We get a look at a fight from tonight’s Atlanta game. The Thrasher’s unsavoury Evander Kane shows his colours as he whams his opponent once to take him down and then again to hit his head off the ice. What did you learn in Ontario minor hockey today, son? Oh, the usual.
Renaud Lavoie interviews Marc-Andre Bergeron. Bergeron is auditioning for a television career. He’s like Robertson Davies. Getting paid by the word. But unlike Davies, Bergeron makes a boring answer more unbearable by extending it.
Missed it? Musings capture the game in writing. Based on the RDS telecast, Musings take about 20 minutes to read. More detailed than an article, fresher than a looping highlight and good with morning coffee. Or late-night chocolate.
The ice is lit in an oval of wet white and American lights; le bleu, le blanc et le rouge.
Flyers in amber. There’s only so much skating they can do.
One of the benefits of not watching English-announced Canadian hockey telecasts is that, as viewers, we are more free to decide for ourselves who the heroes and villains are; who the skilled and unskilled are; the English-Canadian networks are far too influenced by the star-makers culture that has slowly poisoned Canadian sports television.
Parise is skates and shark over the blue line. And quickly. His efforts are cornered and squared as the Montreal defenders take up the appropriate angles.
McCabe, uh, is prone to turnovers. Bad ones. Planet of the japes.
Long passing is a fantasy best forgotten against Buffalo.
Men from Quebec aren’t afraid to shop. Or admit it. Real men don’t give a hoot.
It’s ugly but. But what. What a terrible, disrespectful effort from Montreal tonight.
Rangers are finally awake. Popcorn finished, they look up from their programs and start asking about relevant players. Hey, is that Jack Lemaire? Is that King Dryden?
I agree. Keep the shootout. Unskilled players oppose the shootout. Or traditionalists. What is more reflective of hockey than skills? In Quebec, growing up, there was nothing else to consider.
What a winner. Oh, did I spell that right?
Downie hacks Moen right in the mid-section. Replay shows how deliberate and iron-hawk it was. Man. Sticks are like email. They make people brave.
Carlyle is hiding his disappointment behind his ferocity.
We see a shot of the King bench and I don’t see a lot of silver glitter. The days of grainy gay and grey gretzky are done. It’s all matte and mute now. The uniforms look fat letter and thick font. They’re not bad but they’re not compelling.
Heatley is in. Uses the screen. One-on-two. Leans left. Shoots. High. Glove. The glove. The Pricey, dicey, smiling red gant glove. We loves it.
Canadiens poem. Jaroslav Halak.
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.
Slovakia is just another red, white and blue team that is in a big vat of milk. A very big vat.
In front. Puck bobbling. Coverage bungles. Bryzgalov has trouble trapping it. Chaos of the seven-second near-crease variety occurs. The voices in the booth crack and stretch. Russia survives.
Briere has a “my business here is done” look on his face as he settles onto the bench. It was done here a long time ago, bud. Now you’re just wasting everyone’s time. Must be nice. Four-gamer.
Stick to Price’s mask as he lies on the ice. And the Flyers jam at it like witch-hunters. And it goes in. Hartnell’s pitchfork was sharpest.
Demers talks about Neuvirth a bit. Then he references the NFL. He wants to know what the details are on injuries. Renaud Lavoie adds that in a serious league, we are told what is going on. Oh, get over it. In a league run by gambling interests, we are told what is going on. Be glad that this league, your NHL, doesn’t have the same type of transparency.
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.
Canucks set it up. Pass goes to the slot. Sedin. For Sedin. I watch the back of the net. Old, haunted child reflex. It stays white. Whistle. Someone falls on Halak. Nothing else.
More Olympics-flavoured commercials. The experiment is a grand disaster already and threatens to be one of the great white elephants in Canadian history. It will be a worse economic blunder than the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. Felicitations.
Not good enough. How do we know Cormier is a good kid? Just watch this kid, Cormier. Take a look at how he carries himself in the future. And look at the tape; see how he carried himself in the past. And then decide for yourself. Lots of guys don’t have track records. And yet they manage not to commit these kinds of attacks. Is Cormier as good as those kids? Mistakes don’t happen at random. They happen as part of a pattern of behaviour.