Guess who gets first star.
Qui d'autre, asks Houde.
At his best, Markov is unobtrusive, quick and an invisible torque-touch passer.
So what. So what. So what. It all matters. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t matter.
Hope is a careful but sweet elixir.
Ottawa is like a game and lame small-purse boxer, lurching in front of his home crowd, his girl screeching in the first row and seagulls wheeling on the wharf overhead. For nearly twenty seconds, they nearly capsize the Habs.
When I see the orange and burnt blue, I think of a farm club being allowed to occupy a franchise spot in the NHL.
My toaster oven suddenly becomes more of a focal point as Plekanec takes a faceoff deep right. And loses it.
Lemon strides out. Looks at his wristband. Absorbed. Calm. Purposed. He wears number one. But looks like Marvin Graves. Slight lank slouch.
Bonjour, Tomas. Ca va?