Seeing Stars

 

The Tampa Bay Lightning fulfilled their purpose and eliminated the Islanders in six games to win the eastern conference final. YES!!!! Despite my earlier intention to support them through the Stanley Cup final, however, I have changed my mind. It seems I’ve adopted the Dallas Stars as my championship team for the COVID-19 Cup.

But, Ru, what the ... ?

You may well ask. I didn’t mean to cheer for Dallas, but I accidentally watched the last couple of games in their series against the dishonourable Knights. Ter gets the blame for that – she’s the one who flipped the channel to prove if there’s a game on, we’ll watch it. The captain of the Stars (Jamie Benn) grew up in Brentwood Bay, the same community where Ter and I lived as teenagers before we met. It’s a small thing, but enough to pick a team for the duration of a game. That, and I was still mad at Vegas for the second empty net goal against Vancouver.

At the end of game five, Ter announced her support for Dallas to win the Cup. Not only could she not raise any enthusiasm for Tampa, she liked the idea of backing “Brentwood” Benn. I kind of agreed, but I’ve disliked Dallas in the past and, compared to my general indifference to the Lightning, that weighs more.

I waffled some when game six (the elimination game for Vegas) ended with the Stars’ overtime victory. It happened on the dumbest penalty call ever invented by the NHL: the infamous “delay of game”. By accident or design, when a player sends the puck goes over the glass in the defensive zone, it’s an automatic two-minute minor. I have no problem calling it when by design, but the puck glancing off the shaft of a stick engaged in a battle for said puck, I don’t see that being deliberate. Honestly, they delay the game by calling delay of game when they could treat it like icing or offside calls: just get another puck and have a faceoff. Anyway, it’s what happened to the Knights. Dallas scored on the power play and that was it: series over. On a dumb delay of game call that was clearly an accident. I was outraged at the injustice.

Then I remembered the snotty second empty net goal against Vancouver. Suddenly the hockey gods were repaying karma and I was good with the Dallas win. I was also a toe closer to going the distance with them, but not there yet.

At the start of Game One of the final round, Cardigan asked me which team I was hoping would win. I replied that I wouldn’t know until the first goal was scored. If I cheered, that was my team. If I swore, it wasn’t.

Dallas scored first. I cheered. Decision made.

Go, Stars.

Lightning Up

 

Sometime during the night following the Flyers’ elimination from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I decided to root full bore for the Tampa Bay Lightning. Originally, I only supported the Bolts until they served their purpose by punting the Bruins in their second round series, but I had also hoped Philly would do in the Islanders and proceed to face Tampa in the eastern conference final.

Dreamer! Silly little dreamer!

Without getting into it (because it still makes me furious), the Flyers pushed their series against New York to a seventh game, but it was only by the grace of Carter Hart that they got that far. We had no offense unless you count lucky bounces, though the defense was solid (Ivan Provorov’s got a great future), and we had a fairly effective penalty kill—but an utterly piss poor power play. The PP was so pp, in fact, that I groaned aloud whenever we drew a penalty. It got worse when, hoping to break the NYI shutout, Alain Vigneault pulled Hart with six minutes to go in the third period. “What are you doing, you fool?” I screamed. “The goalie’s the best man on our power play!”

So, the boys are off to the golf course and Basher is off to post-playoff therapy. Of course I’m a Bolts fan for the eastern final—I can’t abide the Islanders in any way shape or form. And in the west, I’d have chosen Vegas over Dallas, but now I don’t care. My Plan B preference had been for Vegas to go all the way, until I witnessed a cheap-o WTF? move by the Knights when they put out Vancouver in game seven of their series.

Give the Canucks credit—they went further than any other Canadian team and I’d have been delighted to cheer them to the Cup, if only. They had to call on their backup goalie when Markstrom was hurt in game four, and darned if Thatcher Demko didn’t stop all but one of something like a hundred and twenty shots over two games. You start to believe anything is possible when a team comes back from a three game deficit to force a seventh. But Vegas came to play, and they play rough. Not good rough, either. Not only did they out-bang the Canucks, they got away with some sneaky shots and won by a score of 3 – 0. They only beat Demko once, though. The insurance goal was into the empty net after Vancouver pulled him to get the extra man on in the last few minutes of regulation time. With eighty-some seconds left in the game, Vegas potted a second empty-netter and celebrated like they’d come from behind in the nick of time.

Really? A second empty net goal? Talk about rubbing it in—and while I may be a fan of the old Broad Street Bullies, I vehemently disagree with such poor sportsmanship. In my mind, what the Knights did in that last minute was naught but a poke in the collective eye of Canuck players and fans alike. Boo, hiss!

But, Ru, you ask, what happens if the Islanders beat the Bolts?

Don’t ask.

The bears console Basher after the Flyers are eliminated

Athletic Supporters

 

The Flyers have made it to the second round of the playoffs for the first time since 2012. They got past Montreal in round one, but now they’re duking it out with the hated New York Islanders, who are a much better team than the Habs. They’re also similarly matched with Philly—though the Flyers offense, which is more powerful on paper, would give us the edge if it was a bit more effective on the ice. We lost a meagre lead and ultimately lost game three, which shattered Basher’s confidence and means the Isles lead the best of seven series two games to one. Game four happens tonight.

I sincerely hope that Philly blows NY outta the arena.

As a pinheaded hockey fan, I wonder if the suspension of play for a couple of days messed with the Flyers’ momentum because they fought (and won) a super second game. Game three was scheduled for the very next day, then word came down that the NHL players were joining the NBA, MLS and (I think) MLB in support of their non-white teammates by suspending play for a couple of days. It’s messiest in the States right now, but systemic racism is an ongoing issue everywhere. Pro sports is as diverse an example as any—so while I may be a pinheaded hockey fan, I also applaud the players who stand in support of racial equality and justice for all.

Hockey, one may argue, isn’t that diverse given the vast majority of players are of European descent, but it’s also a very expensive sport and economic disparity is a product of systemic racism. Kids from economically disadvantaged families can’t get on the ice unless non-profits step up to help them with equipment etc. The number of non-white kids playing pro hockey is growing, but it’s almost painfully slow in comparison to other sports leagues.

How did we explain to Basher, who’d spent all day Thursday gearing up for it, why game three was cancelled on Thursday night?

The bears tend to disregard anything I tell them so Ter, being the Bear Whisperer, got down to eye level and gave Basher the news. She described the unrest and protests happening beyond our bubble, and how people are doing what they can to offer support where they can, including pro athletes. He’s a little, er, slow on the uptake, but as she talked, the other bears gradually abandoned their soccer game and gathered around to listen. Burl and Elliot are the troublemakers, but they’re also the quickest to grasp a concept. They were pretty blunt with their opinion of racist attitudes, but they are also part of a multi-hued ursine community and will notice another bear before they notice the colour of its fur. They just don’t understand social injustice or racial inequality.

They understand solidarity, though. When I got them out of bed on Friday morning, they had rallied the whole gang to the cause. I was unanimously advised to leave the soccer ball in the drawer of my nightstand. No football was played until the playoffs resumed.

Philly Dips

It’s not news that the Flyers went out in six games after the regular season. The second round of the playoffs is now underway and my lads are watching on their smartphones at the golf course. I could stomp and scream and make generous contributions to the swear jar, but even if the visually-impaired ref had made the appalling “I-can’t-believe-it-was-missed” call on Kris Letang kicking the skates from beneath Sean Couturier in the third period, the boys likely wouldn’t have survived a game 7 in the first round. Not against Pittsburgh. Not this year.

This isn’t news either, but a hockey team needs more than one scoring line, otherwise it’s too easy for the opposing team to shut you down, and that’s exactly what the Penguins did to the Flyers. Mind you, Captain Claude was invisible, and Jake Voracek wasn’t worth much, either. The two top point-getters in the regular season did nothing in the post unless you count letting the kids do all the work, in which case you might be inclined to commend them for creating what public servants refer to as “learning opportunities”.

I learned that the next generation has all kinds of potential if Ron Hextall can afford to keep the current roster in place. Nolan Patrick in particular, but there’s a handful of other twenty-somethings who will make Philadelphia a force to be reckoned with in the next few years. And they should give Couturier the captaincy. He more than earned it in games 5 and 6. He was a horse through those two games, and only when it was over did we hear that he’d been playing on a torn ligament and will need surgery this summer. I love Claude Giroux, but come on. It was Coots who played like a captain.

More not-news: I harbour fantasies about the Flyers going the distance each time they make the playoffs; what hockey fan doesn’t? And the same fantasy was harboured this year, though I had no illusions against Pittsburgh, who has three scoring lines and way more experience than the fledgling Flyers. Plus, Sid Crosby is on a mission from God every time he plays his Pennsylvania state rivals. Honestly, his stats against Philly alone are astonishing … and nauseating to a gal who bleeds black and orange. I knew if we could get past him, we’d be all right – but he knew it too, and he used the negative energy of the home crowd to kill the home team in all three of their home games.

Following the non-call on Letang, when the fragile Flyer lead was lost with two quick Penguin goals and my boys were eliminated in the first round, Ter said to me, “I don’t think I can support the Pens after that crappy non-call on Letang.”

“Agreed,” I replied. “I’m going for the western conference team in the final (unless it’s San Jose), and in the east, it’s ‘go, Leafs, go’.”

Well, that was short-lived, too. The Leafs pushed it to game seven, but the Bruins are, well, the Bruins. ʼNuff said about that. And I must admit, I loosed a silent cheer on hearing that the Pens beat Washington in their first game of round 2, so …

$*^&#%

No Flyer Zone

Well, shoot. No playoffs for my boys, this year. Again. It’s kind of a relief, actually. With all the hassles I’ve handled of late, I don’t need the extra stress. I’m happy to cheer for the five Canadian teams that made it to the post-season (and, failing that, Pittsburgh), but I’m not so invested that I’ll go fetal during a game. Semi-fetal, maybe, but not full bore Philly fetal!

I have a five-disc collection of the ten best Flyer games ever played (and no, they’re not all from the 1970s). I do enjoy the one where they won their first Stanley Cup, but I’ve watched none of the others. Now Ter and I are talking about another declutter and I’m looking at the plethora of unwatched season sets and once-watched miniseries in our DVD collection with an eye to offloading the deadwood. I reckon if the box is still shrink-wrapped, it’s on the block. Same for anything we haven’t watched in years (what was important to us then is not so important to us now) ... until I get to the Flyer collection. I bought it in 2008. I’ve only seen the Cup winner from 73/74.  The boys have played a lot of games since that compilation was put together, few of them likely to bounce any from the top ten, but still. Do they stay or do they go?

No brainer.

Season Finale

’Tis nobler to lose by a single goal than be blown out of the arena halfway through the game. To wit, the end of the Flyers’ post-season was less painful to endure because they stood their ground and held the Capitals to one goal. But for a nifty hiccup that fooled first the defenceman and then the goalie … well, “what if” doesn’t matter. “What was” is what counts, and “what was” is a final score of 1 – 0 for the wrong team. The Flyers are on the golf course tomorrow morning.

At least the pressure is gone for the rest of the playoffs. Now Washington squares off against Philadelphia’s arch-nemesis, the evil Pittsburgh Penguins (my second-string team; what is it with me and Pennsylvania?) in round two, and you better believe I’m rooting for the Pens. They have a better chance than the Flyers ever had, but we’ll see. The stars rarely come out in the post-season. The playoffs are more often the domain of the unsung hero, the third or fourth line guy in nobody’s office pool who bursts into the spotlight and wins the day against insurmountable odds while the Ovechkins and Girouxes and Kanes disappear from the stats.

I just lost three players in my pool. In the regular season (and for other poolies who nabbed them in the draft), they racked up double digit points. In the first round, they gave me nuttin’.

I still love them, though. Always have, always will.

Now I can reclaim my higher self. The disparity between gladiatorial game mentality and a Zen state of mind does not elude me; I am well aware of my mental paradox at this time of year. Bless Ter for giving it a name. When I remarked on the mystery of how I can get so mean and nasty during a hockey game yet strive to be more kind and peaceful in my real life, she responded simply, “It’s just contrast.”

True enough. In keeping with the reclamation of honour, dignity and sportsmanlike conduct, I refrained from allowing Basher his frowny face in the blog photo. As fans, we recognize the effort our guys put into clawing out a spot in the first round and pushing the series to six games. They could have lost in four straight. They could have missed the playoffs completely. They did neither. And while it would have been skookum to knock the Capitals through the boards and onto the links, Washington deserved to win. So, handshakes all ’round.

We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging.

With love,

Not Without a Fight

Oh, they’ve had their share of fisticuffs, but the Flyers are not going away. Last night, they shut out the Capitals in Washington. I repeat, shut out. In Washington. Michal Neuvirth is a goalie on a mission from God. The shots at game’s end were 44 to 11 for the Caps, yet Neuvirth refused to let one by him.

So it’s back to Philly for game six tomorrow. I did not see it coming. Oh ye of little faith.

I missed the first half, last night. I had an acupuncture appointment and you just can’t rush a treatment. The third period is what counts anyway, but imagine my astonishment when I got home, flipped on the TV, and saw the Flyers with a one goal lead and eight minutes remaining in the second. Best of all—and no real surprise considering they logged the most ice time—the fourth line guys were the ones who scored because most of the game was played in the Flyer zone. Shot after shot was aimed right at Neuvirth and each time he said, “No.” I had the sense that he’d told his teammates before the game, “I’ve got this one, guys.”

An axe to grind isn’t always a bad thing. The way I heard it, when he was with Washington, he lost the top goalie spot to Semyon Varlamov and then to Braydon Holtby, so when he left the team, he might have been a little bitter.

Bitter is good. Bitter makes you strong. Bitter makes you a tower of strength when facing the team who bailed on you. (See what I mean about that carbon-based competitive streak messing with my higher self?)

Alex Ovechkin is so frustrated that he glared murder as he left the ice. Frustrated is good. Frustrated leads to mistakes. Stupid penalties. Giveaways and muffed shots and loss of focus. I’ve seen it in the Flyers, and now I see it in the Caps. Philly must generate some offense if they hope to win this series, or indeed tomorrow’s game, but in the meantime, I’m happily contemplating a name change in Washington from the Capitals to the Lower Cases.

Go, Flyers!

Die Another Day

Wednesday's Final Score

The governor called on Wednesday and gave the Flyers a stay of execution. They won game 4 at home against Washington (they pretty much had to, or the fans would have lynched them in the parking lot afterward). The series moves to Washington for Game 5 – gulp – tonight.

I called it. Shayne Gostisbehere darned near did score the winning goal on his birthday. He got the first one, which would have stood as the winner except that the Caps refused to give their former netminder a shutout on their watch. Steve Mason sat the game out as Michal Neuvirth took over – I did not know this, but he’d apparently been stellar throughout the regular season while Mason recovered from injury, and while I understand loyalty to your go-to guy, I also agree with Don Cherry when he says, “Don’t mess with a winning formula!” So often a second string group will fight and win while a star is sidelined, but when the star is okayed to return, the coach will bugger up the chemistry by playing said star.

It likely has something to do with the stupid salary cap. Geez, keep the high priced help on the injured reserve list and let the grinders roll.

Yesterday, I was asked if I was enjoying the Flyers in the playoffs. “No,” I replied before I corrected myself. “I mean, I’m enjoying the space between the notes, but the games themselves are agony.”

I should probably adjust my attitude, but there is something in my carbon-based unit that has great difficulty rising above the mob mentality at sporting events. Heck, at any competitive event. A few years ago, I was on the office trivia team for the Branch Brainiac Championship and we would have won if they hadn’t changed the rules during the final. I’m still choked about it, too. It’s against my higher-self principles, but even as I go fetal in my chair, I will scream for blood where I am emotionally invested … and I am all in with Philadelphia.

Go, Flyers!

One To Go

Washington had five power play goals last night. Five. Look at the score and I’ll tell you where the problem lies. Okay, one of the problems. One of the many problems. Can you say, “Penalty kill”? Better yet, can you see penalty kill?? On the rare occasions when they are short-handed (the refs are blind), Washington’s PK is fully present. Philadelphia’s is non-existent.

My nephew remarked on the weekend that he’s only watched about ten minutes of playoff hockey this year. I almost replied, “So have I, and I’ve watched two games in their entirety!”

Make that three. As of last night, the Flyers are poised for the golf course. All that stands between them and a first round departure is Wednesday’s game.

My older sister and I had a conversation at coffee a couple of week ago. At that point, the Flyers were fighting to nab a wild card spot and the Canucks were long gone. Big Sis said something about not watching the playoffs due to lack of interest. I responded with something like, “I’ll stick with it for as long as the Flyers do.” She said, “Four straight and you’re done, eh?”

She’s a riot.

But seriously, folks, last night’s loss was painful. The lads gave up in the third. After the Caps’ fourth goal, they got hit with a five minute major and left their hearts on the bench for the rest of the game. The fans were booing and earned the team another minor penalty for tossing stuff on the ice – regrettably, the bracelets that were handed out in memory of Mr. Snider, to whom they had paid respects in a pregame ceremony. Philly fans have a worse reputation for bad behaviour than the team they support. Mind you, they were given nothing to cheer about last night. Sure, the Flyers scored in the first minute … and then the Capitals took over. Penalties got us in the end, but I also believe that the officials have not helped. Philly can’t buy a break in that regard – which is why developing a watertight penalty kill should be a top priority. Clearly, it isn’t. I watched four guys standing in a cluster, screening their own goalie, while the Washington power play went all Harlem Globetrotters with the puck for more than five frigging minutes. No challenge, no pursuit of the puck, no nothing. I was practically screaming, “Are you a hockey team or an oil painting?!”

Augh!

So now I’m stuck between cockeyed optimism (of course they can come back; nothing is impossible!) and the cold reality that this Washington team is too big, too talented, and has too good a goalie. Despite anything being possible, my guys may not be able to beat them.

I guess we’ll find out for sure tomorrow.

Back to Philadelphia

Well, that one reeeeeeeally sucked. For much of the first period, it looked like a carbon copy of game one. The Flyers held their own – they got nineteen shots on goal – but when the horn blew after twenty, they hadn’t beaten the Caps’ goalie and Washington was already on the board. We blew a five-on-three power play. We lost no further players, though the talking heads suspect that Claude Giroux is playing hurt as a result of a hit he took from, you guessed it, Alex Ovechkin on Thursday. At the end of the game, Philly had lobbed 41 shots at Brayden Holtby and only beaten him once. Thank you, Jakub Voracek (who is not on my pool team).

I had told Basher they’d win this one. He kept looking at me. “Mum, you said …”

“I know,” I replied. At the end of the game, I explained that I’m a seer and was referring to game three. I’m unsure that he believes me.

So, back to Philadelphia we go. We were going there anyway; it’s a best of seven series and the Capitals have to win twice more to move on. This means we have to win four of the next five. Three at home and one – just one; one measly minuscule sixty minute game – in Washington. Of course we can do it. Anything is possible. I have seen teams claw their way back from the imminent grave – the Rockets are doing it in their WHL series against Victoria right now (game six today in Kelowna, gods help the Royals), and Philadelphia has done it before. They did it against Boston in 2010 … but they did it with Mike Richards as their captain, and guess where he ended up? Squaring off in a Caps jersey against his old team in this year’s playoffs. Regrettably, his style has not changed. It’s not nearly as much fun when he’s on the other side.

However, I am fairly confident that the Flyers will win tomorrow. Home ice, fans on their side, Lauren Hart singing God Bless America with Kate Smith and the ghost of Ed Snider present in the room. Hard to lose with that kind of energy unless it overstimulates you … which I admit it could, but doubt it will. The first period will be crucial. All they have to do is keep Washington off the board for the first ten minutes; take the game to them and make them play it our way, then we can build our momentum and win one for Mr. Snider.

Piece o’ cake.

Game One

Well, that one suuuuuuuucked. The first twenty minutes was promising, a good road period despite the visiting Flyers being unable to score on three power plays. Then Washington took over and we never recovered.

I haven’t watched the Caps much. I don’t like their “loud and proud stars and stripes” jerseys and I’ve decided that I really don’t like Alex Ovechkin. He tends to enjoy slamming guys in the numbers as much as he enjoys potting goals, and while I can admire the latter, admiring the first is not in my nature. I don’t like my guys slamming other guys through the boards, either – it’s a game and no one needs to end up on a stretcher to get the win.

That said, we lost our minds a bit after continual bruising through two periods. The Caps are bigger and uglier and way meaner than Philly, and there is bad blood between the teams. Tom Wilson checked Brayden Schenn off planet a couple of years ago, and guess who was in the thick of a scrum last night? Wayne Simmonds totally lost it at the end of the game and went right for Wilson’s throat after Wilson gave Schenn a friendly nudge into the boards. Not terribly smart, as Simmonds is the best Flyer on special teams (power play and penalty kill), and we were left without him during the most critical time of the game. Players on both sides were behaving like heat seeking missiles toward the end, so while we took the worst of it and won’t have a chance if we continue to take a physical hammering, I’d say that the stage has been set for a dandy series rife with drama, dislike and more elbows in the corner.

It’s only game one, after all. Lots of time to recover. Philly gets stronger as they go and the Caps are historically unable to win a seventh game in any series. Assuming that they don’t kill off our best players as we go (we lost Sean Couturier to an upper body injury – thanks, Ovie), we could conceivably beat them in seven.

In other playoff news – this time in the Western Hockey League – the Kelowna Rockets have evened their series against the Royals after Victoria got a two-game lead in their series. This serves as a reminder to Basher and me that falling behind is not the end of the world. Ground can be gained with patience, perseverance … and knowing thine enemy’s weakness. I just hope the Flyers can stay alive long enough to figure out what Washington’s weakness is!

Round One

Our downstairs neigbours brought their baby home on the same day as the Flyers made the playoffs. Basher and I have had a couple of days to enjoy our team’s successful entry into the post-season, and the little guy below us is causing no ruckus at all. In fact, we only knew he had come home because I ran into another neighbour who had run into the new mum’s mother (with five suites in the house, you’d think the communication flow would be more direct) and got a heads up from her.

After Ter dropped me at work the following Monday, she sent me a text:

“First baby crying noises when I got home!”

“And I missed them!” I wrote back. “How good are his lungs?”

“Oh, just the usual tiny gasping cries when they are first out of the shell.”

The same sounds I’ll be making tonight, when the playoffs start for Philly.

Playoffs Bound

They’ve done it to me again. Are they in, are they out? Every day, the answer was different. After floating around the lower third of the league for pretty much the entire regular season, the Flyers pushed it to the 81^st game before making the playoffs.

They didn’t make it easy on themselves, or on me. Game 81 was against their inter-state arch rivals, the Pittsburgh Penguins. They didn’t have to win it; they had the luxury of a rescheduled match today against the hellspawn Islanders, but they eked out a 3-1 win at home and sent the fans away with a collective smile.

We missed the playoffs last year.

This year, we’re in!

For now.

Round one starts Wednesday and my guys have drawn the President’s Trophy team—the Washington Capitals. If they can drag out the series to Game Seven, they have a better chance at moving to the next round. The Caps suck at Game Sevens.

Basher and I are prepping for the stress, but we’re also enjoying the next couple of days. At the moment, all that counts is that we’re in the playoffs … and nobody else in my realm is!

So you gotta wonder how many wire-and-fake-fur Flyer fans will emerge in the playoff pool. Our administrator canvassed the gang last week to see who wants to go post-season. With Ruthie’s Renegades sitting comfortably at fourteenth of fifteen teams in the regular season, I wired back: “Sure, I’ll set fire to another $20.”

Here we go …

Puckin’ Around

In all the excitement of my working holiday, I forgot to mention the results of the regular season hockey pool. Ever the groundbreaker, I was part of the first-ever tie for second place, which entitles me to half of the runner-up prize money. In all fairness, I tried to get the pool administrator to list my fellow second placer ahead of me in the archival list, since his team had more goals than mine, but the response surprised me. My team won as many points in fewer games, so my name precedes Craig’s for all posterity, and I get half the cash. I’m amazed to have got that far; between January and March, I seemed doomed to stay in fifth place, but in true “gotta make the playoffs” fashion, my guys made a mad dash to the finish and suddenly I owned the second spot by one point. It literally took the last game of the season to determine the final pool placements. The office pool was a wilder ride than the league standings this year.

I doubt I’ll do so well in the playoff pool.

I became a temporary Canuck fan for the first round of post-season. They pushed their series to six games and lost in Calgary on the weekend—I hope no one loses their job over it, since they exceeded all expectation after last year’s atomic coaching failure. The players themselves seemed surprised to have made the playoffs.

Which may have been their undoing.

It was acutely evident to me that the primary difference between the Flames and Canucks was their attitude. The Flames played like they were thinking, “We made it here; we can do this!” and the Canucks were, “We made it here? Can we do this?” In the end, they couldn’t. They blew a three goal lead and lost 7-4 in game six. But I, a proud Canadian, am rooting for Anaheim in the conference semi-final, and here’s why:

Calgary was in the lead, 5-4. The Canucks pulled their goalie with a minute left. With thirty seconds left, the Flames scored in the empty net. Vancouver was obviously done, gone, kaput, and the kids from Calgary were on their way to the next round. So they didn’t have to score a second empty-netter with nine seconds left. But they did. And they celebrated like it was a major coup. It wasn’t. It was just rude. No class at all. Shame, shame, shame, little boys.

They’ll have their hands full with the Ducks, though. Anaheim grounded the Jets in four, and with Ryan Kesler heating up, the Flames may be the ones who get roasted.

Miracles From Beyond

I dare you to convince me that people who move on to the next realm have no influence on what happens here after they’ve gone. Take the Billboard Awards on Sunday night. I didn’t see the show because Thrones was on, but I heard about it later. A hologram of our dearly departed Michael Jackson performed a song from his newly-released album live on stage with a dance troupe that blew-my-mind when I saw it on Youtube the next morning. I’m still astonished by the brilliance of it all, of the idea, the technology, and the endless hours of painstaking work that surely went into producing those four magical moments.

Because it is magic. And because it’s magic, you must know that MJ himself would have been all over it—he loved mystery and illusion as much as music, and he used it all to support his genius. He was always pushing the envelope in life, and while it could be argued that he pushed it a tad too far on the budgetary scale, heck, it’s not like he didn’t have the funds to pay for the product. The man knew how to put on a show. And I am utterly convinced that he had a hand in Sunday’s astounding success. He loved to dance, he loved to sing, he loved to perform—there’s nothing creepy about a CGI MJ, not when he would have loved it as much as his audience did. It’s entertainment, and entertaining is what he did best. I just know he was involved from beyond this realm.

This may seem unrelated, but then there’s Marty’s mother. Over in the hockey world, Martin St. Louis of the NY Rangers had to deal with the shock of his mother’s unexpected passing as the Rangers’ series against Pittsburgh went to game 7. NY won the game, the series, and has moved on to play the Montreal Canadiens in the eastern conference semi-final. (For the uninitiated, the winner of this series goes to the Stanley Cup final against the western conference champs.) Between beating the Pens and winning game one against the Habs, Marty and his teammates attended Mme. St. Louis’s funeral, and the emotional outcome of her loss has galvanized the team around her son. No joke, I’m pretty sure that’s why they won the conference semi; not that she pulled any strings from beyond, but because her son suddenly had greater cause to overcome and his buddies rallied to help him. He’s known for his stubborn perseverance anyway; fire the little bugger up and he’ll move mountains.

The primary reason why Montreal remains in the hunt is their goalie—BC’s own Carey Price, who won hockey gold in Sochi and has looked absolutely unflappable so far in the playoffs. With him in the net, the Canadiens beat Boston in their conference series. Boston, the biggest, ugliest, meanest gang of thugs in the league, was beaten by a bunch of speedy sneaky gnats mostly because Price consistently kept the puck from crossing the goal line, sometimes by the thinnest of miraculous margins.

Alas, Price was injured in the first game against the Rangers, who kicked the Habs’ collective butts by an outrageous score of 7-2. And now he’s done for … the … series. I’m sorry, but the conference is suddenly New York’s to lose. With absolutely no disrespect intended, I believe that Marty’s mother is working magic from above. He’ll probably win that Cup ring this year, a bittersweet trophy for sure, and part of me kind of hopes he makes it because in some mysterious manner, he’ll know sa mere was watching and maybe even manipulating the stars a little in his favour. And I’m okay with that, because I’ll know it, too.

So, if you’re looking for evidence of otherworldly influence in our reality, you need look no further than Marty’s mother and Michael Jackson. Though I do wonder why Ter’s dad has been unable to work a similar miracle for the Maple Leafs …

Flyers Flop

$22.50 @ Game 7

To quote my hero, George RR Martin, life is meaningless and full of pain.

Despite a third period adrenaline rush on Wednesday, the boys couldn’t beat the $%#@&ing Rangers. New York hardly set the bar beyond reach, either – they scored two goals in the second period and we couldn’t beat that???? Honestly. My father said he restrained himself from calling at the intermission to suggest that I rub the juju beads a little harder. Nice idea, Dad, but what I really needed was a Henrik Lundqvist voodoo doll.

Ah, well. It only hurts for a day. I hope they don’t do too much messing in the offseason, except maybe to get a new GM—one who isn’t inclined to sign older stars to lengthy contracts, for instance. (I thought the Flyers had been moved to Vancouver when 34-year-old Vinnie Lecavalier was signed for five years, and I can’t even speak about the Bryzgalov debacle.) Otherwise they have a good mix of vets and young ʼuns on all four lines. The blue line needs shoring up, especially since Kimmo Timmonen is retiring, but whose defence corps doesn’t need a stud?

So now I join the family Canucks and Leafs fans, able to watch the playoffs without blowing a blood vessel, secure in the knowledge that, come October, the boys in black and orange are once again Cup contenders.

In the meantime, I’ve got stories to write, summer to enjoy, and who knows what all else to keep me occupied until the 2014/15 season. Oh, yeah—and, for as long as they’re in it, I’m a Pittsburgh Penguins fan.

Tattoo Ru?

does she or doesn’t she?

Playoff pools make mercenaries of us all. Mostly. Even on pain of death, I will not pick from the Bruins, Islanders, Rangers, Devils or Red Wings. If I don’t like ’em in the regular season, I won’t pick from ’em in the post. But I know guys who openly loathe Philadelphia, yet won’t hesitate to name any number of Flyer forwards to their fantasy team.

In the 2010/11 playoff season, I called one of my fellow poolies on this behaviour. Mercenaries don’t try to deny that they’re mercenaries, so he was hardly penitent about it. In fact, for a few months, he was as hardcore a Flyer fan as I am. The deeper they got into the playoffs (it was the year they squared off against Chicago in the final … and %^$#*ing lost), the edgier our banter became. Finally, I openly accused him of being a fake and challenged him to a stupid dare. “If the Flyers win the Cup,” I said, “you have to get a tattoo of their logo.”

He chuckled and said, “Noooo way.”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll get mine retouched at the same time.”

Idle conversation around the cubicle promptly died. A few heads popped up to see where this was going. My poolie chum gave me a long, speculative look, then rocked back on his heels. 

“You don’t have a tattoo,” he said, smugly.

I smirked. “Just because you can’t see it is doesn’t mean I don’t have one.”

He gave me a quick once-over while trying to appear like he wasn’t and I swear I glimpsed a bead of sweat break on his forehead. “Nah,” he said, shaking it off. “No way.” He started to stroll back to his office. I called after him:

“The day after, buddy: you, me, tattoo shop!”

The office manager gaped at me in astonishment. “Ruthie, do you really … ?”

Since the Hawks won the Stanley Cup that year, no one knows for sure.

Live from New York …

… it’s not the Philadelphia Flyers!

Game five went to the Rangers. We’re back to Philly on Tuesday for Game 6, and I wonder if the coach will saddle up Hal Gill again, or will he go with Erik Gustafsson to replace the injured Nick Grossmann on defence? Honestly, dressing Gill was like putting a Percheron on the blue line. I don’t care if he’s played 110 playoff games—he’s scored in none of them, and while he has size on his side, height and breadth are not winning this series. I almost feel bad for the guy, given he’s 39 years old (in hockey years that’s equal to 65) and only played six times in the regular season. Okay, so he’s got great leadership qualities. None of the kids were listening. Geez, &*^%$  ^*&$#!!!

So here’s where my lamenting the old back-to-back playoff model is tested. Say the Flyers win on Tuesday. Game 7 is scheduled for Wednesday in New York, but if there’s momentum going in, chances are good that Philly will carry through to win the seventh game and the series.

Am I putting money on this? Hey, I’ve already donated $15.00 to charity. Nothing in this stupid series is predictable except the frustration level. The Rangers play the boring defensive game typical of Alain Vigneault’s coaching style. They have two guys pretty much all the time on Claude Giroux (who finally managed to score his first goal today) and are shutting down the snipers on Philly’s top two lines. The other problem is Martin St. Louis, who has finally found his groove after being traded from Tampa Bay. He’s little, he’s agile, he’s got great hands and better instincts … sure, Hal Gill can stop him from shooting.

*&$^%

Zen and the Art of Playoff Hockey

That’s better, boys! Philly now has home ice advantage, having taken game 2 away from the Rangers. It was close—they won 3-2—but they played more like themselves than in game one. And it only cost me a dollar in poor language penalties! Game three is in Philadelphia on Tuesday. I’ll be leaving work early to catch the opening face off.

Ter observed that I was awfully quiet during the game. Aside from not wanting to incur further financial infractions, I was practicing mindfulness. No easy task when one’s heart is pumping panicked adrenalin: when NY went up 2-0 halfway through the first period, I blew my cool, tossed a loonie in the swear jar, and decided I’d better get control of myself. After all, there were still 50 minutes of game left to play. Too early to go off the rails in despair. Stupid penalties notwithstanding, our PK was way better and one of my favourites, Jakub Voracek, popped one past Henrik Lundqvist before the buzzer rang at the end of twenty minutes. That helped to steady my resolve. The third goal can make or break a game, depending on who pots it. I was immensely grateful that it belonged to the Flyers. Gratitude is a good place to start in the mindfulness department.

So, rather than leap ahead in terror that, if they’re down by 2 in the first, they could blow the game, go down 2-0 in the series and be punted in the first round, I breathed in (calm), breathed out (smile), breathed in (present moment), breathed o—and screamed with glee as the puck sailed past the NY goalie. Once they were on the board, it became a matter of one more, just one more, hold them off, just one more, what the ^&%$, “chink” into the jar, reframe, one more boys, just one more … The officials were relatively fair—the Flyers will always be nabbed for trifles, but the Rangers took their share of penalty minutes, too. A couple of them were cited for embellishment, and while I disagree with the existence of the rule in principle, a) it stood the Flyers in good stead today, and b) it reminded me that the NY coach was too recently in charge of the Vancouver Canucks, who, while under his tutelage, doubled as a dive team depending on the importance of the match.

For years I have heard hockey players say that you must play one shift at a time and focus on getting one goal at a time. I’ve never fully understood the message until lately. Athletes of any ilk must be present in the moment; if one is fully mindful, one can achieve flow and make magic happen. I know, I know—hockey is just a game, but I also wonder if the team that wins is also the team that’s fully “present”.

Of course, being bigger, stronger and meaner helps, too. Just ask the %$&$# Bruins.

*chink*

Pool Fodder

Well, that sucked. Game one of the first round went to the Rangers in NY, 4-1 over Philly. Not surprising, but disappointing nonetheless. The Flyers came out hitting but couldn’t get a face off in the offensive zone and during the second period, I saw New York starting to pull ahead in the speed/finesse department. After the Flyers took a double minor halfway through the third, I racked up most of my penalty dollars. $7.50 by the end of the game. The final ten minutes killed me. They say the first game isn’t that important, which is probably true, but when the Flyers haven’t won in New York since 2011 and the Rangers have home advantage, some reframing had better be on deck or we’re $%^&*ed.

Looks like we’ll have to hurt Brad Richards. More targeted players to follow.

And while I refused more than one offer, in the end I signed on for the playoff pool at work. My Rogues did so well in the regular season pool, after all. I thought I’d end up in 8^th place except for a mad points rush in the final week that moved me into 7^th. Clearly I am wanted in the playoff pool merely to increase the jackpot. It’s okay, though. Being included with the boys gives me special status around the office—I can talk hockey with the best of them. When Trevor Linden was named President of the Vancouver Canucks this week, one of the guys stopped by to ask what I thought about it. “It’s great,” I said. “I love Trevor!” (No treason here; who doesn’t love Trevor???)

He smirked and surveyed the décor around my room. “So, are you going to start putting the Canucks colours in here?”

“Get out of my office,” I growled.

Boys. Sheesh.

Game two of the Flyers/Rangers from Madison Square Garden on Sunday at 9:00 a.m. PST. I’d better get more coins …