Habs 4, Wankers 0 -- Seriously. WTF Was That??

Ten games. That's how long I've managed to hold on to my vow of being a kinder, gentler, pink and squishy, "Oh the boys are young and need positive reinforcement instead of nasty words" kind of blogger. Ten games. Then you go and cock it all up by letting Chris Higgins (CHRIS HIGGINS!!) make you his prison bitch. Ten. Fucking. Games.

The One, Infinitesimal High:

• Of lipstick wearing pigs: In a shocking turn of events, never before seen in Ottawa, our boys actually turned the usual platitudes ("We just have to work hard!", "We have to be accountable!", "No one is happy about the way we played!", "I LIKE SOUP!") into honest to God results on the ice. Personally, I was astounded. My astonishment would have turned to outright flabbergast had it lasted for more than the middle ten minutes of the first period.
  

The Lows:

• Speaking of which: Hell of a start you got off to, there Jason. Yep, one hell of a start. Nice to see Coach Craig calling you out in public could have an effect. Hard in the corners, threw some hits...even took a run at Koivu. Nice. So tell me, Jason. Did your testicles shrink, or did you just figure you had fulfilled your Man-Up quota for the evening and shut it down for the last two periods? Just curious.
  

• You will feel shame. You will feel shame and beg his forgiveness: Alex Auld played his balls off. Alex Auld single handedly kept this game from becoming an even bigger embarrassment than it eventually was. So maybe, just maybe, you guys can help him out a bit. By that, I mean, your assistance would be appreciated. To further illustrate my point, I shall restate it thusly: GETTING TORCHED ON FEWER THAN FOUR BREAKAWAYS WOULD BE OF SOME FUCKING ASSISTANCE!!
  

• Bus to Binghamton, now departing Gate 1: When that alcohol induced aneurysm, which I have no doubt lies buried deep within my cerebral cortex finally pops like an ass pimple some time around the 21st of February (hey look, we're playing the Habs!), and I droop dead where I sit, the coroner will have no choice but to enter "Alexandre Picard" under Cause Of Death.
  

• If only we had a trio of offensively gifted forwards with which to spark some hope!: Ten minutes to go in the game, down by three. CASH line nowhere to be found. You picked one hell of a game to make a point, Coach.
  

• Somebody needs to stick a cock in his mouth: Shut up, McGuire. Really. Just shut the fuck up. Yes, Jarkko throwing the elbow was dirty. Yes, it was dirty, even though it was on Maxim Lapierre, who ranks just above Darcy Tucker on the International Scale of People Who Should Be Sodomized With A Buick. And, yes, it was deserving of a suspension (which was duly administered). But spending the next five minutes screaming as if we had just witnessed Roto Ruutu tearing the heads from live kittens at centre ice, just makes me want to slam your skull into the glass until the noise stops. So quit it.
  

• The Captain cries because you suck: You made Alfie do this. If I were the rest of you, I'd be thankful it was a pane of plexiglass, and not my neck.
  

Creamy Middle:

Everything you need to know about this game, is perfectly encapsulated in the following:

I heard the names Spezza, Heatley, Alfie, Fisher, and Neil last night. I may have heard "Winchester" once, and Foligno was mentioned when he fell down on the third goal. That's seven forwards. Most teams dress 12. It's not a good sign when almost half of your attackers are invisible. I think Spezza and Fisher each played 45 minutes last night.

The authors of such perfect insight? Four Habs Fans. You know...the opponent.

Up Next:

Tomorrow night, the first in a home-and-home set against the Islanders (7:30pm, SportsNet East). How far have we fallen? Both Gord Miller and his loyal sidekick, Zippy Wondernuts attempted to put our mind at ease by assuring us that the Isles would provide "a more evenly matched test". C'mon guys. That's just mean.

Sens vs. Habs: The Safety Word Is "Banana"

This may not end well.

Remember the good old days...and by "good old days" I mean "almost exactly a year ago"...when the boys would roll into Montreal and the air would be filled with carefully scripted sound bites emanating from the Hab locker room about how they were "looking forward to the challenge"? Or Guy Carbonneau endlessly repeating how the Sens "were a good measuring stick" and "it'll be interesting to see how we stack up against them"? Remember those days? Yeah...good times.

Not sure if you've noticed, but...um...those days are gone. Montreal, reigning Miss Eastern Conference (as elected in the MSM), are coming off a brutal and embarassing loss to *cough* the Laffs and spent the last three days being publically flogged by their own coach. In short, they are not happy campers.

So yeah...buckle up boys.

On the upside, for the first time this season, I once again get to darken the game thread at Four Habs Fans, those purveyors of all that is great and wonderful in the world of pole dancing/hockey fan goodness. Join me, won't you?

No, really. Join me. Please? I get lonely amidst the gloating hordes of conquering opponents.

Thank You

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— John McCrae

I Could Have Sworn I Left It Right Here...HEY! ANYBODY SEE A GOALIE COACH??

Find the coach, win a prize.

As I watched Friday's "game" in Carolina three things sprang to mind. Well, more than three, but only three that don't involve the copious use of the words "fucking" and "Corvo".

First, I realized that there would be no Creamy Middle. My natural loquacity aside, there are only so many ways one can use the word "BLECH!", or describe the sight of two Senators forwards colliding at centre ice before it gets repetitive.

Secondly, if the League truly wants to drive away casual fans in markets it has no business being in anyway, having both teams play the previous night is a hell of way to do it. Bonus points to the schedule makers for making sure both the Sens (at home, over the Flyers) and the home town Whaleicanes (road loss in Washington) had to fly into Raleigh during the wee hours. Remember those roughly 812 Ottawa-Hartford exhibition games, circa 1994? Yeah, this game was just like those...only less exciting.

And the third thought that occurred to me was this: Where in blue fuck is Eli Wilson?

You remember Eli, right? He was named as our goalie coach in August 2007, the summer after the Cup run. Not because we needed a goalie coach. You see, we already had one of those. His name was Ron Low. No, the reason Ron was given an assistant coaching position (and subsequently swept up in the Great Teflon Massacre of 2008) and Eli Wilson was named as his replacement was strictly due to placate one Ray-Ray Emery (the gift that keeps on giving), who insisted that his hand picked, off-season swami be brought on staff full-time. And as we know, that turned out swimmingly.

So as I watched Gerber on Friday night, that question popped into my head over and over again; where's Eli? And the reason this popped into my head over and over again, was because I watched Pastry make the same mistakes over and over again.

And they're the same mistakes he's been making over and over again for the last three years. He's too deep in his crease. He drops to his knees on every goddamned play (both Carolina goals went high-glove, you'll notice). It takes him a ridiculous amount of time to even react after a shot hits him, let alone to track the rebound. He constantly slides out of position when moving laterally. And most important, his confidence is absolutely shot.

The result is plain to see. The players get tentative and fearful of making a mistake, because they don't trust him to make the stop if a risk blows up in their faces. And when the five guys up front are constantly keeping one eye on the goalie, you lose hockey games.

If I can see it, if the twenty thousand people in the stands can see it, if everybody watching the game on television can see it, or if guys like Wayne Scanlan or Bruce Garrioch can see it, yet choose, for whatever reason to ignore it, and it's been going on for years, then it raises the question:

Just where in blue fuck is Eli Wilson?

How To Make Shootouts More Interesting: Decapitation!

In most sporting events, convention dictates that he (or she) who first demonstrates a new technique in sanctioned competition, is bestowed the honour of having that technique named for him (or her). To wit: Alois Lutz enjoys some fabulously sequined props for having invented the figure skating jump that bears his name while high jumpers have Dick Fosbury to thank for his Flop (little known fact: in a suspiciously close decision, the IAAF voted to dub this the "Fosbury Flop" rather than uphold Great Britain's motion, "The Floppy Dick")

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...The Schubie Doo.



Optional skull crushing will add .05 to the degree of difficulty.

Sens 4, Flyers 1: Only Then Will You Be A Man, My Son

There's nothing like the first time, is there? The years spent dreaming about it. Those sleepless sweaty nights all alone imagining what that moment will be like. The mounting excitement of the chase, the end goal so close you can almost taste it, and then, finally, everything falls together perfectly and you experience that climactic bliss for the first time. And it is magnificent! Nope, there is nothing like the first time. ...*sigh* Hmm? Wazzat?

I'm talking about scoring your first NHL goal. What the hell did you think I was talking about? Perv.

The Highs:

• But wait, Jesse! There's more!: So here's what you do, Coach. Write down the numbers 11, 12 and 18 on a piece of paper. In ink. Then have that piece of paper laminated. Next, take it down to the corner of Rideau and Dalhousie. Finally, enter one of the many fine (and totally hygenic) boutiques along that stretch of street and hand that piece of laminated paper to the large, colourful man behind the counter and ask him to tattoo that fucker on your forehead. Backwards. That way, everytime you look in the mirror, you'll be able to fight the temptation to take Jesse off this line. The boy has earned it.
  

• In which A-Train unveils The Testes of Steel Defence to a grateful nation: Not content with simply doubling his career high for goals scored in a season, or shooting hard, high and often enough to make Antero Niittymaki dribble a few superfluous "i"'s from his peehole, our intrepid hero revealed the newest arrow in his shot-blocking quiver early in the third period: facing the shooter, flat on his ass...legs spread wide open. Picked up the block too. Ladies and gentlemen, I can only sit uncomfortably in awe of that kind of courage...while making a funny hissing noise between my teeth.
  

• Of leopards, spots and Spezzas: Fine, Jason. Have it your way. We give up. Three times (by my count) you made passes through the middle of the offensive zone, that by rights, should have have ended up 200 feet away in our own net. Three times you connected with an open man. And three times Dean Brown exposed himself for the stat-spewing homer he is by ejaculating all over Gary Galley while extolling your "unreal vision". If I add that to the ridiculous pass through the Flyer crease to set up Heater and the fact that you chose the safe play and dumped it rather than trying to beat a 1-on-3 at the blueline (HE CAN BE TAUGHT!), I can live with the occasional brain fart. I said occasional.
  

The Lows:

• One of these things is not like the other: Maybe it was because the rest of the D has shown a rather marked improvement over the dreck we witnessed in the first five games, or perhaps it has to do with his tender years, but it may be time for Young Master Picard to take a confidence boosting tour of Greater Binghamton. I fear he may be feeling a touch of the vertigo.

• You play. To win. The game.: There's a saying amongst we football fanatics, one that doesn't involve "Aw c'mon Ref!" and "Of course I want that seventeenth beer, honey. It's Sunday!" and it goes something like this...The only thing a prevent defence does is prevent you from winning. Pretty clever, non? Yeah, I thought so too. And I'll leave you to ponder that the next time you see Coach Craig pull the trap trigger when we're up by two.
  

Pithy Observations of Questionable Importance:

• Don't worry Anton. A few more and they'll get it right: As I've mentioned before I love the crowd shouting out the last name of an Ottawa goal scorer. Now I love it even more. After A-Train scored, they tried their best, God love 'em. I can only attribute the resulting ANTON SPLXRTXZ..OV! to their stunned disbelief at having witnessed his second marker of the year.
  

• Well, that was...interesting: And the season's first nominee for Most Hilarious Breakaway of the Year goes too...Schubie Doo! While coming to a dead stop while the puck sits uselessly between your own feet while standing in the crease is a novel approach, allowing yourself to be subsequently pile driven into the cross bar may have been a bit much.
  

Up Next:

Down to SWEEEET CAROLINE! WAH! WHA! WHA! to face the Hartolina Whaleicans, with whom we are currently tied for the last playoff spot in the East. I think. I'm too lazy to look it up. Swiss Pastry with the start, so that shouldn't last long. On the upside...good luck getting the song out of your head. You're welcome. (7:00 p.m., SportsNet East)
Behind Enemy Lines:

A big, mint julep-y Mah word! to WufPirate and Carolina on Ice. Well written, informative, pretty to look at and quite often hilarious. Yeah, I'm not sure Peter Kormanos deserves it either.

Sens 2, Caps 1 (OT): YES WE CAN!

Hello, Ottawa.

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that ScotiaBank Place is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of Cyril Leeder, Bruce Firestone and SpartaCat is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our hard work and perseverance, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told to panicky fans and unscrupulous media in numbers this city has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours just for the chance to be heard on the call-in shows, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference.

We are, and always will be, the Ottawa Senators.

It's the answer that led those who've been told for so long by Don Brennan so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of our stick blade and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this date in this game at this defining moment, change has come to Ottawa.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to. It belongs to you.

This is your victory.

You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our season -- laziness, blowing a damn-near full two minutes of five-on-three powerplay time, worst defensive crisis in a decade...Martin Gerber.

This victory alone is not the change we seek. It is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were.

It can't happen without Fish, The Captain, Heater and Auld, without a new spirit of service, a new spirit of sacrifice.

So let us summon a new spirit of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other.

Tonight, I think about all that we've seen throughout our 16 years in the NHL -- the heartache and the hope; Joe Fucking Neuwendyck; the heartache; the struggle and the progress; the heartache; the Finals; the heartache; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that Hockey Country creed: Yes we can.

At a time when the fans' voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, we lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the rafters. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the upper bowl and depression across the beer concessions, we saw a city conquer fear itself with a new coach, new players, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the pucks fell on our crease and Ovechkin threatened the net, we were there to witness a goaltender rise to greatness and a game was saved. Yes we can.

And this year, in this game, Mike Fisher touched his finger to a puck, and cast his shot, because, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, he knows how he can change.

Yes we can.

Ottawa, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves -- if our children should live to see the next post-season, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment.

Yes we can.

Five For Smiting would like to take a moment, on behalf of a grateful planet, to thank the American people for not cocking it up three times in a row. Congratulations (and apologies), Mr. President-Elect! And for your people's sake, I hope you can get that Stupid-White-Guy smell out of the upholstery.