Montreal Canadiens vs. Washington Capitals
March 31, 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 (29-35-14) visit Washington Capitals (39-31-8)
Saturday, March 31st, 2012
Game Seventy-Nine (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 stained coffee. A unique way to re-experience the game.
click here to expand post (it looks prettier)
Overdone Waterworld music and that idiot French version of the gritty I-just-smoked-a-pack-locked-in-the-closet GMC-styled voice accompany an Ovechkin montage. In French, it’s more butter. More alto.
Can he save the … whatever it might be. The season? The Capitals? Hockey?
It’s overdone and a nine year-old would be insulted.
I ought to know. I’m nine.
Colour-man Marc Denis and play-by-play expert Pierre Houde must present this game, meaningless to playoff qualifications, in an enervating manner. That manner isn’t needed by me. Every game counts in this basement.
Denis stumbles (rare) and Houde looks over in a way reserved for Benoit Brunet. Denis recovers. Houde is a performance guy. He likes guys that excel.
And he excels, boy.
And I’ve been nine a long time. Yeah, twelve, whatever.
As for Master Ovechkin, he’s back. He’s scoring and whatever ailed him earlier has been resolved. He has nine goals in the past twelve and all you suckas who write the ring magazine will crawl before it’s all over.
So many who indulged in their lazy hatred, calling Ovie a “former superstar” and speculating on his demise were wrong. Hope isn’t a strategy, jingos.
He’s 26. He had a lapse; there were reasons; it’s all over. All other great (read: local golden boys) got and get their chances when they go into slumps. Ovie, a Russian, and not liked on either side of the 49th for different sets of reasons (by a certain pie-slice of groundlings) doesn’t pass the eye-test.
But what 75 year-old men think shouldn’t matter. Especially if they’re bitter, emotional, tradition-loving, oppressive, put-the-boots-to-the-immigrant types.
Y’all knows who you is. You can stop reading now. Yer kind ain’t welcome here.
First game for Backstrom against Bourque after the so-called “dirty elbow”. I haven’t seen it. Ok, I have but I don’t know if something else preceded. Bourque isn’t a starter.
Michal Neuvirth is in net for Washington. And Price isn’t, for Montreal.
Eller takes and wins the draw and the Canadiens turn it over on the short dump, immediately.
Budaj makes a save on a long Hamrlik shot. I forgot. And that means Halpern is here, too.
My throat, my roster.
Once again, I question the wisdom of releasing Hamrlik.
I wonder if it will last as long as the Langway feelings.
Montreal defenceman, the young but adroit Frédéric St. Denis trips Keith Aucoin in the slot and the grey dinge of my home television confirms it. Coloured dinge.
I was spoiled by the nice screens yesterday.
Wideman. Long shot. Gorges blocks it. Who else, says play-by-play impresario Pierre Houde, of the shot-blocking young Jedi. Gorges leads the league and is closing on the third-best mark for a single season.
Obi-Hal taught you well.
Budaj misses the freeze as one Capital drifts unwilling out of the crease. But Laich is there and jam-slip needs blocking.
Budaj should have trapped it in the first place.
Four minutes gone.
There’s no way to prepare for these stupid musings. As calm as I was for the last two hours; doing nothing but reading about the writing process, I’m now easily infuriated, hair tickling and all the lights wrong no matter what I do.
In response, Washington scores. They’re no help.
Can’t I just will myself into a good mood?
Budaj has no chance against offensive masters such as this. Backstrom crossed, passed and the first shot failed but the second was in. Easily.
I knew it. You knew it. They knew it.
Washington 1, Montreal 0
I ate. I had my nap. I’m rested.
Who can figure anything out?
Pellet-counters? Charadists? (In England, it’s sha-rawd, my dear)
Staubitz makes a circular gesture talking with Bourque on the bench.
Fourteen oh five.
Deep right draw. Stopped on the right point. But turned over.
I take a sip of five-hour old coffee. Maybe that will help. This doltish car commercial certainly isn’t.
Cars, cars, cars. What a joke.
Cars are for morons.
Another Washington power-play.
And another quick chance.
The Capitals are moving in their 09-10 manner. Their 54-win manner. I wonder if we’ll ever know what went wrong for the Caps early this season.
On paper, they’re the best in the East. But paper ain’t water.
I guess I’m a moron, too.
I begin contemplating frozen poems and platypus analogies.
All while betraying my own moron writing habits; this one has me looking at my laptop monitor and not watching the game (cathode ray tube) closely enough.
I fold down the monitor to a forty-five degree angle so I can’t see the words.
I resume my 09-10 time-travel interlude.
The Capitals were a force in most ways that season. But in net.
With Vokoun, they now have the most important of the missing elements. Today’s champion will always have a few missing elements. The cap makes it so. But Vokoun, the much-travelled former Panther is the best goalie in the East. And he can take them all the way.
Tonight it’s some right-hander. Neuvirth, I think (Ed note: Yes. And drink more water, honey.)
The rink and the pace, the jerseys and the unique sonic metrics of the Washington crowd remind me of that spring run. And particularly, I think of the rugged Travis Moen. He was one of the few who was unafraid.
As a team, we stayed afraid to the end. The other kind of afraid. Not intimidated but fearful of being blown out on any shift. Washington was a goal machine. That fear was one of the fuels for the eventual seventh game victory. An upset few foresaw.
The Canadiens upset Pittsburgh in seven in the following series before succumbing to the unruly Flyers in five in the conference finals.
What is Assante, anyway?
Don’t bother. I don’t want to know. I can tell by the font that it has nothing to do with my aspirations.
Aspirations. Bayer? Breathing?
And it’s Leaves. Not Leafs.
A Matt Hendricks whack on Montreal’s Tomas Plekanec shown. Plekanec got his revenge. Hitting from behind. Whap-whap-whap. And then some more when Hendricks took exception. Plekanec is like a harried washer-woman. Who cares what the building superintendent has to say. She’s at the kiln door. And you’d better pray she doesn’t open it.
She ain’t the one goin’ in.
Ovechkin is on with Backstrom. Hamrlik and Blunden collide. Ovechkin strikes back at Blunden, up to his usual third-line tricks.
Ovechkin is the best player on the ice and he’s still huge. He’s at 247 these days. He’s listed at six three but I’d be surprised if that’s accurate. He looks six-five. Maybe he’s wearing extra high, uh, blades?
Hum. His fight weight is 230. But he’s still growing. Players grow into their frames by 27, 28 and then one more time; that chicken thick thing (you know, mom’s stew, baby’s fat and all that, old-man strength and thickness); by around 33. Magic as a forward was thick. As a guard; long sliced.
Seven and a half.
At their best, the Capitals are a laddy team, buckets of apple, crates of bolts. But this new edition, this evolved, tormented and emerging entity feels much more like a man’s team than ever before. They’re stinging, sized and purposed.
The crowd continues to impress me with their joie and their pepper. Always a knowledgeable crowd, they’re more than savant and bluster. Their red threads rival the Bell’s and now they express their justified irritation with Tomas Plekanec. Legit call on a mid-shift hook at the slot. And a scrum ensues. It’s at the end boards and near the glass. Lasts about ten seconds. No punches. None of the glove-less type anyway.
Plekanec takes a seat.
Maybe I didn’t eat enough.
Cunneyworth is saying the F word again. He’s upset with an official decision and continues making his point, his jacket sleeve trembling in extension. Nice watch.
Ovie on the left point. He advances. Backstrom at the phone booth, opposite.
Johansson waiting and Backstrom switches with the right point man.
And now. No. Ovie found Backstrom and somehow the net was missed.
Why. Why Budaj.
I know. But why.
Haven’t we lost enough games?
They’ll play better for him, my inner coach says.
I glare at my inner coach.
Nine seconds in the penalty. Neuvirth needs to trap down. Nice work.
Just how bad is the Moen injury? Is he done as a Hab?
Nobody brings it up. He’s waning in power but. We could use his experience. The formerly rugged Travis Moen. The at-times rugged Travis Moen.
The penalty-kill, Moen’s great strength.
Hendricks. Left side. Three on one. One man gets back. No matter. Hendricks feeds Beagle in the crease. And it’s roofed.
A siren goes. The linemates gaze upwards. And they watch the replay.
This feels like the Washington Capitals. This feels like Dale Hunter’s team.
Washington 2, Montréal 0
As for Nos …. um …. Glorieux?
I haven’t cried yet. But the season ain’t over.
Doom is more likely tonight. Caps need each win, still in ninth, and the Canadiens are missing too many key cogs.
Markov’s left knee. It’s ok. He banged it last game. His right knee? The reconstructed one? Twice? Let’s end that discussion. But it’s fine.
Three oh eight.
Board work. Desharnais. Eller. Delayed call.
Dale Hunter’s beaten-down diner cook look is all beef, no garden. And he ain’t worried. He’s the Capital coach.
Montreal goes to power as the thick-necked former Nordique nods to his players.
Today’s mask absorbs the shock of a puck more fully than those of yesteryear informs Denis, a former NHL goalie, himself. And we can hear them more loudly in the rink.
Neuvirth is ok after a powerful Plekanec shot.
Moments later another windup on the circle.
Markov is under the endline.
He nearly reaches his target. And now he’s skating nominally. Moreso. And he gets back to make it three back.
Pacioretty. Sliding in with it. Cole following. They finish.
And the score flatters Montréal.
But great effort. Pacioretty down the left. Drove to the net. And Cole, free, whapped it in. Two power-forwards. Pacioretty has also learned his lessons well.
I’m nine, ok?
Washington 2, Montreal 1
Cole, 33, mentors Pacioretty, 23.
There are some takers. Despite Gomez, Gionta and Moen’s respective absences. And Our Man From Richmond Hill? Have another cigarillo. One day Calgarians will notice. But they’ll never admit it. That’s not the style.
Washington led on shots 12-9
Washington 2, Montreal 1
Alain asks Mario and Benoit who their “sleepers” might be. He uses the Anglo term. Mario suggests Doug Risebrough. Interesting. I forget what Benoit says, immediately. But Mario likes the choice. James Neal. Oh.
What. The Penguin? No, no. I know, I know. That other guy.
Ok, it’s time for Benoit to go. The experiment has claimed enough interest buds.
My receptors return in time to mute yet another car smote. Stoat’s coat is what I was thinking, actually. And rubbed with fine fish oil. Shaking your hand, insisting you can drive off in a brand new one today. Brand new one today.
Brand new. One. Today.
Never bought one. Never will. Two Treks. Black and silver. Black and white. Good enough. Better than that.
Like a Sabre and a gun.
We’re shown les autres matches.
Broo-ooons beat Isles 6-3. Bs are at 46 wins.
Anyone can go. About anyone. East’s I mean. Yeah, East’s.
English. Who got none?
Washington 2, Montréal 1
Denis likes Backstrom’s first period and adds that the imposing forward is coming off forty missed games, after all. A concussion. First game back tonight.
He’s only 24 but he’s made his mark in the NHL already, adds Denis.
Some iso replays. Backstrom highlights and goals from other games. He has size and a streak of aluminium to go with that other copper streak. I’m not a fan but he has great ability and will. He’s from Gavle, Sweden and he’s no gentleman Salming.
There they come. Backstrom. Slot drive. Flickpass to Ovie. One-timer. And it’s wide.
Just get it on net and you’ll be fine. Budaj, eh?
Just get it on net.
Flippin’ cap. Anyone that uses the term quarterback controversy can be dismissed. Nineteen outta twenty.
And a world that lets you keep both.
How about Edwards. Sauvé.
Williams. Schroeder. For you Washington people.
Subban is smiling and curling away after a whistle. Wideman is being escorted a zebra arm on his sleeve. He’s smiling, too.
Subban wants to go. Or no. Hendricks drops the gloves and Subban keeps skating, turns his head away. Collision preceded.
Our guy Subban. Your guy, Ovie.
Chocolate Bar Superstars. Both. Ovie, established. Subban, still to come.
Coming next week! The marquis. And Geezer Butler leans out the window and says; what about black sabbath?
Can’t anyone be original? There was a movie marquee. That’s how the band was named.
Then again, I’ve been having trouble naming a few monsters. Let’s see how the story goes. The names will come.
I glare at my inner coach again.
This Montréal power-play.
There’s no cure for it. Not from this vista.
Watching is glorious torture.
I wish number twenty-seven into shape. He stays René Bourque. And his speed is still set on cruise.
Set phasers for stun. Was Bones McCoy an underachiever?
Another car commercial! We need some laws.
Here’s one; no more logical fallacies permitted in the House. Two goal judges on either side, a horn each. Three fallacies and you’re done for the week. Or you could automate it.
I’m serious. Tinker. Begin.
My Canada doesn’t include your Canada. You’re still here?
Carlson’s long shot is scooped and the Habs are out.
More mugging about. Faceoff to Budaj’s left.
We get a shot of the great Mathieu Perreault. A Franco favourite.
Neuvirth leaps to the ice surface and covers one.
He readies for the draw to his left.
Eller crosses stick and the puck swivels about untouched in the dot.
Board dithering. Then Eller turns and fires blind through the crease. Don’t waste our time.
Nine and a half.
Caps enter and are slowed on the left boards. Two Habs end the incursion.
To the net.
Staubitz and Green might go.
Staubitz tells Green a few things. He’s smiling. They’re tangled and arm to neck. Green smiles. They jostle, each caught in the other’s personality. Green would never go with Staubitz. And they both know it. Thus the smiles?
Green remains a great talent. But he’s incomplete. The defensive dimension is optional for him. Too bad. He’s a defenceman.
Green has great size and great mobility. That rare combination. And his stick and puck work are those of a smaller, more deft man. But he checks out, coasts and indulges. He’s never been traded and that might be the best thing for his career.
He was anointed early. And you know what that does.
Yes. We both know. But we also both know I love saying it … so I’ll say it again; overblown sense of entitlement. Outsized. Exaggerated. Whatever you will.
Green’s 31 goals in 68 games in 2008-09 is one of the best goal outputs of any defenceman ever. The record is 48. You oughtta know who. Mister Parry Sound.
Plekanec. Right side reception as he crosses. Accelerates past Hamrlik. Top shelf. Neuvirth went down too soon.
Yeah, it does feel like 09-10. Plekanec was one of the guys. The whole team was one of the guys. I guess that’s a big reason why.
Offwing runner from the muzzle. Wait, wait, whoop!
Montréal 2, Washington 2
Are they red monsters? Are they men?
Hendricks hits a man.
Hendricks refuses Staubitz’ invitation. Matt Hendricks. Tough against Subban, eh? Not at all when Staubitz has you by the collar. The gloved two-finger pinch in stride was a moment and no more.
Nice league. A league that police itself. And with paid goal judges to do what, exactly?
Insert guffaw. Bumpkin game. Bumpkin culture.
Not in football, boy. You, all you seventy-five year old boys. Listen up. Oh. They’re outgoing, are they. Take this to hell with you, then.
Goal judges have a red-light button. The role is, uh, goal judge. But if there’s any dispute, they’re left out of the process. They have no replay machinery, no authority. They just sit there, as they’ve always done. And they’re often wrong, to boot. Hockey’s weathermen.
Their seats behind the goal and in the crowd may have something to do with league reticence in giving them more authority. Yes, there was a day when they were the word. The final word. Those days are long gone. Even if anti-Franco jingoism has remained.
You still here?
Fuck Bobby Orr.
Gordie Howe, too.
Now trundle along.
Before I add to the list.
(perhaps you think you’re being treated unfairly?)
Caps continue to flub about, flustered. Dale Hunter raises eyebrows, flaps oxygen through the lips; fully exhales and wraps arms into a folded shape. He isn’t resigned but he’s seen it before. And maybe he expected more. After all the London Knights are kids. These guys should be pros.
They’re s’posed to be. Aren’t they? Are they?
Ovechkin line. Luke. But then Ovie intercepts. Around. Someone finds him.
Bourque shoots. Neuvirth is straw-man down, back on ice, legs in a V. Ouch. Snap-slapper. In the neck. He’s up. Talking. Mask off. RE-adjusts. Blows air out. Puts it back on. Looks as alert as usual. Hears the applause. Readies. We’re shown Cap backup gimby Braden Holtby, briefly.
Oh, those tough Canadian names. You guys have Colt and Gunner. We have Braden. Brayden. And Tanner.
We resume. Gimby means goalie in northern Manitoba. Like, way north.
Officials are in the way. Caps suffer it. And Houde laughs in sympathy.
Crowd is booing. Puck hit an official and ended a Capital entry. Not for the first time tonight.
Here’s a failed pass and the puck caroms dangerously away from the slot and into the pads. Unintentional.
This game. Let’s make the puck bigger. How about three feet in diameter?
It’s three inches right now. Four? Let’s just stop talking about inches.
Montreal led the monsters 14-10. Oy. No wonder they’re in ninth. Come on. Give us better, Capitolists.
Montreal 2, Washington 2
Alain says that others may not have been shocked but asks Mario if Pierre Gauthier was. Mario says they share a common friend and that, yes, Pierre Gauthier was shocked.
We see Gauthier in a short range of moments and I remember how he’s spent most of his life outside Quebec. And the blunders that led to.
Yes, he made mistakes. But he made many good decisions, too. Five-hundred doesn’t do it here, though.
It’s macro-level hope, now. The best kind.
Well, the new chapter kind, anyway.
Benoit says Capitals have turned it over twelve times already.
Turnover-counting varies from rink to rink, from pundit to pundit. But Brunet’s use of “epouvantable” is apt tonight.
These aren’t the Capitals, finishes the overconfident cactus.
But he’s right.
Washington 2, Montréal 2
Pierre asks Marc about Ovie’s performance tonight. Mild, responds the likeable ex-goalie. He cites Ilya Kovalchuk’s two-goal, one assist performance tonight (for Devils in another game). Ovie has nine in his past twelve. And aside from a few moments and a good first three shifts, he’s been less than himself.
Denis suggests that Backstrom’s re-insertion has changed the temperature.
Green. Carries, sails parallel and slaps, free. Budaj (him again?) raises the gloves and holds it.
I see three fans behind Hunter, his arms folded. And I wonder if I know too much about this team. Maybe they all know the Caps as well as I know the Canadiens.
I stop glaring at my inner pope (Ed note: What happened to the inner coach?).
Pacioretty slides into the boards. Hard. He’s semi-up. On his knees. Butt in the air. Uh. I mean. Wideman goes. Oh lord. Dennis Wideman. I’m serious. Oh, forget it.
Markov on the blue. Desharnais at the phone booth. He’s a little small for a phone booth wouldn’t you say?
Slides it to the crease lip. One shot. Blocked. Second. Traffic. Back to Markov. Sent in again.
Almost a second pass. But it folds on the line and the team needs another entry.
Still fifty-two seconds. Markov keeping it under control.
Markov to Desharnais. One-timer.
Markov is good. He slides across to block a certain clearing shot. What timing and anticipation, both.
I forgot what power-play quarterbacking looked like. And why the old heads kept remind us it’s labelled “Markov”.
It is. They’re right. Another kind of seventy-five.
Stoppage. One second. Won, deep left. Gorges fires. Ting ting, tang. And into the corner.
Emelin takes Backstrom into the corner and keeps him there.
Bourque responds with a left-side rush. Looking for Plekanec in the slot. Looking, looking. No. Covered.
Ovie has it on the left hash. To the left point. Tipped. And Ovie is slow getting back.
One theory, one I haven’t checked, is the “rock star” theory. That Ovie became enamoured with his image. It’s possible. So I’ll check.
I find it nearly pointless, though. The anointed aren’t asked to leave the line at customs. Why should I go through Ovie’s wallet?
Subban is called. Speaking of wallets.
What you ascribe says more about you than it does about me. Now look in the mirror. What did you see.
I look up some stats and tell myself “they’re not going to score”. Then I look up and see Budaj. I abort my stats off-ramp.
Habs fence it. Clear.
Now the mid-ice entry point is plugged by Plekanec. Green carries. Left side pass. Bourque intercepts it. Some booing.
Houde notices and says they’re impatient.
They may not know about our PK.
And our other PK returns.
Penalty is over.
Our non-Pernell PK is now tied for second at 88.2. Devils are 89.7 and Pittsburgh (the most dangerous team for the nonce) is also at 88.2.
Washington has a great crowd. They don’t just react. They exhort. And they know the game.
Patrick Division, baby. The other cool division.
Norris? Have a laugh. Smythe? Not enough good teams. It was post-seventies Adams and Patrick that did it. Fierce. Fulsome.
Semin. Carries from the circle dot. To the net. Shot. Misses.
Contemplates after it goes up and out of play. Shakes his head. Leans over. Shows emotion I haven’t seen from him before. But I don’t see this team enough.
Ovechkin, Semin and Backstrom. The most capable line in the East. Still young. Still learning.
Thindian. Is that a word?
I contemplate further forays in honesty.
Ovie to the net. Offwing. He’s huge. Budaj survives.
Ovie long for Johansson. Back for Wideman. Deflected. And Budaj gloves it. Taps Gorges. Gorges stays leaning over.
Another garbage vehicle ad.
Sao Paulo won. They banned all outdoor advertising. Just in case you’d forgotten.
Landstone! Uh, wait. Landmine!
No. Uhm. Landmark! Landmark decision.
That’s it, dad. Now leave us alone.
Let’s talk about those erased matriarchal societies next.
I have a story.
The crowd reaction is interesting in this building. What sounds like a fight reaction in other buildings is a tripping call gone good. Tomas tripped off the faceoff. Legit call. But Plekanec leaves with capsicum words and an idle hostile swing of his stick at the ice and door-box. Light, low swipe.
Here come your Capitals.
I sit up straighter, adjust the beanbag and watch Montréal stymie a loudly-cheered home team.
But the spaces aren’t there and the Canadiens are interested and now unintimidated.
They believe. And it’s mostly Washington’s doing. I shake my head. The 11-12 Capitals should have been so much more.
But I’m no Pierre McGuire.
I’m no Bertrand Raymond.
I’m no Mike Milbury.
Better; Washington penalty.
I shake my head on my cousin’s behalf. Both of them.
I guess I could have just moved the apostrophe. They grew up in DC. So, I’ve heard the tales.
Montréal gets nearly the full two.
Points? Standings? Who cares.
First minute is a wash. Stone-washed red.
Second. Plekanec. Shot-pass. Touched. Nice. Wide.
Desharnais brakes at mid-ice to hit and just changes a man’s trajectory. Reminded me of Sergei for a moment there. It never worked. Arrogant gazelle, butt out and the number 74. The never ambush.
Here’s a long puck.
Budaj is way out. And too slow getting back. Retreats. Good movement. And the play, one pass and a second across is slowed enough to allow his save.
Here’s how sell-out car CEO’s talk over the Atlantic. They’re all about talking points, too, it seems. Seems? Hah. Have another photocopied playbook. Unimaginative greed glands.
The teams have each met their doppelgangers. At least in habit. Caps are better on paper than Habs. Oh, paper.
It’s vulcanized rubber. And it’s frozen prior to the game. More than one, eh.
Please return the game puck to the ice surface. We ask that the patron in row 432, seat 16, please return the game puck to the surface.
That’s sorta like the office pen.
Or the Republican brain.
Ah ha ha ha ah ho ho ho ho!!
I told you to leave.
Behind Neuvirth. Beagle takes it from our guy.
Re-entry. Wideman intercepts the crease pass.
Brouwer with sudden Jenner intentions. Through and shooting. Budaj has the angle.
Cole responds. Curling, a slot shark. Fires low. Neuvirth close the gap.
One and thirteen.
They go rush for rush.
Emelin is taken down by Knuble, one arm, legally.
A stick is on the ice.
Slot pass. Shot wide.
Geoffrion is on. Why? He’s easily knocked down. And now he’s looking for a gap to hide in.
It crosses within a foot. He daintily extends a boot. It sails past. Slo. Mo.
And that moment winks. And vanishes.
Clock runs out.
Montreal led on shots 13-11. And 36-33, overall. If the Capitals know anything about us, that 36 should embarrass them.
Washington 2, Montreal 2
Two periods of four on four. Five minutes.
Caps remind me of us. Early two-goal lead? Elephants en rogue? Gone.
Overtime is sudden-death. So. All can be forgiven.
As for us, and it’s us these days, any win is welcome.
Not just the process-based ones.
Four oh four. Both teams aren’t able to sail.
Caps are three across and one scout. Habs put it out of play.
Ovie. Who is that, I wondered? He can play low when he wants. Matched on the retreat and forced around.
And then out.
Eller is on. St. Denis carries. They’re in. Pacioretty is floating through the crease. Eller can’t take it away.
Semin turns and uses the space, an S and a brake and a turnover at the circle top.
Laich. Chimera. Great rush to the net by the Edmonton native. Pass isn’t forthcoming.
Cole leans back even as he skyfes parallel to the end line.
My VCR pops the tape out. No digital tonight.
Bourque. Bends the screen. And shoots across. Misses all.
Off the end boards and a parallel puck missing all. Could have gone off the turned Neuvirth. Luck? Or skill?
Pacioretty. Move and a backhand. And Eller misses and Houde drops the grocery. Awww! Should have had it, moans the impresario. Our very own Al Michaels. When Al was great.
Muzzle. Sparks and fur. But no silver bullet.
One more draw. One more horn.
Montreal 2, Washington 2
Palushaj is on the list. First time.
Hendricks goes first. Home team prerogative.
Hendricks. Fakes. High speed. Tops it. In. The roof. The horn. The gloves and the hubris. Couldn’t fight Staubitz. Brave man with Subban.
The crowd is pleased with the five-hole failure.
Ovechkin. The only time I feel this way watching him.
Fake and misses. Just.
Pacioretty. Wrister. Misses. Off the end boards.
Semin. Number 28.
Speed. Fake. Slip-under. The coaches shake hands.
Budaj. Beaten to his right. Just not an NHL-calibre starter.
Montreal 2 (SO)
HDS Stars: Tomas Plekanec, Andrei Markov, Nicklas Backstrom
RDS Stars: Matt Hendricks, Tomas Plekanec, Erik Cole
This “like I said” seems a verbal infection amongst more than just Russian players. Budaj uses “like I said” twice in answering post-game questions. I guess we should feel confident in that he’s backed up by himself.
Right. Like I said, I’m nine years old.