My New York Times Overlords have once again tapped the hockey blogosphere to find out what the eminent scribes from those teams on the playoff bubble are feeling. They didn't come to me. Either they have more confidence in the Senators then I do, or they know something I don't and are just trying to spare my feelings. I haven't decided yet.
- 29 teams petition League to reduce game to 40 minutes: Five against the Habs. Five against the Sabres. All scored in the third period. Now about those first two...
- And lo, a child shall lead them: Brian Lee. Remember that name, because he'll be starting on the blue line coming out of camp next year. First ever big league game? No sweat. All he did tonight was be the most reliable defenceman we've seen since...oh...November. Scored his first point...sure, it was an assist on an empty net goal, but still. Earned himself some time on the power play too. And did I mention he saved a goal by kicking a Buffalo shot off the goal line? Oh, and that he repeatedly put Sabres players on their asses the way an NHL caliber D-Man is, you know, supposed to? See ya Reds. Enjoy free agency.
- Speaking of worthless bags of donkey feces: Mr. Meszaros certainly had himself an adventure didn't he? Let's see...where to start? Oh! How about your chronic inability to do anything other than pussy little shoves on an opposing forward? Or wait, wait wait! How about your latest incomprehensibly stupid brain cramp that led directly to Jason Pomainville's goal a mere 25 seconds after the Sabres had gone up 2-1? But for my money, your opus, your coupe-de-gracie if you will, was the hooking penalty you took because you were out of position again, thus wiping out a 3rd period powerplay while we were down by two. Um...you're a restricted FA come July aren't you? Oh...no reason. Just asking.
- A real goalie? Missed it by...THAT much: If Gerbs is losing pucks in his pads, or making the stop only to remain frozen in place as the fat rebound squirts onto an opponents stick, or if we find him grossly out of position after almost every fucking shot, it can only mean one thing. Playoff time is coming. Which means...GUH!...Rayzor. Sweet Jesus, can no one save me from these turbulent idiots?
- Attention! "Kristen" please report to dressing room STAT! Bring massage oil...and a friend: Not sure how many people caught it, but The Captain was definitely not okay after scoring our fifth goal and his second of the night. In fact, after shaking his head to an inquiry from the trainer, he left the bench with a grimace with about a minute to go. If memory serves, somebody warned him against coming back from his back problems too early. Whomever could that have been? Please light sacramental candles as you see fit.
Two trains of thought on this one. First: Holy Mother of God, were we lucky to get the win and if we keep it up we're going to get killed in the playoffs! Second: The boys dug deep to win a game we absolutely needed and we'll ride this and be unbeatable in the playoffs! Man...I'm really starting to hate the month of March.
Two nights hence, we tangle at home with the Sabres once again. Depending on what happens with the rest of the clusterfuck that is the Eastern conference between now and then, we could be facing an even more desperate team than we did tonight. Or not. Either way, it would be nice to see us actually play like we're supposed to and crush an opponent who, on paper, has no business giving us this much trouble. But then, that's just me.
Behind enemy lines:
Fellow Times-ian The Willful Caboose is the place to be. Her game threads are an achingly poignant portrait on what it's like to be on the outside looking in. God, I hope I'm never in that position.
Update: Turns out young Master Lee didn't get his first point after all, Verms' empty netter appearing as "unassisted" in the box score. This is what I get for listening Gordo Gasbab Wilson while trying to write a post at the same time. That's it. Come next game, I'm drunk dialing A-Channel Ottawa to tell him he's an idiot. And that I have Prince Albert in a can.