Canadiens win the faceoff on the glistening ice. Boston’s logo at centre ice, as I’ve said often, is compelling and tonight it is nearly majestic. I’m glad to return to a traditional rivalry with the usual suspects on a Tuesday night when only those who care about and understand the teams involved are watching. More or less.
I think Steve Begin is going to coach in the NHL one day.
We get a brief shot of the Pittsburgh bench. The grey ash of the crowd is behind the players' winking white helmets. And a balding dude who resembles Rick Tocchet is behind the Penguin players. I wonder how bad it all smells. Hockey is one of the most unpleasant-smelling of the sports.
Bruins move it out. They are bent raster and dusty spider; confused offensive.
Centennial Game. Brunet says the Canadiens have shown a lot of character tonight. I agree. It’s not easy to play well and play a mortal’s game on a night when mortals are perceptually immortalized. But if one sees enough of these celebrations, one becomes impervious to them, I’ll venture.
Silence these beasts.
Canadiens poem.
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)
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The minutae gathered from the singular pursuit of one team is at a cost. Either I quintuple my viewing by adding many more teams to my schedule or I delve even deeper into the mountain.
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Nine potential shockers that may just happen in the near future.
Tonight the scoreboard isn't enough. (It's never enough). Tonight the scoreboard doesn't show ...
... a team with pride peaking. A coach with his palm preach shading. A group of young lions nipped older. A phalanx of older lions found faster. An ageing, elegant warrior harnessing fierce fires of a white star 'c'.