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.

Notepad Chicken Scratch: Sens 2, Caps 1 (OT) -- FISH!

It was sloppy. It was ugly. It was always in doubt. And it was entirely well deserved.

Holy crap, we finally beat the Caps.

Tomorrow night...sweeping tales of redemption, bad ice, the incredibly fucking scary Alex Ovechkin and how one man will unite us all. No, not him. Him.

Slap Shot Welcomes Us Anew With Open, If Slightly Apprehensive, Arms

The Gray Lady has once again thrown open her intertube gates to the great unwashed of the blogosphere, plucking from obscurity mere plebeians, such as myself, and elevating us to hither to unknown heights of slighly less obscurity! And for that, I am grateful.

Here's our first go around, a whirlwind tour of the Northeast Division.

Three things you may want to note. First, you really should visit all of the participating blogs. They're very, very good (insert So why did they pick you? joke here).

Secondly, I've taken the rare risk of throwing off my carefully constructed cloak of anonymity. Why, you may ask? For the same reason any fine, upstanding man with a wonderful home life and a solid job would. To show off to my mom.

And three? PPP and Chemmy. Man, I can't get hide from you guys anywhere, can I?

If A Slump Falls In The Floridas, And Nobody Sees It, Do We Still Get The Points?

There are two things you can count on during the Senators' annual early season two-game swing through the Sunshine State. The first being the Emperor's Luncheon, in which Eugene The Fantastically Magnificent descends from on high and deigns to host a team meal at whatever giant mansion happened to catch his fancy that week (funny how the team always seems to win the game immediately before this little bread breaking, no?).

The second? I will never actually see the games. It always screws with my mojo. Just like the players, we basement dwelling blogging types need a few games to get properly acclimatized to the ebb and flow of the regular season, if for no other reason than to properly adjust our undergarments and convince mom to bake another plate of cookies. So when that two game vaccuum comes around every October, I always find myself blinking in a bewildered fashion and scrambling to throw something, anything up in this space just to reassure myself that I am still, in fact, capable of forming a coherent sentence. Not only that, but it forces me to come up with something original.

And as you can plainly see...I hate that.

Oh yeah, almost forgot...we lost the game in a shootout.

Up Next:

Well, it was fun while it lasted. Alex Ovechkin and his Sens-killing cohorts roll into the Bank on Tuesday night. You remember them, right? On the upside, I'm told someone has invented a device capable of carrying images of live sporting events through space using nothing but vaccuum tubes and rubber bands so that we may enjoy these events in the comfort of our own homes. My stars, what an age we live in! (7:30 p.m., SportsNet East).

Behind Enemy Lines:

If it's the first Capitals game of the year, it has to be one of the Founding Fathers of the hockey blogosphere, Japer's Rink (seriously, when JP first appeared on the Tubes, I was still looking for the "any" key). And I couldn't be prouder (stupid internal grammar Nazi) more proud than to number among the 1,677 sites listed in the blogroll.