-about-us Penguins fans do.
There are a whole hell of a lot of them out there. And if you media folks want to cover them -- hell, you've been doing it all throughout the playoffs; why stop now? -- great. But please spare the true faithful, the true die-hards, all the true fucking fans who support the Penguins all the way to the end, whether that end is victory or defeat, the indignity of association with people for whom an extra forty-five seconds, and one last burst of hope and will and belief and support, are just too damned much to muster.
Posted at 08:36 AM
Mon - June 2, 2008
THEY MUST BELIEVE
as much as we believe.
So it has been written (by The Blizz), so it shall
(we hope) come to
pass.
LET'S GO, PENS!
LET'S GO, PENS!
Posted at 04:13 PM
Sun - June 1, 2008
THE FALL OF THE PENS' OWN OPTIMISTS
maybe.
Got an email today from a smart, mature, die-hard
Pens fan -- which distinguishes him, by the way, from the idiot I saw screaming
Boooo! into the face of a seven-year-old Red Wings fan before the game at
Mellon Arena last night, as well as from the idiot I heard declaring that he
would trade Malkin right now, apparently because a bunch of sup-par
playoff games in a row at the end of his sophomore season are enough to negate
world class talent, an MVP-caliber year, the heroics that led the Pens to and
through the first two rounds of the playoffs, and the thought that he might
continue to improve both his skills and his consistency after, say, he turns 22
years old -- who, in expressing at least a little bit of hope for tomorrow
night, calls himself The Eternal Optimist
Maybe:
Though it sure feels today (as it did last night) that we lost the series, if we can win Game 5, then anything is possible since I can't imagine that we are going to lose 2 games at home... which leads me to this thought...
...I'm sure most people would say that I'm crazy, but I thought we played very well last night (except on the last power play), and I have no doubt that Crosby will be determined to bring this series back to Pittsburgh for one more game. If Evgeni from the first two series decides to show up, it moves from crazy to almost definitely.
At this point, I'd settle for Evgeni from Game 3, but the point is valid either way. Which means, of course, that the Pens have at least two Eternal Optimists Maybe.
I mean, sure. I, too, felt like they lost the series last night. And it's been awfully hard to shake that feeling for the last seventeen hours or so. But it's also been hard to shake the feeling that that the Pens matched, and at times maybe even outplayed the Wings for much of last night's game, couldn’t catch a break, wound up on the short end of a bad goal, and then couldn’t capitalize when they had one great, big, golden opportunity to do so.
In other words: despite some bad breaks and some missed opportunities, they easily could have won. And, even more importantly, they've proven once more that the first two games were an (admittedly burdensome) aberration that they can most definitely play with, and beat, these guys. No doubt about it.
Will it be hard to win on the road? Of course. (It always is.) Will it be hard to win three in a row? Of course. (It always is.) Can they do either or both? Absolutely. They’ve won 3 games in a row in every series they’ve played so far, and I know, just know, that if they can keep their fire and their focus, they can win these last three games.
That doesn’t mean they will. And I suspect they will not. If only because I fear their will may have been broken by last night’s outcome. But if it wasn’t — if they can summon at least a little bit of the eternal optimism maybe, and then couple it with the realism of how evenly (or better) they've played the Wings in these last two games, well...
...then it’s back here for Game 6. And maybe, just maybe, on to Detroit for Game 7.
Though it sure feels today (as it did last night) that we lost the series, if we can win Game 5, then anything is possible since I can't imagine that we are going to lose 2 games at home... which leads me to this thought...
...I'm sure most people would say that I'm crazy, but I thought we played very well last night (except on the last power play), and I have no doubt that Crosby will be determined to bring this series back to Pittsburgh for one more game. If Evgeni from the first two series decides to show up, it moves from crazy to almost definitely.
At this point, I'd settle for Evgeni from Game 3, but the point is valid either way. Which means, of course, that the Pens have at least two Eternal Optimists Maybe.
I mean, sure. I, too, felt like they lost the series last night. And it's been awfully hard to shake that feeling for the last seventeen hours or so. But it's also been hard to shake the feeling that that the Pens matched, and at times maybe even outplayed the Wings for much of last night's game, couldn’t catch a break, wound up on the short end of a bad goal, and then couldn’t capitalize when they had one great, big, golden opportunity to do so.
In other words: despite some bad breaks and some missed opportunities, they easily could have won. And, even more importantly, they've proven once more that the first two games were an (admittedly burdensome) aberration that they can most definitely play with, and beat, these guys. No doubt about it.
Will it be hard to win on the road? Of course. (It always is.) Will it be hard to win three in a row? Of course. (It always is.) Can they do either or both? Absolutely. They’ve won 3 games in a row in every series they’ve played so far, and I know, just know, that if they can keep their fire and their focus, they can win these last three games.
That doesn’t mean they will. And I suspect they will not. If only because I fear their will may have been broken by last night’s outcome. But if it wasn’t — if they can summon at least a little bit of the eternal optimism maybe, and then couple it with the realism of how evenly (or better) they've played the Wings in these last two games, well...
...then it’s back here for Game 6. And maybe, just maybe, on to Detroit for Game 7.
Posted at 05:20 PM
Sat - May 31, 2008
THIS IS WHERE THEY FIGHT
and work.
If they win tonight, the numbers will say they're
tied. But the heads, and especially the hearts, will know they've pulled
ahead.
LET'S GO, PENS.
LET'S GO, PENS.
Posted at 02:47 PM
Thu - May 29, 2008
FIRST MAN
first win.
He wasn't one of the three stars tonight, but he
should have
been.
Because Adam Hall played a whale of a game: fabulous defense, ferocious forechecking, fantastic penalty killing.
Oh, yeah. And the game-winning goal too.
Way to go, Adam.
LET'S GO, PENS.
Because Adam Hall played a whale of a game: fabulous defense, ferocious forechecking, fantastic penalty killing.
Oh, yeah. And the game-winning goal too.
Way to go, Adam.
LET'S GO, PENS.
Posted at 01:25 AM
Wed - May 28, 2008
THIS IS WHERE THEY STAND
or fall.
Tonight. This whole grand and glorious season
comes down to
tonight.
LET'S GO, PENS.
LET'S GO, PENS.
Posted at 05:23 PM
Tue - May 27, 2008
THINGS THAT ALMOST MAKE YOUR (STANLEY-CUP-WATCHING) HEAD EXPLODE
almost.
1) When you remember that Gene Collier gets paid to
(ahem) write about
hockey.
2) When you remember that Ken Laird gets paid to (ahem) talk about hockey.
3) When you realized that Niklas Kronwall leaves his feet on almost every open-ice hit he makes, does not ever get called for Charging, and, until Eddie Olzcyk finally pointed it out last night, receives nothing but praise from the talking heads for his (ahem) toughness.
4) When you fear that Michel Therrien, who has made all the right moves at all the right times in every single playoff series so far, will not make the move he now most needs to make: splitting up Hal Gill and Rob Scuderi and returning them to their far more effective (and far more balanced) pairings with Kris Letang and Ryan Whitney -- who, by the way, has been the Penguins' best defenseman in the first two games of the Finals.
5) When you see and hear the writing and talking heads disagree with Michel Therrien's spot-on assessment of the Red Wings' flagrant, systematic, and (almost completely) un-penalized penchant for hooking, holding, and obstructing all over the ice -- as if a team can not possibly be outplayed in every facet of the game (as the Penguins have been) and yet also be severely hindered by officiating that ignores blatant rule-breaking (as the Penguins also have been).
2) When you remember that Ken Laird gets paid to (ahem) talk about hockey.
3) When you realized that Niklas Kronwall leaves his feet on almost every open-ice hit he makes, does not ever get called for Charging, and, until Eddie Olzcyk finally pointed it out last night, receives nothing but praise from the talking heads for his (ahem) toughness.
4) When you fear that Michel Therrien, who has made all the right moves at all the right times in every single playoff series so far, will not make the move he now most needs to make: splitting up Hal Gill and Rob Scuderi and returning them to their far more effective (and far more balanced) pairings with Kris Letang and Ryan Whitney -- who, by the way, has been the Penguins' best defenseman in the first two games of the Finals.
5) When you see and hear the writing and talking heads disagree with Michel Therrien's spot-on assessment of the Red Wings' flagrant, systematic, and (almost completely) un-penalized penchant for hooking, holding, and obstructing all over the ice -- as if a team can not possibly be outplayed in every facet of the game (as the Penguins have been) and yet also be severely hindered by officiating that ignores blatant rule-breaking (as the Penguins also have been).
Posted at 02:05 PM
WHAT WOULD GARY ROBERTS DO?
he'd have a couple of strong
shifts...
...and then cheap-shot sucker-punch Johan Franzen
in the
head.
Any true Penguin fan -- or, for that matter, anyone with a shred of dignity or self-respect -- should have been embarrassed by that display. And should, in fact, be embarrassed still.
The only thing worse than going down 2-0 is going down 2-0 and turning into the Flyers somewhere along the way.
Any true Penguin fan -- or, for that matter, anyone with a shred of dignity or self-respect -- should have been embarrassed by that display. And should, in fact, be embarrassed still.
The only thing worse than going down 2-0 is going down 2-0 and turning into the Flyers somewhere along the way.
Posted at 01:22 PM
Sat - May 24, 2008
Sun - May 18, 2008
CAREY ON JORDAN
and four more for fighting.
As long as we're on the subjects of good writing,
Jordan Staal, and incredible maturity, let's turn to one of TWM's most favorite
and faithful readers, a guy who first impressed me with his intelligence, his
professional sports insights, and his way-beyond-his-years composure about a
decade ago: the Left Coast's most thoughtful and faithful Penguins fan, Mr.
Carey "I Live in L.A. But My Heart Belongs at Mellon Arena" Lefkowitz. Earlier
this weekend, Carey fired off a typically funny and fearless analysis of what's
going on in Penguinville, and it seems fitting, here on the cusp of Game 5, to
share it with you, in its entirety:
1. It's great to know that the youngest player on our team has more class than every one of the Flyer idiots out there last night... Those Flyers are a bunch of goons, and they fucked with the hockey gods after the outcome was no longer in doubt in a way that will come back to haunt them in Game 5.
2. Give it up for Jordan Staal -- I've always been a big fan of his, and he has been spectacular in these playoffs. The performance he put on last night -- two clutch goals, drawing one of the only non-roughing Flyer penalties of the game, showing speed that I had never seen before, along with his excellent performance on the PK unit -- all while dealing with the death of his grandfather was truly remarkable. And seeing how he reacted to being cheap-shotted late in the game (get up, skate back to the bench, get ready for next face-off) is perhaps a great reflection of the way he was "raised" his first couple years in Pittsburgh when he lived with Mark Recchi. He really just seems like a great kid, and now he's truly showing how great of a player he is too. His on-ice character is unmatched by any on our team.
3. The sky is falling!!! The Penguins lost another Game 4!!! This team obviously has a problem closing out opponents!!! It's soooooo obvious. They should completely shake things up, starting with replacing Dupuis with Gary Roberts and putting Hossa with Hall and Laraque so Chuck Norris can play alongside Sidney and GR. Then, they should put Conklin in for Fleury because he was clearly rattled yesterday. Finally, they should replace Jeff Jimerson with Jason Castro and that should do the trick.
4. Pens win Game 5 the way they won the last Game 5, 3-2 in OT. Goals for Hossa and Talbot in regulation, game winner to Geno 4:40 into the first OT.
5. Pens over Wings in 7.
I'd prefer Pens over Wings in 6, if only so this town -- and I especially -- can see them hoist the Cup in person. But I won't be greedy. And, more importantly, first things first...
[Let's Go, Pens.]
1. It's great to know that the youngest player on our team has more class than every one of the Flyer idiots out there last night... Those Flyers are a bunch of goons, and they fucked with the hockey gods after the outcome was no longer in doubt in a way that will come back to haunt them in Game 5.
2. Give it up for Jordan Staal -- I've always been a big fan of his, and he has been spectacular in these playoffs. The performance he put on last night -- two clutch goals, drawing one of the only non-roughing Flyer penalties of the game, showing speed that I had never seen before, along with his excellent performance on the PK unit -- all while dealing with the death of his grandfather was truly remarkable. And seeing how he reacted to being cheap-shotted late in the game (get up, skate back to the bench, get ready for next face-off) is perhaps a great reflection of the way he was "raised" his first couple years in Pittsburgh when he lived with Mark Recchi. He really just seems like a great kid, and now he's truly showing how great of a player he is too. His on-ice character is unmatched by any on our team.
3. The sky is falling!!! The Penguins lost another Game 4!!! This team obviously has a problem closing out opponents!!! It's soooooo obvious. They should completely shake things up, starting with replacing Dupuis with Gary Roberts and putting Hossa with Hall and Laraque so Chuck Norris can play alongside Sidney and GR. Then, they should put Conklin in for Fleury because he was clearly rattled yesterday. Finally, they should replace Jeff Jimerson with Jason Castro and that should do the trick.
4. Pens win Game 5 the way they won the last Game 5, 3-2 in OT. Goals for Hossa and Talbot in regulation, game winner to Geno 4:40 into the first OT.
5. Pens over Wings in 7.
I'd prefer Pens over Wings in 6, if only so this town -- and I especially -- can see them hoist the Cup in person. But I won't be greedy. And, more importantly, first things first...
[Let's Go, Pens.]
Posted at 11:50 AM
Thu - May 15, 2008
WWGRD?
not nearly as much as everyone
pretends.
I love Gary Roberts. I do. I love him for his
grit and his intensity, for his relentless work ethic and his ferocious, often
frightening fearlessness. Hell, I love him for this photo
alone:
It's obvious that he's brought a great, big equipment bag full of veteran leadership and stability and experience to the Pens' postseason locker room. He's long been one of the game's great warriors. He did a great job of helping set the tone in the first game of the first playoff series. And, yeah, a little bit of silly, goofy, cult-hero worship is always fun.
But sheesh.
This undying obsession that Pens' fans -- by which I mean, casual fans and immature fans and bandwagon-jumping fans -- have with Gary Roberts borders on the absurd and fast approaches the insane. In a team and a season rife with heroes, a loud and increasingly annoying faction of people has latched on to -- and, worse still, Chuck-Norris-ified -- a guy whose on-ice contributions number two goals, one assist, a +/- rating of -2, a few intimidating stares, and an overblown, if admittedly awesome, bad-ass challenge to fight five Ottawa Senators at once.
The Pens have won far more games without him than they have with him -- both in the regular season and in the postseason -- and, had they been without him for this entire playoff run, they would almost certainly boast the exact same record. At worst, they might have one fewer win.
If he never plays again in this postseason -- as he will not tonight, thanks to a minor case of pneumonia -- the difference to the team and to its on-ice performance will be slight. The Disciples of Gary will whine and moan and perhaps rend their garments, then resume the laying of laurels and blog posts and text messages at his skates anyway. Meanwhile, the Lovers of Gary But Disciples of Lord Stanley will shrug and sigh and content themselves in the knowledge that the far more versatile Adam Hall will be taking his place in the lineup. Because we know that when Gary Roberts plays, the Penguins are meaner and tougher. And that when he doesn't, they are faster and tighter.
And almost always better.
(Let's Go, Pens.)
It's obvious that he's brought a great, big equipment bag full of veteran leadership and stability and experience to the Pens' postseason locker room. He's long been one of the game's great warriors. He did a great job of helping set the tone in the first game of the first playoff series. And, yeah, a little bit of silly, goofy, cult-hero worship is always fun.
But sheesh.
This undying obsession that Pens' fans -- by which I mean, casual fans and immature fans and bandwagon-jumping fans -- have with Gary Roberts borders on the absurd and fast approaches the insane. In a team and a season rife with heroes, a loud and increasingly annoying faction of people has latched on to -- and, worse still, Chuck-Norris-ified -- a guy whose on-ice contributions number two goals, one assist, a +/- rating of -2, a few intimidating stares, and an overblown, if admittedly awesome, bad-ass challenge to fight five Ottawa Senators at once.
The Pens have won far more games without him than they have with him -- both in the regular season and in the postseason -- and, had they been without him for this entire playoff run, they would almost certainly boast the exact same record. At worst, they might have one fewer win.
If he never plays again in this postseason -- as he will not tonight, thanks to a minor case of pneumonia -- the difference to the team and to its on-ice performance will be slight. The Disciples of Gary will whine and moan and perhaps rend their garments, then resume the laying of laurels and blog posts and text messages at his skates anyway. Meanwhile, the Lovers of Gary But Disciples of Lord Stanley will shrug and sigh and content themselves in the knowledge that the far more versatile Adam Hall will be taking his place in the lineup. Because we know that when Gary Roberts plays, the Penguins are meaner and tougher. And that when he doesn't, they are faster and tighter.
And almost always better.
(Let's Go, Pens.)
Posted at 01:08 PM
Wed - May 14, 2008
THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE
when you're up 3-0.
In the Eastern Conference
Finals.
Like the day before Christmas, when you've waited all year, and you're dreaming about what you'll discover when you unwrap those presents under the tree.
Like the day before vacation, when you know the sun will be shining and the ocean breeze will be blowing and you can almost feel the sand warm between your toes.
Like looking forward to a long night's sleep, snuggling and cuddling yourself into bed and knowing that, after just a few more sweet dreams, you'll be primed and ready to face whatever the next day brings.
Like looking into her eyes and knowing, after a long, long time apart, that you're about to kiss her hello.
The last time the Penguins went to the Stanley Cup Finals, I was just a twenty-three-year-old newlywed grad student who loved hockey and counted his blessings and couldn't begin to imagine how it would feel to be 39 and have two sons with whom to play and share the game. I know the Penguins are still one game away. And I know that anything can happen. But I also know that I haven't felt like this in sixteen years and, truth be told, have never really felt like this at all.
One game away is, right now, more than close enough for me. If only because, when you really think about them, those magical nights and possible mornings, those almost-theres and especially those off-day afternoons, are the best and most exciting times of your life, suspended between the delicate joys of all that you've already done and the delicious anticipations of all the wonders that await you.
Like the day before Christmas, when you've waited all year, and you're dreaming about what you'll discover when you unwrap those presents under the tree.
Like the day before vacation, when you know the sun will be shining and the ocean breeze will be blowing and you can almost feel the sand warm between your toes.
Like looking forward to a long night's sleep, snuggling and cuddling yourself into bed and knowing that, after just a few more sweet dreams, you'll be primed and ready to face whatever the next day brings.
Like looking into her eyes and knowing, after a long, long time apart, that you're about to kiss her hello.
The last time the Penguins went to the Stanley Cup Finals, I was just a twenty-three-year-old newlywed grad student who loved hockey and counted his blessings and couldn't begin to imagine how it would feel to be 39 and have two sons with whom to play and share the game. I know the Penguins are still one game away. And I know that anything can happen. But I also know that I haven't felt like this in sixteen years and, truth be told, have never really felt like this at all.
One game away is, right now, more than close enough for me. If only because, when you really think about them, those magical nights and possible mornings, those almost-theres and especially those off-day afternoons, are the best and most exciting times of your life, suspended between the delicate joys of all that you've already done and the delicious anticipations of all the wonders that await you.
Posted at 02:49 PM
Tue - May 13, 2008
WHINE & (PHILLY CREAM) CHEESE
on the cutting boards.
i•ro•ny
n. a technique of indicating an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually expected
As when your team, long renowned for late hits and cheap shots and just generally turning hockey into something like rugby on skates, starts getting hit and shot and rugbied in return, and all you, fans of bullies now finding out what it's like to be bullied, can do is whine and complain and beg the refs, whom you've always declared must ignore such shenanigans and just let the players play, to please do something, anything to protect our your poor little boys from getting what they have been giving, and what they have so surely been deserving, for a very, very long time.
(Let's Go, Pens.)
n. a technique of indicating an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually expected
As when your team, long renowned for late hits and cheap shots and just generally turning hockey into something like rugby on skates, starts getting hit and shot and rugbied in return, and all you, fans of bullies now finding out what it's like to be bullied, can do is whine and complain and beg the refs, whom you've always declared must ignore such shenanigans and just let the players play, to please do something, anything to protect our your poor little boys from getting what they have been giving, and what they have so surely been deserving, for a very, very long time.
(Let's Go, Pens.)
Posted at 01:38 PM
Mon - May 12, 2008
AN OFF-DAY QUESTION
for the phools in philly.
If, as you are so fond of claiming on your
ignorance- and homophobia-driven message
boards, there’s a league-driven conspiracy askate to deliver the
Crosby-and-Malkin-fueled Penguins to the Stanley Cup Finals over your
far-more-deserving Broad Street Flying Elbow Brigade, then, even after ignoring
the utter lack of penalty calls in the first game and the fact that your
team’s stated goal of being far more physical in Game 2 was sure to result
in far more penalties called against you, why didn’t the league officials
in Toronto just go ahead and award the Penguins a goal in the first period last
night, when, as your city’s best sports columnist notes,
the puck had obviously crossed the line before Biron brought it
back?
(Note to readers with IQs higher than Scott Hartnell’s number — and, yes, I know that rules out Scott Hartnell: I’m well aware that the fans for whom this question is intended won't be able to answer it. Just as I'm aware that, thanks to the elliptical syntax, they won’t even be able to understand it.)
(Note to readers with IQs higher than Scott Hartnell’s number — and, yes, I know that rules out Scott Hartnell: I’m well aware that the fans for whom this question is intended won't be able to answer it. Just as I'm aware that, thanks to the elliptical syntax, they won’t even be able to understand it.)
Posted at 11:46 AM
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Published On: Jan 16, 2009 04:51 PM
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Published On: Jan 16, 2009 04:51 PM