Caps/Preds, 11/15/2011

Public notice for those who think that more goals need to be scored for hockey to be exciting: not the case. As anyone who ended up in the lap of a friend or family member (or total stranger, which has happened to me before) by the end of the game with your arms and legs wrapped around them can attest--really not the fucking case.

We showed up in music city with our team members who love country music and our team members who know nothing but Russian techno. The Preds showed up in their Luke's-jacket-at-the-end-of-Star-Wars-yellow uniforms. We had our Carrie Underwood Sighting Binoculars on. They had the extra strong Shea-Weber-proof nets up. Time for a hockey game.


There is very little to actually recap here, because the same things happened over and over basically the whole game.

You may be surprised to learn that there was actually offense happening, especially if you were at work or somewhere inconveniently Capsless and watching the score. There was! I promise. It was just that for 55 minutes, this offense came to naught.

Goalie showdown.

All right, I must admit that for the first period most of this offense was not coming from the Capitals side. We took a bit to warm up, but we did manage to get pretty hot there for awhile. I mean that exactly how it sounds.

But warm up we did, and the following sequence happened about 4859 times: Caps got a brilliant chance. You thought it was a goal.

Rinne's glove had other ideas.

Two notable instances of Holy Fuck:

Holy Fuck, Rinne--Joel Ward shoots, and it is in, it's IN. Rinne reaches around behind his own back, SNAGS THE PUCK BLIND, AND KNOCKS IT OUT. THIS MAN IS NOT HUMAN.

Holy Fuck, Vokoun--Mike Fisher gets a shorthanded breakaway on our penalty, completely alone down the ice for a good sixty feet. You would think this would faze Vokoun. It does not. He doesn't bite on any of Fisher's fancy stick work and dekes, waits till the absolute last fucking second, and moves about three inches for a flawless kick save. Badass.

The entire third period was watched in the mortal fear that something--anything--would happen at any moment to destroy my happiness forever. I spent much of it yelling "SOMEBODY SCORE" and not enough of it remembering to add "SOMEBODY ON THE CAPS, THOUGH".

Troy Brouwer hears my cries in the wilderness.

Troy. Brouwer. He doesn't always score, but when he does, it's pretty. I spend a good minute staring at this play, stunned, before I realize we have scored, because I did not think an actual goal would ever happen again.

There is a brief unbelievable high, but it lasts for about thirty seconds, game time.

 

Terrible things happen.

Things that, I feel, are undeserved for such generally good and righteous human beings as the Washington Capitals. They pay their taxes. They build playgrounds for small children. I feel certain they would help old ladies across the street if they were presented with the opportunity.

But it is not enough. Apparently we have to be defensively responsible, too, and sometimes we have trouble with this concept.

Desolation.

Regardless--GLORIOUS MOTHERFUCKER AWARD:

This guy. Wish we could have won that one for him, he had a hell of a game.

There is probably something to be said for the fact that there were 55 awesome minutes of the game and only 5 bad ones--but they were pretty fucking bad. I still feel with all my heart and soul that we should have won that game, and we did not. Worst. 

Sooner or later we will learn to hold a lead. It will happen. I believe. Lighters in the air etc.

Jets Thursday. Pack your winter coats.

Let's go Caps.