Bend It Like Nate Kaeding

About a million years ago, I mentioned that while this site is dedicated first and foremost to all things Senators, I was also a fan of sport in general and every so often I'd indulge myself by posting about other leagues. One of the great things about running my little soap box here is that I am free to write about anything I run across that tickles my fancy. Well, lo and behold, my fancy has been well and truly tickled this morning.

I would suspect that you know the gentleman pictured here. Even those of you...ahem...like a certain hockey blogger...who think soccer is nothing but a game played by wimpy pantywaists who spend more time rolling around on the ground crying to their mommies while clutching random parts of their own bodies until a little man with a magic spray can runs out onto the field to HEAL them (TESTIFY!), and hence wouldn't know Diego Maradona if he were rooting through your garbage looking for lunch (which he may well be doing at this very moment), have heard about Mr. Posh Spice himself, David Beckham.

Similarly, I would suspect that you may also be dimly aware that Mr. Beckham has agreed to play for Major League Soccer's L.A. Galaxy for a reported $250 million, and the exclusive rights to any Spice Girls reunion tour. It was hoped by the MBAs who run MLS that bringing in Sir Blonde Highlights would immediately legitimize a league that can't draw flies outside of a few latin american communities in the southern U.S. Good plan. But it may not be working out all that well:

(Birkbeck Sport Business Centre at the University of London) conducted a survey which found that less than half of Americans know who Beckham is and what he represents. To those who are familiar with the Beckham brand, it was his wife Victoria, the former Spice Girl, who elicited the greatest response. The results "bring mixed news for Beckham and his advisers," Birkbeck director Dr. Simon Chadwick said. "On the one hand, amongst brands that are successfully introduced into new markets there is often a level of awareness and expectation built up around them. In this respect, the Beckham brand already has some equity.

So in order "leverage the brand"(shudder), Adidas devised an ad campaign whereby Beckham and New Orleans Saints RB Reggie Bush would swap sports, so to speak. The result is the skinny Pop Warner hopeful pictured above. And why, pray, would the MLS look to the NFL for cross-promotion? Well, aside from being the biggest, richest and most powerful league on the planet (All Hail Emperor Goodell!), it seems MLS is banking on a certain image:

"This is not necessarily going to be easy", said Chadwick. "Americans not only identify more with personalities from sports other than soccer, they also like successful, eloquent, trouble-free, clean-cut types. Beckham, therefore, faces the challenge of promoting such qualities if he is to maximize the chances of his brand being a success."

Yep. Pacman Jones, Nate Newsom, Rae Carruth, the entire Cincinnati Bengals practice roster. Successful, eloquent, trouble-free, clean-cut types, to a man. Totally. This should work out great.

Beckham faces challenge to maximize brand in U.S. [Ottawa Citizen]

All My Exes Play Left Wing In Texas

So what do you get if you take a rabbit and jam some elk horns on its head? I'll tell you what you get. You get Texas hockey!

Wait! Come back! Let me explain. During the first round of the playoffs, just as Ottawa was taking young Master Crosby out behind the woodshed (ah...good times), I received an email from "Stephanie".

Now I don't know about you guys, but I don't normally get emails from women (my Beloved notwithstanding) unless they're offering to help me achieve some rather unusual goals like six hour orgasms, become a world renowned porn star OVERNIGHT or change the oil in my car by myself in under three days. Okay, maybe not that unusual. Anyway, I figured there was nothing different about "Stephanie". So, of course, like every other right thinking man would do when presented with an email from a woman he's never met or heard of before...I opened it.

Turns out, "Stephanie" is a real person, and a rather comely lass at that. She goes by the nickname "Zany Sports Lady" and helps run a website called texas-hockey.com. It's a beautifully designed site where you can get information on every pro level team based in Texas (Alert: If, like me, you're trapped in Dial-Up hell, the site takes a while to load).

Now it's easy for us Canucks to sit here in the cradle of hockey and mock our southern brethren about their ignorance of the Coolest Game. Lord knows I do it to Buffaslug fans often enough. But even a cursory tour of Texas-Hockey, and the 30 teams scattered throughout the state tells you that maybe Gary's Gang wasn't entirely doped up on goofballs when Brett Hull's skate blades were allowed to move to Dallas.

So what does all this have to do with the logo you see to your right? Well, as I was (slowly) bopping around the site, I came across a link for the Odessa Jackalopes of the Central Hockey League (not to be confused with Ontario's Jr. B Central Hockey League). Intrigued by one of the greatest names ever coined for a quasi-mythical animal, I went to their site and saw that logo. I was hooked. Good Lord, it's Bugs on steroids! If Barry Bonds were a rabbit...and...um...ate a gazelle...that's what he'd look like!

So I immediately became a fan of the Odessa Jackalopes, and am hereby declaring Five For Smiting the official Canadian home of all things Jackalopian. In the next little while, we'll pop in on our adopted Texas team and see what they're about. Standings will be observed (didn't make the playoffs last year boys. Pick it up.) and much opining will be done. All in all, it should be more interesting than watching the Leafs continuing drive for mediocrity. Perhaps not as much fun, but definitely more interesting.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for the upcoming season. There's a rabbit in my backyard I need to speak to about some promotional opportunities.

Go Jacks! Um...Go Lopes! Geez, somebody's going to have to help me out with that.

Texas Hockey

Odessa Jackalopes

In Quest For World Domination Eugene Melnyk Does Not Tolerate Almost Winning

So, you’ve built a hockey team that came within three victories of winning it all! What are you going to do now?? Well, if you’re John Muckler, you head for the nearest unemployment office.

In a move that reveals, yet again, the loving, warm and fuzzy face of professional sports, our Benevolent And All Knowing Overlord has encouraged (former)GM John Muckler to “pursue other opportunities outside of the organization”. And by “encouraged” I of course mean, “standing in office with shotgun screaming GET THE HELL OFF MY LAWN!”) The token offer of another role with the team (Hey Mucks! Those towels dry yet?), having been refused, Emperor Magnificent is free to buy Bolivia as a retirement gift, shake his former serf’s hand, and send him on his way.

While there are many theories floating around as to why Melnyk did this, most of them eloquently enunciated here, this one is by far, the most amusing. Apparently, since His Overlordship doesn't actually know how old Muckler is, trusting him to run the franchise for another year is impossible:

Now no one will admit this, but Muckler's age also has a hand in this. Reports are he's 73, but there's no record of that given that the hall of records in the town he was born, Paris, Ontario, burned down many years ago and anyone officially checking on Muckler's true age was simply out of luck. There are reasons to believe he's considerably older than 73 and though that shouldn't matter, it's likely that it does.

Of course it matters! How could it not? One day Mucks is in heated negotiations with a player's cockroach agent, and the next he forgets he was trying to cook scrambled eggs in the toaster while rambling on about last night's whiskey jag with Connie Smythe. Meanwhile, you find out that he's signed the starting goalie to a ten year contract. Madness! But at least it explains his proclivity for chiseling contracts onto stone tablets.

So goodbye and Godspeed John. May it forever be 1984 wherever you may roam.

P.S.: Well Bryan, it's your show now, just like you wanted. If it blows up, you get to wear it. And, by the way, this still stands. Goats, Bryan. Thousands. Think about it.

Muckler Out, Murray In [Sportnet.ca]

Name of the Game (Jim Kelley) [Sportsnet.ca]

Hey Yash, What's That Smell? [Five For Smiting]

And Now, Please Welcome YOUR Hamilton Pred-- Wait, What? Sorry Folks, I Gotta Take This Call

I'm afraid I have a confession to make, and I ask you not to judge to harshly based on that confession. I was born in Hamilton. Yes, it's true. I feel the same way.

However, because of that, I've always held a soft spot in my heart for the City Chopped In Half By A Really Steep Cliff. To this day, nothing can make me fly into a fit of mild annoyance more than when I hear (usually a day or two after the fact) that the Ti-Cats have lost again to those bastard Toronto Ar...er...Ag...um...hang on...I had it right here... Oh yeah! The Argos. That the Ti-Cats have lost, yet again to those bastards, the Toronto Argonoghts. On top of that, I also dated a girl from Hamilton for quite some time, but that relationship came to a rather awkward end when she threw a dumptruck at me for leaving the seat up.

All that to say, I can only view Hamilton's latest tizzy over the possible return of the NHL with amusement mixed with a tinge of pity. Having taken years to get over Ottawa's glorious triumph over them in the Pay The NHL A Ridiculous Expansion Fee For A Shitty Team Sweepstakes of 1990, the good citizens of Hamilton have had to endure not one, but two dalliances with a team of their own in two years. And both have been manufactured by the same guy.

Jim Balsillie, CEO of Research In Motion, those fun folks who brought you the Blackberry and by extension, any number of ruined vacations, domestic disputes and awkward porn downloads has reached an "agreement in principle" to buy the Nashville Predators. Only thing is, neither Jim Balsillie's NHL nor that "principle" includes...um...well, Nashville:

Despite the assertions of his representatives -- as recently as Tuesday -- that he has no intention of moving the Preds, Balsillie stunned the Nashville faithful -- along with the NHL's head office -- with the Hamilton deal, then compounded that shock with plans to take deposits on season tickets starting today.

Why on earth Gary's Gang would be shocked, SHOCKED, that Balsillie would look to buy an existing franchise and move it to his home town of Hamilton is beyond belief, when one considers that this same Jim Balsillie tried to yank the Penguins out from under Mother Mario for the same purpose less than a year ago is a topic for another day. And believe me, there will be another day on this space.

I just wish that Balsillie would stop toying with the faithful of Hamilton in the hopes of wrangling a better deal from *insert latest hostile takeover target here*. It's not nice. Either shit of get off the pot. Either you make Toronto envious by bringing big-league hockey to southern Ontario or you don't. Pick one. Until then, remember that dumptrucks can fly a surprisingly long way. And they hurt. A lot.

Predators owner-to-be puts sale of team in jeopardy [SI.com]

Hey Yash, What's That Smell?

As I gradually emerged from my self-imposed hiatus, refreshed, rejuvenated and with a markedly higher tolerance for alcohol, I began to scan NHL headlines searching for a post subject worthy of being the first out of the chute following that bit of unpleasantness in California.

The Daffys parade in a parking lot before an adoring "crowd" that was even smaller than the average Anaheim season gate? Too easy. And way too infuriating. How about the annual "Who should we keep/sign/have strung up?" debate currently swirling around the more serious interwebs? Too much work. Okay then... how about Canada's own serial poacher Jim "Don't blame me for the crackberry" Baisillie's (second) not so subtle attempt to piss off the Leafs? Close, but not quite.

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear but the delusional stylings of one Mister Mark Gandler, and his favourite tiny reindeer.

Now this particular reindeer tore up three perfectly good contracts with the Senators. This reindeer held out on the Senators twice, once for an entire season. This reindeer was indifferent at best from October to April, and vanished without a trace once the playoffs started and his paycheques stopped coming. This reindeer was run out of town on a rail (while unwittingly helping us to absolutely sodomize the Islanders, true...but still) by most right-thinking Senators fans. And now this reindeer...wants to play here...again.

Said Mark Gandler, Yashin's New Jersey-based agent, yesterday: "It would be sweet (for him) to come back and help Ottawa (win the Stanley Cup) ... (and) restore relationships he had there. It would be a movie-like type of return."

Which movie Gandler may be referring to could be a matter of some delightful debate (Saw and Texas Chainsaw Massacre are my leading candidates), and we all know that this will never, ever happen*.

I'm sure I speak for a majority of the Sens Army when I offer a hearty THANK YOU to the great Mistress Karma for this gift. But in the spirit of compassion and caring, Alexei, we wish you only the best, and offer you the helpful suggestion that there are other leagues in dire need of petulant man-children. Just remember they drive on the left and you'll be fine.

Then again, as an overrated Russian who's way past his prime and whom Ottawa fans loathe to the core of their beings, don't be surprised if you get a call from the Leafs.

*Note to Mucks: If this does happen, I will personally soak all of my Senators gear in the urine of a thousand goats and pile it on your desk. With you under it. Just so we're clear.

Ottawa Looks Good To Alexei [Ottawa Citizen]

Stanley Cup Final -- A Requiem For The Lightweights

Where did it go so wrong? I've spent most of the day today trying to figure that out. I stared at my office computer all afternoon trying to put my finger on it. What was the very moment where it all fell apart?

Last year, after being knocked out by Buffalo, it was easy to pinpoint. Last year the wheels fell off with .02 seconds left in regulation in game 1. Remember that one? 7-6 Sabre win in OT. But the exact moment that series was lost came when Alfredsson hit the right post behind Miller with .02 seconds left in the third. A millimeter to the left and the Senators win, take the series lead and history changes. Instead that clank gave the Sabres a chance, they win the game in OT, Ottawa tightens up and lose three of the next four with barely a peep. For the rest of that much too long offseason, I could call that shot to memory at will.

But this...This has no such moment. There is no "AHA!" we can point at and say "That's what happened. That's why they stopped playing." And it drives me crazy.

No funny here tonight kids. Sorry. I'd love to be able to smile, say "Gee, what a great ride" and write something incredibly witty about Chris Philips somehow being the lost love child of Steve Smith. I'd love to be able to give the Ducks an unqualified congratulations, to feel good for the Niedermeyers and for Selanne, to say "The better team won." Except, I can't. I can't because I'm not sure the better team did win. Sure, the team that was playing its best won, no question, and full marks to Anaheim for playing the way they did. But the better team? Not sure. They didn't play the real Sens. The Sens that blew through three rounds in 15 games. The team that looked unstoppable and more important, knew they were and acted like it. But that team didn't make it to the final round. So, no, Anaheim may not have been the better team, they happened to be the team that was playing better, which was enough. But the better team? We'll never know.

I'll be taking a few days off now. I'm exhausted. It was a hell of a run, and a hell of a lot of fun at that, at least up until the last week. But before I go, I wanted to share my last thought before I turned off the television last night.

As the Ducks were whooping and yelling and hugging, the camera cut to a devastated group of Senators gathered around Emery, waiting for the hand shake. As I watched them, I fervently hoped that Alfie, or Redden or Fish would gather the team together one last time in the locker room and tell them to remember that feeling. Remember the feeling of watching the other team whoop it up with the Cup, while you stood there knowing that you didn't show the heart it takes to be in their shoes. Carry that feeling with you all summer. And when the big machine cranks up all over again next October, use that feeling as fuel.

Do that, and it will be our team carrying, crying into and drinking from the most beautiful championship trophy in all of sports. Rivalries? Bah! Leafs? Sabres? Suddenly meaningless. So much provincial piffle. We've got more important things to do. We've been to the top of the mountaintop, only to lose the summit on the last step, and we know precisely why we lost that step. With that knowledge, we will be invincible.

Stanley Cup Final -- In The Event Of A Water Landing, Jason Spezza May Be Used As A Flotation Device

While sifting through the carnage that was last night's game, I mentioned to a friend of mine that I couldn't understand how a team could scratch and claw its way through three rounds of playoff hockey, reach the final covered in blood, sweat and tears...and not show up. What the hell happened, I asked.

"Easy", he said. "Tendencies."

"Huh?"

"Tendencies. Carlyle has Ottawa's tendencies down cold. And he's coaching his team on them."

Now here I was, swearing a blue streak about how the Senators stopped skating (again), how stupid Alfie was with his little tantrum, how (good Lord HOW), with Ottawa needing the biggest goal in franchise history and Emery on the bench, how in the name of all that is holy could Redden let himself get beat to a loose puck with 30 seconds left, in his own zone. And he gives me...coaching.

Ordinarily I'd greet this with mixture of laughter and scorn, but this particular friend knows coaching. He's coached minor football, kids ranging from 4 to 14, for 10 years. He's the Vince Lombardi of the Teletubby set. Pro coaches? Bah! Show me a pro coach who's ever had to deal with his starting wide receiver suddenly running off the field because he "has to potty". Other than Parcells that is ("awww jeez Terrell. Again?"). I joined him once as a volunteer for the first day of team tryouts. I made one bad joke to the players and lost them forever. They looked at him, and saw "Coach". Me? "Dork with a Canadian Tire whistle". They were 8 and they could smell fear. I never went back. He never left. All that to say, when he makes a point about coaching, it usually makes sense to listen.

So is Murray being outcoached? I have no idea. But I do no that if Carlyle is coaching his defence on Ottawa's tendencies (explained to me thusly: Spezza does "A", and if that's not there, "B", and if that's not there "C", waive weakly at the puck while pretending to skate and bitching about the ice. Um...okay. May have made "C" up), and Murray hasn't made adjustments, then yes. But he has adjusted, and still nothing happens. Which leaves...well...that leaves the players. Which makes me swear a blue streak all over again.

Look, we all think they'll win tomorrow. And Saturday. And Monday. We have to. We're fans. And as a fans, the only things we have to replace our total lack of control over the outcome are things like hope and superstition. So tomorrow night, we'll wear the lucky socks, and we'll don the only Sens t-shirt we have left yet to witness a playoff loss. We'll eat the same meal we've eaten before every game, and we'll spin around three times before settling into our Lay-Z-Boys.

But that's it, that's all we got, guys. The rest is up to you, the players. We're out of chants, incantations and incense. We're out of prayers, exhortations, tantrums, and sacrificial rubber chickens. In short, we got nothin' left. So...uh...waddya say there guys? Little help? For old time's sake?

Stanley Cup Finals – Game 4: Now Witness The Firepower Of This Fully Armed And Operational Daniel Alfredsson!

I was thinking about simply reposting the St. Crispin’s day speech (one of my favourites) again, but my Soul For Cup contract with Satan clearly states that I am only permitted one Inspirational Soliloquy From Dead 16th Century Tights-Clad Playwrights per round.

That’s okay though, since I am positively brimming with confidence. How, you may ask? How can I feel so good, even though we’re still trailing in the series, the Big Line is still MIA, Spezza insists on reverting to the pre-Christmas version of his bad (and by bad, I mean putrid) self and Rayzor was far from solid in Game 3? Easy. Booze.

Oh, and this:

It’s getting spicy out there, and the boys have a good hate on for the Ducks now. The games where they played their best, lights-out hockey was against teams they had come to despise (paging Sydney Crosby. Mr. Crosby, please pick up the white phone).

Pronger’s absence on the blue line will hurt more than Carlysle is letting on. Although we’ll miss the big lug’s offensive contributions (thanks again Chris!), it’s time to turn on the jets, gentlemen.

We’re still at home. Think Saturday was crazy? By the end of the second, the Ducks will think they’ve been locked in a very loud phone booth with 21,000 screaming, rabid beavers. (What, not scary? Here’s your stick, Tess Trueheart. Go poke it).

As shaky as Emery was, Jiggy looked even worse. If we can pump five or six past him again, he may just give up completely and join a monastery. That’d be cool.

Prediction: Sens 6, Ducks 2. We’re headin’ back to Disneyland all tied up kids, and Big Mo is drivin’ the bandwagon. Go Sens!

Oh The Injustice! America Yawns In Outrage!

On the off chance that anyone noticed, Five For Smiting took yesterday off. Rest assured, my first thoughts upon waking were of you, gentle reader! (Well…okay, second thoughts. My first one was “Holy crap my head hurts!” Then I thought of you. Honest.) I went to sleep fairly delirious with the posting possibilities offered by the confluence of Game 3, its yummy, yummy controversies, and an entire Sunday stretching before me, limitless in its promise of leisure time. Pronger’s cheap shot! The Alfie/Pele goal! The annual hand wringing that goes with the announcement of the bottomless crater that is the American television audience! I wanted it all!

Funny thing though. As I emerged from the house yesterday morning to get the paper, clutching my cup of coffee, bleary eyed after the previous night’s consumption of beer and bile, I immediately noticed three things: 1) there was a giant ball of fire hovering in the sky which I haven’t seen since the playoffs started; 2) Neighbours were setting up a grid search in the jungle that had once been my backyard, muttering something about missing livestock, and most alarming, 3) my Beloved threatened to call the police if the bedraggled stranger using our bathroom didn’t get out of our house right this minute. Eventually she recognized me, and smiling sweetly, handed me a scythe. And here we are.

Now, that’s not to say that I have no opinions on what transpired on Saturday. I most certainly do.

Following the Flying Elbow of Death, I believe my post on the Battle of Ontario game thread was achingly brilliant in both accuracy and sentiment: SHUNbiTch ProNg…what aN ahhshh..ole…pwngzeeees!!! (Note to self: Bob Cole drinking games are a very bad idea).

Not only is the suspension completely justified, but I think he should sit until McAmmond is cleared to play again, which at this point may not be until October (2nd suspension in as many weeks? Damn straight). Some folks seem to disagree. Now this is where I could go into a frothing rant about ignorant “fans” and how anyone (Daniel) who actually saw the play couldn’t possibly argue otherwise, but I won’t. We, denizens of the blogosphere, have a duty to respect all viewpoints, no matter how, um, “misguided”… they may be. And before everyone (Daniel) goes daffy on me, the refs blew it on the Neil hit on McDonald too. There. Better?

Alfie’s goal was…well…a goal. The VCR Gang in Toronto got it right. End of (non)story. I did, however, thoroughly enjoy the following exchange between Damian Cox and Dave Feschuk on The Sports Reporters Sunday morning (bearing in mind that Feschuk is a very occasional panellist, covers basketball, not hockey…and looks to be roughly 12 years old):

Feschuk: No way that was a goal! He cleary moved his skate!
Cox: You’re allowed to do that.
Feschuk: Well, they should change the rules to make it clearer!
Cox: They did, after the lockout.
Feschuk: It shouldn’t be allowed!
Cox: * blink *…

So there we have it. I would have done this up right proper (as me pappy used to say), had I had the chance yesterday. But, alas, after my landscaping efforts, there just wasn’t enough time/energy/functional brain matter. And now, the moment has passed.

On the upside three pigs, eight chickens and a disoriented wombat have been reunited with their owners. So that’s something.

Pitter Patter They Got One [Ducks Blog]
Finals Ratings Down 22 Percent [SI.com]
McAmmond Still Game Time Decision [SLAM Sports.ca]

Stanley Cup Final -- Game 3 Be In Their Flowing Cups Freshly Remembered

Enough said. Now go get it.

Sens Nation Is Intrigued By Your Ideas And Wishes To Subscribe To Your Newsletter

It’s always nice when extremely large, impersonal media conglomerates try to reach out and touch us, the little people. It reassures us that they do not, in fact, see us as mindless, doughy, couch dwelling content sponges to whom they will sell as much useless crap as they think we can safely stomach, but as mindless, doughy, couch dwelling content sponges who can be seduced by a token gesture of “caring” so that they can continue to sell as much useless crap they think we can safely stomach.

With the explosion of the blogosphere over the last few years, many meetings of very important people took place in very posh boardrooms in many of these media companies. Highly meaningful and powerful words like “synergy”, “interactivity”, “empowerment”, “going forward” and “compuglobalhypermeganet” were tossed about like confetti. The good china was used to serve the coffee. Fresh blintzes were devoured by the truckload. And eventually, a group of very old white guys reached a consensus. In a revolutionary leap of intuitive foresight, these companies, these “hip”, “with-it”, “cutting edge” people announced that, having discovered the Internet the previous fall, their respective on-line content would be made available for comment!

And thus, they threw open their hitherto bolted and shackled web pages to the great unwashed! Now, anyone with a keyboard, an opinion and oposable thumbs WOULD BE HEARD!

Well, the results are in, and by all accounts, it seems Darwin might have been onto something after all. But by gawd, it is hysterical.

Between games/rounds/figure skating exhibitions I’ve been amusing myself by perusing the comment sections at CBC.ca and under the various playoff blog entries at Sports Illustrated. And as you can see from the small but frightfully representative sampling below (all real, I should note. Honest. Look ‘em up!), this is going about as well as you could expect (and BTW, if you want a pee-your-pants, gut-bustingly funny illustration of how corporate entities can get this disastrously wrong, check this out).

Behold Totally In Touch CEOs, your public!

First up, a gentle soul from the genus Idiotus Innebriae who should probably try to avoid using heavy machinery for a while. Please note the spelling and grammar errors, used to denote passion, individuality and a lack of motor control. The total absence of capitalization as well as the innovative sentence structure evoke the brilliant poet e.e. cummings as a toddler.

From Anonymous

i jsut dont know why people like lindy ruff...hes like the biggest idiot there ishe thinks the gam should be called his way, and gets all crazy when he doesnt aggree with calles... like really dude.. you suck......THers noone on that team that i hate more than the coach, as a matter of fact... i only like 2 players o nthat team... Vanek and Afinogenov...

Next, we have an excellent representative from the Oldbiddymat Sanctimonii, a people characterized most readily by their lightning quick ability to phone the police at the first sign of a neighbourhood street hockey game and the possession of an inordinate number of cats:

From Barbara Courtney

I was shocked to see Emery's total lack of respect for the singing of "Oh Canada". Bending over into his goal net, before they had even finished.
I've never seen any player behave so poorly during the playing of any National Anthem!
This is NOT a good example of a Role Model.
Please STAND TALL and show some RESPECT!!! Thank-you.

Thirdly we have Overbearingum Poseuriae of the sub-genus herbtarlekus. These last are most easily identifiable by their ill fitting plumage made primarily of multi-coloured polyester and their penchant for TALKING REALLY LOUDLY ALL THE TIME in order to garner attention:

From: denny cash

WOW! NOT A GREAT WAY TO START A SERIES. THE 1ST PERIOD WAS (I HOPE) A FLUKE. THE SENS HAVE A HIGH POWERED OFFENCE, BUT NOT HIGH ENOUGH TO DO THAT TO THE GREATEST NET MINDER IN THE HISTORY OF THE GAME AGAIN. DEVILS IN 6!!!

And finally, an exciting new discovery. Scientists have yet to classify this particular exemplar. However, initial studies indicate this may be a new example of the migratory Articulus Leafae, an elusive, fickle genre thought to have passed into extinction. The last known sighting was recorded just outside of Toronto in the late spring of 1967.

From: Anonymous

DUCKERZZZ IS GOING DOWWWWN!!!1!! Big TIME!!!! SENATERZZZ IZ ComiNG BACK TO PWNNNNONGGEE BIG TIMEZ!!! BOOO_YEEEHHHH!1!!!11!!

So there you have it, the democratization of cyber space. I for one could not be happier and wish to thank those Wise Elders who made it possible and without whom an enormous sub-species of Homo erectus would be left without a voice.

To you, gentlemen, I offer a heartfelt PWNNNNONGGEE BIG TIMEZ indeed.

CBC.ca Your Views [CBC.ca]
SI Blogs – Lessons From Game 2 [SI.com]

The Day ESPN.Com Stood Still [Deadspin]