Montreal Canadiens vs. New York Rangers
March 30, 2012, by Homme de Sept-Îles
Musings and In-Game Scribbles
My English is as good as yours, I just write these in a stream-of-consciousness mode that I insist excuses me from small things like rules of grammar or general etiquette. Let’s call it conversational English, hopped up on beans. You know what kind of beans (no, Carl Mellesmoen, not the magic ones).
Montreal Canadiens (29-34-14) visit New York Rangers (49-21-7)
Friday, March 30th, 2012
Game Seventy-Eight (score posted following scribbles)
Missed it? Musings capture the game in writing. A written transcript typed during the game, posted and edited about thirty minutes afterward. Based on the RDS French telecast of the Montreal Canadiens game, Musings take about 23 minutes to read. More detailed than an article, fresher than a looping highlight and good with morning coffee. Or late-night mashed potatoes. A unique way to re-experience the game.
click here to expand post (it looks prettier)
In a new environment. An old environment. Kilgour’s. A road trip. And a Montrealer-in-Toronto experience.
The Gauthier dismissal is on the screens but the pregame and intermissions are muted.
I survey the mostly green surroundings. I’m hearing mostly English conversations and this seat is better than the one for my first Kilgour’s outing; the game against Boston on box night.
Tonight is Maytag night. Domestication wages war on my Lego and Stiga vanilla chrome battalion.
The white jerseys and the ice surface of Madison Square Garden is lit beautifully on the screen I select. Its 7:44 PM and Carey Price is mask off and standing near his net. Stephen Walkom and Tom Kowal are the refs. Greg Devorski and Tim Novak are the linesmen.
Lundqvist for Rangers. As goalie.
Do these guys have wi-fi?
The game is off and there is no volume.
Oh wait. It’s there. Low. Too low.
Better television means a cleaner look at the dark, maudlin ice that is Madison Square Garden.
Long puck is slowed and gloved down by Lundqvist.
Cunneyworth wears a battle sneer and looks like George Bush Junior for an awful moment.
Faceoff deep left.
Desharnais wins it. To the left point. Fired and off the mark. Then it’s out and the team is cutting at mid-ice, stopping and swiping it ahead.
Rangers finally enter on the left. Funnelled to the end-wash. And Canadiens return with a long shot, stopped simply.
Cole, Pacioretty and Desharnais leave.
Bourque, Leblanc and Plekanec take the ice. Bourque earns a smile as he whams a man off the draw. . Puck is out. Someone sees me smile and looks up to see what I might be pleased by.
My external keyboard is on my lap and the laptop, small (no, not a Mac, Rink Mason), is open on the table. Cheap, functional coffee rests on the table-top, festooned with photos of past Kilgour’s patrons.
Nokelainen line. Palushaj with him.
A short eventless shift.
Three and a half gone.
This is easier than I thought it might be.
But. Butt. Yup. Call it a Boyle.
Very few are locked on as the teams skate to and fro. The season is over and nothing much matters. A patron stands in front of my viewing lane and I switch to a distance view.
Lundqvist stops another weak long shot.
The Dubinsky effort at the post-side is shown. Lundqvist can’t be fooled in this way. He remains one of the best in the East.
The volume isn’t loud enough.
I can’t hear Pierre well and I wonder if the seats at the bar make more sense. And an earlier arrival to ensure such.
Weber with a long shot. Dusted. And now Blunden attracts a lot of attention. Morenz, I mean Geoffrion, I mean the new kid is on the ice with Del Zotto on top of him.
Richards, the haughty acquisition, is in the box.
Why does this coffee leave a salmon pâté aftertaste? How can anyone drink Tim Horton’s?
Thirty seconds of control with PK Subban on the high diamond alone.
Puck goes out of play with only perimeter shooting to claim.
Outside the Ranger blue. Won by Plekanec.
Dumped down by Bourque.
Around. Blocked at the left point. And then cleared from the corner.
Campoli carries. One pass. And then dumped.
My appetizer arrives. My “mousepad” is in the way. A bookish pad.
Habs rank third in the league with 1262 blocked shots.
Gorges is on his way to a quality mark, third-best single season total; he needs to clock a few more.
Butts weren’t made for writing.
My beanbag has its virtues.
As might a rubber keyboard, cobalt-reinforced.
Penalty ends with no further threat.
And Price scoops another innocuous shot to cause a pause.
The first disaster; the remaining coffee cream spills onto the table and soaks 15 percent of the underside of the laptop.
Two serviettes solve it.
Faceoff to Price’s right.
Twelve oh two in the first.
Blunden is on. Eller rattles glass, jamming his man in the deep right corner. Geoffrion chases across the slot and a left point shot by Campoli misses. Kept in. Eller to the right point to St. Denis. Finds the net.
Tortorella shakes his head, hands on his hips. Has some harsh words for someone. Hard to tell as he keeps his eyes averted from his target.
My server continues her diplomatic ways. She’s used to psychos, perhaps.
Slot shot. Rebound. And it’s in.
Some dude to my right cheers lightly and raises his hands in applause.
Peek-around shot by Gaborik. Beat Price low to his right.
That guy, I consider guaranteeing, is a Leaf.
I thought Leafs weren’t admitted to Kilgour’s on Habs nights.
I eavesdrop briefly.
Boring work talk. My manager this, my manager that.
The guy across from the Ranger-lover is talking. He looks like Chara.
Plekanec. Mid-ice. A small stick-shift forward. Rangers retain.
I try and clean the underside of the laptop and complete the job; I knock the creamer’s remains onto my keyboard.
I look up and the set is showing a commercial.
Someone is manually muting the commercials.
I see two seats open at the bar. Forget it.
Why would you serve pita bread with calamari?
Why would you pay Cammalleri five mill. Six? Whatever.
Draw deep right for Rangers. Subban advances stick swishing and the puck is out of danger and up for Eller. Three Rangers are back and the second Hab can’t get to the vain pass.
One person claps as Price makes a save.
Tortorella looks up.
The slot-shot save is shown.
Chara looks up from his conversation and notes that the puck is bouncing a lot. Did he really say that? How could he know from one glance?
Is it bouncing? Maybe I misheard him.
Habs lose another board battle on the Ranger hash.
Plekanec turns and dump it down. Too long for Palushaj.
Gaborik weaves through two men, two others behind after loosing the puck. Loosing, right side.
Price is tumbled over on his right ribs. His own volition?
A Ranger is called.
I can’t hear Pierre. It’s number twenty-six and I have no rosters.
Yes. This is all my fault.
This is supposed to be fun. I wonder if it is.
Ok, fine. It’s fun.
Chara’s name is ********. Maybe I shouldn’t print that.
Fedotenko is in the box, one glove off, he reaches for a bottle. Knocked Price to the cold turf.
Faceoff deep right.
Won. Right point.
Low. Slot. Cole can’t unleash. Diagonal puck. Cleared out.
Markov carries to the red. Adroit left-looking pass. Subban. Chops it in.
Rangers show the disdain needed to face this still-weak power-play and the puck is cleared.
One oh two.
Middle pass. A man reaches. Misses. And a Ranger finds it and clears.
About a quarter of the seats here are empty. Last time it was about a tenth.
Slot jamming. Crease-lip. Bourque, struggling, succeeding, firing. Campoli is there. He raises his arms. Puck crossed.
Refs signal no goal.
They don’t go to Toronto.
Ok, I didn’t see it. I concluded based on Lundqvist’s body shape and his depth in the net; he’d fallen shaped like a fried shrimp inside his net.
Long Ranger pass. Offside entry.
Rangers 94 run is montaged. They won the President’s Trophy (for finishing first in regular season play and won the Cup soon thereafter.
They have a chance to win the Prez again.
Two oh nine.
Eller and Geoffrion chase again. I shake my head.
The Rangers aren’t as good as this.
Canadiens need more moxie.
I consider a hamburger. And recall seventeenth ave.
Gorges leads all shot-blockers in the NHL.
He’s in his left corner, jamming and occupying as the puck escapes the other way.
To the point. Long shot. I can hear the crowd better than Pierre. Whoowaaww. Hush.
Palushaj goes to the box.
If the barkeep is wearing a Habs jersey, wouldn’t he believe in full subwoofer, full bass and full treble?
This is why the living room wins. Those awful 1999 days of searching for Raider-friendly bars.
Period ends. Rangers led on shots 8-7.
Rangers 1, Canadiens 0
My appetizer finished, I foolishly contemplate another interfering, distracting food order and experience.
I don’t think anyone can tell what I’m doing. I smile. My external is still on my lap, under the table.
I wonder if Darryl Sittler would endure me typing while he talks at me about Leaf prowess. Sittler would probably just be polite. I dunno.
I consider guests for these outings next season.
Vincent Damphousse is listed as the number two choice of polled reporters as successor to the deposed Pierre Gauthier.
Roy is shown. Everything is muted. John Liu is standing in front of Roy, seated in front of a bank of microphones and answering the press call. Was that recent?
Damphousse? General manager? Preposterous. Demeanour isn’t enough.
Chara discusses music now. Notes and elongation.
Julien Brisebois is shown now. Seated with Steve Yzerman in les Gradins, just he and he and the seats.
Brisebois has teeth. And they aren’t dolphin variety. My gut says no.
Gainey is done, by the way. He stepped down by “mutual agreement” as per Geoff Molson’s statement yesterday.
Damphousse tries hard not to show how pleased he is at being considered for the role.
Serge Savard is being called in to assist Molson in making the selection. The former Canadiens GM (Cups in 86 and 93) is on record as not having interest in managing again. He may or may not be a good choice as part of a selection committee. But Molson will have all the opinions one could want.
If we’re being preposterous, why isn’t Carbonneau being considered? Or rather beaked about.
The woman next to me asks for a piece of paper. Then she changes her mind, citing the fact that the paper is really nice. She’s very gracious about it and I tear off a sheet and instruct her to write very small. The guy next to her, the Ranger, thanks me with endearing sincerity and my inner pope raises an unimpressed eyebrow at me.
I’d hang my head in shame, but.
Highlights are shown.
Malkin is still on a tear. He helmet-taps after a Pittsburgh goal, reminding me of Tim Duncan and I’m divided on this.
He’s taken control of the team. Driving the bus, as he said.
As my sister might say; “******, you’re an asshole.”
I never said I’d recover.
There’s a Canadiens clock under the screen I’m using and it shows the real time but a made up shot clock total. It claims thirty shots for the visitors and 21 for Canadiens in the third.
Insert Grinchy frown.
I try and maintain irritation but can’t. I like Rod Stewart. I like warm pubs.
I like ostentatious snacks.
I’ve ordered mashed potatoes next. How inconvenient can that be?
We shall see, says Pope de Sept-Iles.
Rangers 1, Canadiens 0
Gaborik comes into this game with at least one point in each of his last four games.
Oh. How very interesting.
Price readies, a yellow ribbon adorning the back-clasp of his mask.
Richards loses the draw to Plekanec.
Rangers have about a minute in the power-play.
Rangers score. Loose wrister from Richards finds the net to Price’s right.
Rangers 2, Montreal 9 (Ed note: You meant zero. Didn’t you.)
Turning, wheeling and then retaining, number twenty-four fires (Ed note: Callahan). Turned away. Now Dubinsky from the left dot.
Price blocks it.
They show the replay and a wistful grimace can’t be helped.
Eller. Left side. Blunden like the wind down the column. Around the net and no pass. No shot.
Montreal has produced zero quality chances. Zero. We’re in the second. The second. (We’re talking about practice. Practice. Practice)
Now a long Rangers puck is stopped.
Plekanec line. Subban whisks one from around his net. Swoosh!
Gaps break down and the puck is free.
Puck is trapped on the right hash
I don’t care if I’m happy, I’m not happy. Two nothing and we’re hanging around, letting this loose-knit line-up embarrass us. Make no mistake. The Canadiens are better on paper than these blueshirt clowns.
Eating while typing isn’t a good idea. I won’t say it’s a bad idea.
Some of the faithful in the room rue a near chance by the Canadiens.
Price fields one behind his net. Around the boards. Better closing to the puck.
Pacioretty. Long pass. Cole. There’s space. He cuts in.
And the heat is on.
Lundqvist gloves one low.
Less people and more focus on the game.
Faceoff. Price moves out three feet to play one long.
No matter, Rangers are in. Gaborik tries to find Richards in the slot. Fails. Richards stands at the low circle, alone, uncovered.
Puck doesn’t find him.
Price slips low and then up again. Rangers can’t create.
They have to match the visitors now, suddenly awake.
They ice. Emelin touches it.
Tortorella wants a timeout.
Rangers lead the league in checks, says Reseau.
That two-nothing lead. The worst lead in hockey, it was once said. Three-nothing is probably more the speed nowadays.
Richards is asked to leave the circle and complains to the linesman in his quiet but entitled manner.
No matter, Eller takes and wins the draw against a winger and the resulting left point shot is high-gloved by Lundqvist.
Fourteen. Habs win it. Kept in. Shot wide from the right point
Out and then Markov is controlling by his right circle. Offside entry.
Martin Biron is shown on the Ranger bench. One of the worst NHL backup goalies, he’s a favourite with Reseau. He looks a lot like Dany Heatley.
Plekanec, deep right.
Loses the draw.
Plekanec carries through a corridor on the right side. Waterbug one-hand. Slot pass fails.
Dubinsky and Plekanec are both on the ice in the corner to Price’s right
Cunneyworth looks more worried than I’ve ever seen him.
Is he a goner? I hope not.
Plekanec is in the box.
One of one on one shot. Rangers’ power-play tonight. (Like that?)
Nokelainen is on the first kill pair, replacing Plekanec.
Ladouceur extends an arm iceward and makes a point to Cunneyworth.
Jacques Martin was one of the men named as possible candidates by certain media folk.
The league’s number one penalty kill beings to look itself again with a single man following the carrier while three others vector and stretch like bees in burning honeycomb.
Rangers keep it in.
Across. At the right post.
Price traps it.
Take these guys out.
Gorges did but Callahan was moved too late. Good puck movement by Ranges; quick and looking for the gap.
Cole nearly breaks out.
Desharnais on the left. Shoots.
Lundqvist is post-hugging and draped easy.
Penalty ends, seconds following.
Ten and a half.
I pause to watch. Canadiens manage a sequence at five-on-five that resembles a power0-play.
Plekanec keeping around the net and a Ranger sprawling uselessly as the centre carried around. Slot pass missed but was kept in by Emelin who sent a diagonal to Plekanec on the right circle, well-thought.
More Canadiens pressure.
Geoffrion loses yet another board battle.
I finally forget where I am and swear following tepid pass selection and an offside entry. <expletive deleted>
There are too many Leaf jerseys in this photo collage on the tabletop. Leaf fans. With Canadiens fans.
Faceoff outside the Rangers zone
Nokelainen. Loses it easily.
It’s out. Long. Around the net. Price stays put. Touched. Icing.
Pierre Groulx is shown. The Montreal goalie coach is prim and intent. Blue coat. Electric drop shadows.
This plumber dolt is blocking my view. I glare at him but he doesn’t notice.
Finally, he moves on. Plumber, astronaut, whatever. Get your moustache out of the way.
It’s the game.
If the game don’t matter, nothin’ don’t matter.
Phone another riding, zealot.
Puck is missed on the right point. Subban goes back and gets it. Across. Down. Lundqvist. Beats the man to it and it’s out again.
Gorges. Another dump-in. percent of Montreal goals over the last
Off the back boards. Gloved.
Why is it snowing in late March?
What kind of country is this, anyway?
A handful of games. And a summer to write about them.
Desharnais trio has scored 49.4 percent of Montréal goals over the last 36 games.
And Pacioretty leads all Montréal goal-getters in the same frame.
We see the Sphinx-nosed forward gazing from the bench, stubbled and wise. He’s acquired some wisdom, yes.
Bourque dumps one for Plekanec. This one has the right velocity and banks off the boards, giving he forward a chance to get to it. Puck is kept in on the hash. And necks stretch and heads crane as the Habs nearly……. nearly … create a scoring chance.
Markov’s right point shot is on the ice, a skimmer and Lundqvist sees and stops it low.
Cole in the slot. Desharnais in the crease. And I sigh.
The effort continues, though.
And they make even strength look like a powerplay.
Chara oohs like an operatic as the puck diamonds around the net. Is he watching a different screen? Is it on tape-delay?
Three oh eight. I lift the sides of my toque as Pierre’s voice becomes more audible.
Shot blocks are tied at ten. Stoppage.
That Hab bartender was here last night, I was out late with Supernova and he told us that he gets angry at 2:30AM. I asked him what time he closes. He still hasn’t answered the question.
A brown dude walks in and the westerner in me assumes he works here.
I wait. I watch. I’m right.
The hockey world.
I may as well be in Calgary.
I’m the only pakora in here. Or is it samosa.
Chara is now arguing some hockey point with the Ranger symp(athizer).
Two minutes. He says that someone “freaks out so much”. I wonder who, now.
Chara now says Carey Price sucks. I wonder if it’s sarcasm. I can’t be bothered.
Tonight is Cole’s 698th NHL game.
I realise that the table in front of me is a French-speaking table, all of the sudden.
The things we hear and don’t hear.
They’ve been there since early in the first.
One oh one.
Subban at the cage. Leaps to the end boards and then leaves the chase as he realises the puck is going too fast.
He makes up for experience with speed.
Subban, diving and diving falling and then he’s out of position
Small rencontre au sommet.
Chara thinks the Gaborik line is a bunch of pussies.
What’s pussy anyway. Pantera Tigris has big claws.
The muting signals the end of the period.
Shots are tied at eight.
Totals are 16-15.
Rangers 2, Canadiens 0
I have to go home to run spellcheck. This machine only has Office 2007. And I’ve used up the trial. I’ll install Office 2003 on it, when I have the chance. I own it. Its mine.
I wonder what the next laptop will look like. Rink Mason says white.
Corundum and rubber sleeves slip through my imagination.
Who should manage this team? The best available candidate, sure. French? If you can get him, of course. And I’m not qualified to know who the candidates might be.
Retreads populate all lists. Most lists, then. I haven’t seen them all.
I try and read Vincent’s lips. Alain is asking a serious question.
Brunet is up to the task. Then he smiles and gets simple. Who needs volume?
I wonder if they’ll change the big desk next season? Right now, it’s a highly polished black circle divided by dart-board grooves, in white.
It’s rather magnificent.
Crete asks about Budaj. And what I assume are some personnel issues. Damphousse turn to his left and braces for Brunet’s expected clam-pail response.
I lose interest. One hell of a jacket though, cactus.
Four new people enter. They take seats and one two of them, a couple, begin nuzzling.
The guy looks like Duguay.
Chara says he needs to go for a cigarette. Then he apologizes and says he didn’t mean to cut the Ranger off. He then states the getting these ideas out is a good thing. They’re talking about music.
Touch-typing has its virtues.
That barkeep looks like a surly Tremblay-Ribeiro love-child.
He rarely smiles at anyone.
I shrug. That’s his prerogative.
I wonder if bands have to talk a much as players do about what they do.
Period highlights are shown.
Three checks for Blunden. Thirteenth game of two points for Richards.
Some more morbid visiting numbers are shown. Cole is hopping in place. Lower back thing again. Remember?
Rangers 2, Canadiens 0
Blunden line starts.
Markov is with him. Better combo, I feel. Keep Subban and Gorges together.
Geoffrion is chasing again.
Puck retention is a sad lament.
Plekanec line. Leblanc with him. Bourque.
Subban gets caught out. Forwards constrict to cover.
Desharnais in alone suddenly. Brakes. And it’s outside the post. Lundqvist got across to change the follow-through.
Draw to Price’s left.
Price across to make a great save, Campoli with him
Stretched sky sweeper.
And a stoppage.
High stick is called. Desharnais.
Campoli got the save. Not Price. Circus tumble.
Montréal penalty-kill. The best in the league. Lets’ get a goal.
Rangers work the perimeter.
My heart rate rises.
Every game matters.
Plekanec fires one from the end line. Blocked.
Right point windup. Into legs.
Subban interrupts smooth. Shoe-foot lean and the puck is carried out. Turned over. But at mid-ice it’s whistled.
Four minutes gone.
Some scores roll in.
I ignore them.
Ok, I don’t.
Sixteen of thirty teams make the playoffs in this league.
My head-shaking becomes chronic and then I remember that I’m in public. But probably fifteen seconds too late.
Right point shot.
The Ranger white looks almost cream.
I consider my seat as I look at Dan Boyle and another shot of cigar-chewer Glen Sather.
Cole nearly pulls a stick to the puck manoeuvre.
But it’s back and trapped on the hash board. Then a weak shot finds its way into Price’s glove. God that’s huge. That’s so illegal. All of them. They should reduce the glove sizes.
Eller wins it. Emelin is around the net. One pass. A second. And then it’s offside over the Rangers blue.
Six minutes gone.
Chara’s table returns from a smoke.
They block my view and I look at a smaller screen further away fro about twelve seconds.
Blunden and Eller. Finally.
Blunden doesn’t support and the puck is out. He arrived too late after hesitating in the slot.
And where’s fucking Bonk?
Kovalev for 900K. Sounds good to me. One mil. Whatever. On the third line; genius. He’d be a power-play guy, though. And I k Le Pilote is wrong. He can still be L’Artiste.
Who has seen the film?
All the Knick banners are shown. God the retired Knick numbers are ugly.
Lopsided square in a grade-three font.
Lost on the right side. Whistle.
Rozival is slow to get up.
Score on the PK.
We can’t take much more of this.
Ranges win the draw.
Someone have heart.
Plekanec carries after I lose my composure for a few seconds.
Eller jams it Gaborik.
Down the boards it goes.
To the high circle. Shot. And it escapes Price.
Leblanc is shown.
Del Zotto scores.
Leblanc stands at the bench’s end.
Price should have had it.
Saw it all the way.
Rangers 3, Canadiens 0
Cole. Barrels over a man. Shots through mountains. And it’s off the line.
Carey, leaning, low almost losing his hole. And then he’s across and it’s muffled.
Make your own bread.
Dubinsky sits in the box and looks askance. Downward.
Draw to Lundqvist’s left.
Plekanec is asked to leave.
They lose the draw. And reset.
Ten and forty. Subban. Looking. Left side. And then across.
Another chance. Leblanc point blank low. Lundqvist.
He’s a Conn Smythe type.
One oh nine.
Pacioretty. Height, lean. Backhander. Good torque. Wide.
Desharnais. The right hash.
Desharnais. Alone. Slot. Hesitates. Misses.
Weak Rangers chance. Price.
Back to fives.
Where was this drive in the first?
A Ranger emerges. Price silencers the static.
So. Musing in public.
No volume control.
Easier to concentrate in a certain way.
Stale beer odour.
Anglophones in Habs gear.
Richards is on.
He’s annoyed. So much of that is artifice. But, forced, it becomes real. I have no taste for it.
Feel it full. But not past your pines.
Rangers entry. Quick give and go Gaborik with the flash and stick. Return pass is intercepted.
A look at the Rangers bench. Nobody is animate. Except Lalime. Sitting at the end of the bench he complains, works fingers and generally looks the fool. Oh, Biron. Whatever. Same thing.
Now Rush’s Fly By Night tin-sonics through Kilgour’s audio smokers. And we are not privileged to hear Pierre’s voice anymore.
What kind of Habs place is this?
Stranger things have happened. But not this season. Not for the Canadiens. And not for many others. Six years after the lockout, teams are adjusting, refs are more lenient and the goals are decreasing. Defence wins championships. Or so they like to say.
Tell that to beaten goalies.
Some forlorn faces in the crowd.
No gear. But we share the demeanour, the stretched, vague expressions.
I think the two people behind me are Habbies.
The one woman has been trying to read my screen.
I wonder how good her vision is.
She wonders how good my lip-reading skills might be.
Pretty good. But much less so in French.
Five and a half.
Eller. Dipsy and doodle. IN his own slot. No Rangers about. Now he has it under the end line. Sailing and fine. The Habs press. On the boards. Subban advancers to keep it alive.
Geoffrion takes one away. And an instant second. Point shot. Floops high. Eller. On his knees. Fighting. Keeping. Losing.
Where was this in the first?
Pacioretty continues the work.
Lundqvist stops it.
Rangers have seventeen blocked shots.
Gaborik has three of those.
Cole is deep and now on the post. Struggles. Pushed down. Back up and the puck is gone.
Desharnais on the right. Stops at the hash. To the left point. Shot. Wide.
Rangers respond. Two on one. Becomes two. Then three. Blaster. Over the left glove.
Some Rangers stand. Their fans, of course.
Two and a half.
The waitress takes exception to my query regarding the lowered volume. Diplomacy never works. Not when telling the truth. Humans aren’t well-equipped for truth. I shrug. They had a good run.
Plekanec. Left side. Keeper. Slot. Bourque. The finish.
Rangers 4, Canadiens 1.
I’d explain but you can roll with me on this one. I’m surprised. But hey. She got defensive while answering my question. Sorta set her own self off.
I just asked why the volume was muted for the last seven minutes of the game. And that the reason I come out at all is because Kilgour’s is known as Habs-friendly. For the atmosphere. Pour le bruit.
One last shot. Wide.
Price stays in the net.
The siren goes but I don’t hear it.
I’d hear it perfectly in my living room.
Markov leaves the ice injured.
One table asks another about Markov’s knee. Chara responds saying that Markov has had a knee problem for more than a year. And so forth. Do we really need to trivialize his knee? Do we?
Rangers salute with sticks.
HDS Stars: Michael Del Zotto, Ryan Callahan, Brad Richards
RDS Stars: Brad Richards, Lundqvist, Gaborik
Kilgour’s. We shall see.
And I didn’t even do anything. Imagine.
She said that the volume was lowered in another part of the bar because there were non-Habs patrons there.
Hey. Do what you want. But don’t claim to be something you’re not. Live up to it. Even if the fans don’t.
It was a series of stumbling sentences one jumbling into the next til she riled her own self up. Believe me. I know how to be sweet.
And I was.
Make my team sweet again.
public musings …. bah