Games 26 & 27: Sens 8, State Of Florida…um…8 – Creamy Middle, Moral Victory Edition

Update: Through a series of smoke signals, Morse code and strangely erotic interpretive dance, we've been informed that our heroes defeated the Stars last night 4-2. Okay, I got it from here. In any event, we might be on to something here. We'll know for sure on Wednesday.

Okay Bryan. Most of the angry mob that had gathered outside your office has been mollified and left to make last call at Marshy’s. You can probably open the door again. But just because they put down the torches and pitchforks, doesn’t mean you can relax. After all, they left them within easy reach. See? Everything is right over there in the parking lot, between the hot dog vendor and the guillotine.

The Highs:

• Kool-Aid Will Continue To Be Served On The Mezzanine Level Until 6:00pm: For all of the wailing and rending of garments going on around here over the last seven games, we would do well to remember that the boys still managed to grab 5 of 14 points. Lucky? Sure. But we’ll take ‘em. This means we’re still four points up on the Hartolina Whalicanes for tops in the East. Even more miraculous, we’re only three back of Detroy-it for first overall. Who said October games are meaningless? Oh right. I did.

• Superman Never Made Any Money, Saving The World From Solomon Grundy: Swedes are well known as a rather stoic people, and for good reason. You never see news reports of drunken mobs, liquored up on Carlsberg and Absolut rampaging through the streets of Stockholm, pummeling innocent passers by with blunt objects (well, almost never). And so it is with The Captain. He threw the team on his back with 13 points in 7 of the crappiest games played in the last ten years, including single-handedly stealing a point for us in Tampa Bay. So Daniel, you have our permission to cut loose. Go CRRR-AAAY-ZZAY Viking style! Kiss your beautiful girlfriend…on the mouth…IN PUBLIC! No, really it’s okay. You’ve earned it.

The Lows

• Danger Will Robinson John Paddock! Danger!:Anyone who thinks the slump is done, that PHEW!, we’re out of the woods with nothing but sunshine and lollipops in front of us, and is therefore scrambling to get back on the bandwagon, please consider the following facts:
  

• A) We beat the Panthers for our only win in eight games. Not exactly the ’76-’77 Habs are they? (why the hell do they keep popping up??)
  

• B) All of the problems that led to the slump (shaky goaltending, brutal giveaways, tentative breakout passes, goddammit HIT SOMEBODY!) were still in evidence on Wednesday, albeit to a lesser extent. It takes a while to break bad habits. Trust me, I’m a smoker. I know.

• C) 25, 28, 25, 35, 22, 41. Breast sizes from FHF’s latest game threads? Nope. Shots on Goal against for the last six games. Team D, needs a little work there coach.
  

• D) Fair weather fans suck and should be boiled alive in their own feces.

• Is That Most Of Our Goals In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?: When we lost in last year’s Finals, it was in large part due to a lack of secondary scoring. When questioned about this apparent problem, your humble scribe boldly proclaimed to our enemies that this would not be a problem this year. Upon gazing in stupefaction at the Senators stats page (which I normally avoid if at all possible), my Magic Cloak of Smug Invisibility melted away in the face of cold, hard numbers. 61% of all Senator goals this year have come either from Heater or The Captain. Sixty-one freakin’ percent. If I’m Coach P, that scares the piss out of me. I’m not Coach P. (he smiles more than I do), and it scares the piss out of me. So boys, from now on and until such time as you both learn to share, you are never EVER to be in the same vehicle at the same time. One Emery-esque “mishap” and we’re screwed. We’re also going to book you into separate hotels. Don’t worry Heater. Super 8s have cable too.

Creamy Middle:

We're close kids, but not quite out of it yet. Passes that missed by six inches last week, missed by three on Wednesday. Shots that once were four feet wide, were a mere two. The skating is a little faster, the hitting is a little harder (Golden Groin excepted) and the hands seem to finally be loosening a tad. The signs of an eventual return to dominance are there. Of course, that can all turn to shit against Dallas tonight, a somewhat stronger opponent than we faced in Florida. But since that game is on Pay-Per-Screwed, I will blissfully ignore it and anything that results from it. And if things go the way of the last PPV game, even those who paid for it may be forced to ignore it as well. But I'll bet they won't be nearly as blissful.

Up Next:

Since it's the next game anybody can see, we'll go with Wednesday, on the road, at the aforementioned Whaleicanes. I take no end of amusement in the fact that the largest of Canada's Big Six banks owns the naming rights on a hockey rink in the middle of NASCAR country. And by "amusement", I of course mean "barely controllable rage". It's so nice to see the 28% interest I'm paying on my credit card going to such a worthwhile, and no doubt profitable endeavour. Believe me when I say I mean this in the nicest way possible: Fuck you Royal Bank.

Your Totally Half-Assed Season Preview

As I've mentioned before, I'm not very good at previews. While I like to argue that a player-by-player breakdown of a team into its component parts serves no purpose as it discounts the holistic strengths inherent in a cohesive unit (the whole being greater than the sum of parts and all that), the truth of the matter is that I'm just too fucking lazy.

That said, with the 2007-2008 season less than 32 hours away (and I hope you're as moist about that as I am), I felt I owed it to both my loyal readers to put something up before puck drop tomorrow night, if only to be able to justify the inevitable and merciless taunting I will be doing over the broken, bleeding bodies of our opponents come next June.

So buckle up as we take a line by line trip through the locker room, albeit in a less alliterative fashion, and some quick thoughts on the playoffs. Because October is not too soon to be thinking about April. We will then get back to our regularly scheduled rants, rumours and innuendo. Promise.

Forwards:

1st line: Heatley, Spezza, Alfreddsson.

For the time being anyway. Unlike the more mainstream pundits, I've never been that orgasmically enamoured by the "CASH" line. Aside from the lamest line nickname in history, putting these three together has always smacked of putting too many eggs in one basket. As we saw in the Finals last year, shut this line down and our scoring goes into the crapper. This will no doubt change as the season goes on, with Alfie dropping to the second line and for that, I will be very grateful. But in the meantime, Alfie's continuing mission to point Spezz to his own end of the rink will continue.

2nd line: Foligno, Fisher, Eaves (subject to change if the rookie shits his pants)

I have to admit, when I heard that The Spawn Of Mike had made the team, my first thought was that he'd be a good fourth line cog to plug into the hole left by Dean McAmmond's temporary inability to tie his own skates, and that once that was rectified, little Nicky would be riding the buses in Bingo for at least another year. Imagine my surprise to open this morning's paper and find him on the second line. On the strength of his preseason, I'll give him the benefit of my considerable doubt, but you have to think that Paddock will be rather quick with the hook if things don't go as planned. As for Fish, well everyone knows my feelings on him. And Patty Eaves has always been underrated, I think. While his history of injury makes me a little nervous, all he does is give everything he has to any role he's asked to play, and without bitching about it. You can never have too many of those guys.

3rd line: Vermette, Kelly, Neil

At the risk of hyperbolizing, these three are the guys that will be responsible for winning us that Big Ugly Trophy next spring. Arguably, the best third line in the League, they've done nothing but improve from year-to-year, to the point that they would easily play on any other team's second unit (and yes, I am including Neil in that). While the primary role of any third line is to check the opposition into the ice, all three have the speed to turn the other team's mistakes into a scoring chance faster than Paul Maurice can question his career choice. Look for a breakout year for all of them.

4th line: Donovan, Inanimate Carbon Rod, Schubert/McGratten

Welcome to the Plug-And-Play section of today's program. Until McAmmond's return we'll be seeing just about everybody playing at centre for this line, possibly up to and including the beer vendors. Look for Kelly and Fish to be double shifted along with the occasional appearance of our Athenian Wonder, while Schubert bounces back and forth from the blue line. Donovan is a bit of an unknown quantity, but if he pastes Darcy Tucker just once this season, I'm putting him on my Christmas card list.

Defensive pairings:

Philips/Volchenkov: Our top shut down guys, there's no reason to think they won't pick up where they left off last year. A-Train's superhuman ability to attract vulcanized rubber is a bit worrisome due to the increased probability of taking one off the head, but I wouldn't trade him for a thousand Chris Pronger wayward elbows.

Redden/Meszaros: Let's be honest. Wade Redden will not be with the Senators past the trade deadline. We can't afford to resign him past this season, but neither can we let him walk for nothing. There is the pesky matter of his no-trade clause however. Time to earn your money Bryan. Mez suffered a bit of a sophomore slump after a stellar rookie year, but now that he has a year of top-four duty under his belt, he should be more comfortable.

Corvo/Schubert/Richardson: I'm not entirely convinced signing Richardson was a great move. Mostly because the conditions that rendered him expendable in Philly (and if you couldn't make the Flyers last year, you have big problems) are still there, i.e.: too big, too slow. But as a seventh guy to fill in while Schube is playing on the wing, or a veteran presence to calm the whipper snappers when things get hairy, I will grudgingly admit it may have been money well spent. Corvo's howitzer from the blue line is nice to have, but the early Vegas line has the over/under on his first "I suck so much" meltdown of the year locked in for the 28th of December.

Goalies:

Ray Emery's wrist/Martin Gerber/Brian Elliot

As always, the Achilles heel. Can Rayzor be The Man once his wrist is finally healed? And more important, can he stay the hell out of any vehicular trouble? Remember, he fought the puck through most of the playoffs, but was bailed out by a crazy-good team D. At least until the Final. Will Gerber be able to hold the fort in the meantime, without having some kind of existential meltdown in his confidence? And after that, who's left? This will be the story all season. Maybe we can trade Reds for, say, Carey Price. What do you say guys, any takers?

Fearless Prognostications:

It's pretty safe to assume that the Sens are a lock for the division title. Boston has probably improved the most out of all five teams, but not enough to make a charge. After the rape and pillage in Buffalo, the Sabres, Habs and yes, even the Leafs, will be too busy just trying to make the playoffs to be a serious threat. That's not to say I'm not looking forward to a few more goalie fights this year (Ya heard me Toskala! Drop 'em, bitch!)

And while there is no reason to think that we won't challenge for the conference title, that third seed (at a minimum) will come in mighty handy come April. If we're going to make a return trip to the Finals (and let's not fool ourselves, it's this year or bust...a theme I will be harping as the season goes on) we'll need to go through a much improved Rangers team and the perpetually bothersome ass-pimples that are the Pittsburgh Penguins (another year with The Pensblog. Whee!).

So how will it shake out? We take the Pens in the Eastern Final before exacting revenge on Brian Burke and his shitty haircut for the Cup. Then again, I'm just a lazy bastard talking out of his ass here, and I reserve the right to repudiate, reject or otherwise deny anything I just wrote. But enough of this. Just drop the goddamned puck already!

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.

Good Evening Gentlemen. Mr. Davidson Would Like A Word

Okay. It’s perfectly obvious now. Why it hadn’t occurred to me before, I’ll never know. Those dastardly fiends at Maple Leafs Sports and Entertainment have ripped open a hole in space-time and swapped our Covered-In-Glory 2007 Senators with the Bathed-In-The-Stink-Of-Gary-Roberts’-Junk Senators, circa 2002. Of course! How else to explain the sudden reappearance of our favourite wilting lilies from days of yore? I can’t. Can you?

Seriously. Just what the hell is going on? Everybody with a functional frontal lobe told them what they needed to do. Hit them. Skate. Hit them again. Muck it up on the boards. Keep hitting them. Get shots to the net. Look like you CARE goddammit. And to a man, the team nodded, agreed, promised to do just that. Yep. You betcha! Totally! RAH! WE’RE GOING OUT THERE AND…ah…play worse? 16 shots. SIXTEEN! Jesus wept.

Alright. That’s it for my rant. It took me about an hour last night to empty my Big Cauldron Of Rage but now nice Mister Doctor Guy says I’m all fixed. My patio set may need additional recovery time however. (Sorry Honey. We’ll get a new one. Promise).

Um…so now what? Well, now our wallflowers return to the friendly confines of the Bank, where the frenzied mob will surely motivate them to, oh…I don’t know…play the frickin’ game like they have since the middle of April?!? Whether that motivation stems from the adrenaline rush which comes from the adulation of an adoring populace or an acute (and quite real) fear of being lynched in the parking lot after another stinker, I don’t much care.

Just show us something. Anything. Please?

Stanley Cup Finals -- Game 1: Upon Bryan's Signal Unleash Hell

Dear gawd, but it feels like these last 10 days have dragged forever. But we're here Sens fans. Pinch yourselves, you ain't dreamin'. Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals is thirty minutes away. And I, for one, am very warm and tingly in all of my special places.

I'm not even going to attempt a live blog on this. Not only can I count on any emotional stability at all, but the sweat on my palms keep causing myt fighhyngers toooolol slopslip off the keyboard.

My expectations tonight: Anaheim comes out like a house a-fire, crashing, banging, attempting to injure anything in white. The Senators (not too dopey from the lay-off...I hope...otherwise I'm making Bettman my bitch) have to weather the storm that will be the first five minutes. After that, the Ducks get themselves into penalty trouble and the boys go to work on a lethal powerplay. And if Marchant doesn't try to take out one of Alfie, Heater or Spez with a chicken-shit knee shot before the first period is over, I'll kiss a Leaf fan...on the mouth.

Final: Ottawa 4, Anaheim 1. Flangerotti!

p.s: I have to give a quick plug to the boys at Battle of Ontario. If you want a lively game thread, head there. I'll try to make it over myself...as soon as I stop throwing up.