Abel to Yzerman
by IwoCPO on 04/16/10 at 12:23 PM ET
What to do, what to do. Wings lose a playoff game. Just one. Just one, itty, bitty widdle round 1 opener and the options are truly endless. I could have taken a realistic, dispassionate point of view and typed out a level-headed analysis, describing in great detail my opinions that they (the Detroit Red Wings) were too soft on the puck, too loose on the PK, etcetera, etc.
I took the Houlihan route, which is to avoid everything for 24 hours. Don’t like it, suck it. It’s what I do. Unlike a few, and I do mean a very few, of you…I don’t handle playoff defeats well. And if you think I’m exaggerating, I’m not. Here are some of the things that happen, especially when the Wings not only lose—but lose as a result of an ass-raping by Gary’s officials.
It goes like this:
—I don’t sleep. I can’t. I try to take deep breaths and do so some sort of Denver-like meditation or relaxation thing, but it never works. I just can’t get the image out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about a goal called back, a puck in the net, 19 seconds of no-call while Pittsburgh has too many men on the ice. Or a motherfuching stick blade carving up Nick Lidstrom while four officials claim ignorance in front of their troll-daddy ball-in-the-mouth leather clad dwarf master sitting in the stands wearing a diaper, sucking on a twizzle stick and pointing at himself when his image appears on the JOBING big screen while he holds up a picture of his new back tattoo which is a beautiful rendition of some sick fantasy of his that includes him, David Stern and KD Lang wearing an 87 jersey.
—I’ll try and read but I’ll only make it through a few sentences before my mind starts to wander and I begin to imagine what it would be like if the Wings lost a playoff game but didn’t get violated in the process. Tell me this isn’t the worst part. Tell me this isn’t how we live. Ready? As soon as it was painfully, disgustingly, pervertedly clear that Fiddler or whatever Coyote player it was who stuck his stick blade in Lidstrom’s mouth and rattled it around in there for around 19 seconds, wasn’t going to be given a penalty? Here’s what you thought. And I know you did, because we’re all the same here. You thought, “motherfucher…I’m going to have to deal with this torment. We’re going to get screwed again and it will be the most frustrating experience of my life because that double minor was so fuching obvious but nobody’s doing anything about it. Nothing. And here come the lackeys, the Versus guys laughing about the no call…and then nothing. No further mention as if it wasn’t important. Holy mother of fuch just take that frigging fork and twist it in my eyeball but pass me a shot first. And another.” There is nothing worse anywhere in the whole wide world or anywhere else. Nothing compares to an obvious officiating shaft job that nobody can correct, but that costs your team…screw YOUR team, that costs MY team…a playoff game. Once again, if I was a Sabre fan…I’d be in an asylum now. Seriously.
—The next day passes with an endless quest for confrontation. Please, please, please. Let me find anyone who will lip off about something mundane, something unrelated to hockey. Because if they do, I’ll let loose some sort of Cape Fear like stream of babble that will include maybe 3 verbs out of 150 or 200 words. Not unlike this post.
—The “next game” is the cure-all. But up to that point I will have convinced myself the Wings are going to get swept and that it will be illegal for me to be happy ever again. Yesterday at this time, if you’d told me that the rest of the series had been played in the twelve hours since Game 1 ended and that 2, 3 and 4 all ended in OT losses. I would have thanked you for saving me the pain of having to watch. And I would have believed you. But that goes away as the “next game” crawls closer.
—It was today, 40 hours later, that I dared search out the diggers. Mainly to make sure there are no injuries. I don’t need to see the quotes or opinions yet, thanks. I have my own. I see that Home Keys is in there tonite and I see headlines that tell me my Uncle Mike is confident. That’s nice. But part of me also remembers that he’s been troublingly calm on some of the worst nights of my life. On those nights when it would have helped me to see Uncle Mike frothing, he’s been composed and that’s freaked me out. So his confidence after a loss doesn’t do it for me anymore.
—At some point today, the mindset will change. It always does the day of “the next game.” Around noon, I’ll be optimistic. 1500 will roll around and I’ll be cocky. 1800 and I’ll be considering how nice it will be to head back to Detroit with a split and seriously not imagining any other scenario. By 1900 PST I’ll be four beers down and all will be well. I’ll be back in the Hasek with the only people who really understand what this shitpile of an emotional trainwreck we call the playoffs is really all about.
If you’re not a hockey fan, and I mean a true, demented, life-altering, character-defining, domestically challenged fan of one particular team, a team that literally dictates your moods and your daily routine for two consecutive months every year? Well if that doesn’t define you then you stopped reading this one long ago. But if it does, you understand.
Good place to close? Sure. You think? Wrong bitch. I’m still pissed. Why?
“The Linesman may stop play and report what he witnessed to the Referees when: (viii) Double-minor penalty when it is apparent that an injury has resulted from a high-stick that has gone undetected by the Referees.”
All four of ‘em missed it, eh? Riggghhhhtttt. Suck it NHL. Seriously. A pisspot league run by a little bitch of a whining child with fetishes we can’t even discuss here. Suck it because no matter how many times you turn a blind eye to the most obvious call in the book, we’re still bringing home #12.
See you tonite.
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Welcome to Abel to Yzerman, a Red Wing blog since 1977. No other site on the internet has better-researched, fact-laden and better prepared discussions than A2Y. Re-phrase: we do little research, find facts and stats highly overrated and claim little to no preparation. There are 19 readers of A2Y. No more, no less. All of them, except maybe one, are juvenile in nature. Reminding them of that in the comment section will only encourage them to prove that. Your suggestions and critiques are welcome: firstname.lastname@example.org