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]