1) I hate (deleted) deer.*
2) Going to that game tonight, for reasons having absolutely nothing to do with the game or its result, wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but it might come close.
3) In print for Game 7, you are in the very capable hands of Chris Elsberry.
But let’s bury the lead in favor of the lead.
What in the name of all holy was that second period*?
Even as it’s going on, the shots keep ringing up… It was like Manch Vegas back in November**, except Grebeshkov was on the other side this time.
There were nine power-play shots. There were two short-handed shots. That means there were 16 even-strength shots in about 13:10.
But the amazing thing was it was only 1-0 at the end, and it was the 27th shot that did it.
Did it make it into second edition, my little line about team-of-destiny? That third period had that feel to it, that old-time Sound Tigers home game feel, that Raffi Torres was gonna hit somebody, that Jason Krog was gonna find a guy in the right place.
Marjamaki tied it off Masse’s feed on the two-on-one just as they passed out the attendance. Then Filewich tied it on the first bad rebound Dubielewicz has allowed since, what, Portland, if then? (And wasn’t that Ryan Stone’s initial shot? I know I could be seeing things, but…*)
And then the tic-tac-toe passes, Tambellini to Collins to Caldwell niftily to Koalska, and it’s tied again.
When St. Laurent — with the curl as usual, though I liked his game earlier in the series* — called that trip on Welch in OT, you knew there was gonna be a Penguins power play as soon as he could find something. (That Stone — there’s that name again — had the only shot on that Bridgeport PP is immaterial.)
He found something, in fact, in a foul against Stone. Call looked OK. Stone found a seam, found some room, and played hero yet again. He was my first star in all three games played in this building; I kept writing his name or number down again tonight.
So it’s come to this. Heads, there’s a game here next Sunday. Tails, there’s meetings here much sooner.
And I can’t make the meetings.*
D: Jarrett (A)-Gervais
Lefebvre (A)-Christensen-Hussey (A)
I haven’t yet figured out what it means that ol’ 3M guys have been involved in, possibly, the five biggest goals of the series for Bridgeport (Marjamaki’s three and Koalska’s two, and Masse was in on all of Marjamaki’s).
Did not notice until the pregame replay: After the OT goal Wednesday, Masse appeared to go to jump on Marjamaki — and missed.
Never did mention, did I, that Jeff Tambellini took a puck to the face in Game 5, which is why the full shield. He didn’t miss too much time.
The whole “hit the ‘WBS fan’ with a pie” thing got old quickly, didn’t it?
Nice job by cuddly mascot Storm 6:15 into the game. A clearing pass deflected off a stick and caught him right on the top of the head… and he played it to the hilt, stumbling around, spinning, dizzy. Props, hep cat.
OK, now the self-indulgent rest, which created an absence long enough that some of you were finally right to get on Harlan Pratt a little by the time I got back… *
Long story short, early Thursday morning coming home from the WB, it was deer vs. me, and car vs. laws of physics. And my side went 0-2. The seat belt saved my life (public service announcement), I’m sure, though I would not wish hanging upside-down on anybody. Got myself out of the seat belt, crawled around on the inside roof of the car awhile, eventually got helped out of the car by the responding officer, later got home with an assist from my Dad after I got fixed up with help from the good people at Wayne Memorial Hospital in Honesdale, Pa. I owe a debt to a lot of people out there, officers, EMTs, paramedics (who thankfully weren’t needed), everybody, most of whose names I didn’t catch. Thankfully, though there’s a lot of bumps and bruises and cuts and stuff, the worst non-soreness thing is probably a broken nose***. And I know a few people who’ve lived through that OK.
And probably the best thing**** was that I found my computer bag next to me and got to take it with me. Compy still works.
The day off yesterday was basically a given, which is why you got a recycled-Wednesday-notes advance and absolutely no news in Friday’s paper. But even while I was trying to climb up my spare-well cover and out the back window, I was thinking, “blankety-blank, Michael, there’s a game Friday night.”*
So after making all the calls I had to make Friday, my folks helped me cover up what needed to be covered up, and I hopped in the shower to wash the scariest stuff off my face and out of my hair, and I carefully got dressed, and my Dad drove me over to the barn.
Sore from neck to waist, tired — heck, exhausted — but yeesh*, it’s the playoffs. I went to work. Like I said, it’s not the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s up there. I did the gamer. I hope it’s coherent.
I ain’t up for drivin’*, so you’re in the capable hands of Chris Elsberry tomorrow. I’ll be listening. Got my next two weeks to plan.
And if the creepy, beyond-bloodshot demon eyes scared your kids, my humblest apologies.
*-Please attribute any weird sayings, non sequiturs, and ‘F’-words other than “Filewich,” “Fleury,” “Forty Fort,” “Friday” or “Frankenberry,” to the nifty Advil/Amoxicillin cocktail. Thank you.
**-“Tina Delgado is alive, alive!”*
***-I do have the bruise to end all bruises where the lap belt was. Preeeety.*
****-Y’know, aside from the whole “alive and can walk and talk and think” thing…