Dallas 1 @ 4 Detroit

I watched this game armed with liquor, just in case the Wings decided to make Saturday's game look like a fluke, so forgive me if this recap is a little disjointed. Actually, to hell with you. If you're reading this blog, you deserve a disjointed review. *hiccup*

• OMG (irony intended) we scored first! Let me squeal like a fourteen year old baptist (of either sex) at a Jonas Brothers concert
• Once again, aside from Zetterberg (and one notable moment for Datsyuk) the 3rd and 4th lines remained the most noticeable. I leave the conclusions drawn from that to be...concluded...by, you know, others.
• Per the above, take that for us not having the same depth on this year's roster, bitches
• First few minutes of the 2nd period had me pounding a few ounces of alcohol, but thankfully things settled down toward the middle and cruised toward the 2nd intermission. I always appreciate that
• Seriously, though, can we make a few PPs count now and then?
• I recently commented on a superior blog that I didn't think we should convert to a team full of Darren Helms, should cloning become a practical choice. However, let me amend that by saying that a special team of penalty killing Helmers? I could live with that.
• Zetterberg remains the hardest working man on ice. He's like Helm, only with a better shot.
• Um, since I seem to be on a roll here, is Pasha getter slower on his skates, or is it just that watching Helm rocket past the rest of the squad, the opposition, Apolo Ohno, and Dan Jansen makes everyone else look slower?
• Dear Lord, I'm all over Todd Bertuzzi. I will take back everything I've said about him the past couple of weeks if he just keeps playing like tonight. That 3rd period goal? Sweet!
• I have to say it always surprises me seeing Zetterberg in the Box. He's just so...Swedishly nice that i don't expect him to take penalties
• It freaks me out a little when I have to say things like "Jimmy Howard looked solid"
• Mickey and Ken's in-depth debate of skate guards...were they even listening to themselves or were they as bored and baffled by that conversation as I was?
• Ericsson really is looking better. I haven't seen him trip over his own gigantic feet in, like, a couple of games now
• Meech? Not sucking. Reminds me that he was on the '08 championship team.

So, those were the biggies. Or the made-it-through-the-alcohol-haze-ies. Hope y'all enjoyed the game. I know I always enjoy the wins. Sure beats the alternative.

Faith Is Good. Winning is Better.

I'm weak. I admit it. I turned off the game after the first period and wallowed in liquor and DVDs and house guests last night. I just couldn't face the prospect of watching another debacle. So of course, I missed the come back.

My First Reaction: SHIT!!! Ah, well. Serves me right.
My Second Reaction: Clearly, they won because I didn't watch.
Now I'm gonna have to miss all the rest of the games!

I'm not sure either is correct (though I lean more toward the first...at least, intellectually I do; what superstition tells me is another matter), but I was kinda pissed that I had to resort to scouring the net and sitting through the idiocy of most of the NHL On the Fly broadcast in order to see the highlights. Still, that tic-tac-toe play that Drapes made count and that tying goal by Zetterberg were things of beauty, and it pains me to have missed them live.

But really, it didn't much matter to me when or how the goals went in, or who put them there. I'm just thankful they didn't get waved off. Now I can maybe sleep nights again.

Though I do have to give props to Jimmy Howard. For a kid who made me shake in my boots a few short weeks ago, he's getting to the point where I no longer clench my sphincter every time I see him in net. So, good for you, Jimmah!

Let's try to keep this up tomorrow when Dallas comes to town.

And the Angels Wept

I missed the puck drop due to the need to take my insane 100 lb. puppy to the dog park before the exuberance of one of his "desperate for exercise" leaps onto the sofa resulted in a broken rib for me. When I turned the game on at minute 5 and saw the score was already one-nothing, I should have just turned it off and saved myself the heartache. But then my deep-seated sense of masochism kicked in.

Here are my observations. May the Hockey Gods have mercy on my soul. (Please.)

• The goal with Cleary screening Kiprusoff. WTF? How is screening the goalie interference? The only thing interfered with on that goal was my ability to maintain my normally low blood pressure. That had the have been the dumbest call since...well, since Brad May's disallowed goal nine days ago.
• Speaking of which, will any of our goals ever count again? I'm just asking, because after being shut out on Wednesday, it left me a mite perturbed to see two of our goals waved off in one game. Call me kooky.
• I try not to expect unreasonable perfection from the Red Wings; I only want a reasonable amount of perfection. Like the kind involved in not passing the puck to no one. Seriously. Is that so much to ask? Can we try only passing the puck to another player? Better yet, can we try only passing to a player on our own team? Please?
• As a corollary to the above, can we try not to create camera shots that leave me watching a screen full of opposing team players without a single Wings sweater in sight? That would be nice. As would actually having someone close enough to the opponents' net to catch a rebound now and then.
  

Those were my observations through period two. By period three, I stopped observing much of anything other than the insides of my eyelids as I sat on my sofa alternately weeping/gnashing my teeth and rocking myself back and forth to the tune of the old folks songs my mother used to sing me to sleep with.

The thing is, I have faith in this team, gods help me. I really do. They're too good for me not to have faith. Eventually this spiral of despair and shame in which we seem trapped with end. I'd just really like it to be soon.

Like, last month.

Giving Thanks

On this American holiday about the death of a culture at the hands of brutal oppression and Thanksgiving, I have only one thing to say: I'm thankful there's no game today.

I have neither the emotional nor the psychic energy to say a thing about last night's game. Well, except that all those who told us that goal tending was the thing we'd have to worry about this year...um, not so much. Our goal tending is just fine; it's everything else that's fallen apart. I actually didn't watch the entire game, because I didn't have the heart. Also I was trying to evict some invading mice from my garage. Sigh. I'm having a really rough week.

Anyway, I hope all you Americans have a Happy Thanksgiving. Maybe if we all wish really hard over the turkey wishbones in the nation, we'll win a game tomorrow.

Or, you know, eventually.

Oy to the Vey

I've been sleeping a lot lately. TV commercials would have me believe that this is a sign of chronic depression and that I should immediately begin taking a medication that will cause me to become suicidal in order to combat my symptoms, but I know the truth. The Wings are just tiring me the faux* out.

I missed last night's game, since while I spend a ba-jillion dollars on DirecTV and Center Ice, I don't have the "privilege" of watching those games aired on Versus, aka GBVTV (Gary Bettman's Vanity TeleVision). Really, the main reason this ticked me off was because I really wanted to see Mac lose his broadcasting cherry, but it annoyed me to miss the game. At least until I saw the results online. Honestly, I should have known. The Versus Curse means that the Wings must lose any and all games aired on that network, but sometimes I'm a naive little optimist. What can I say?

Missing the game means I really have no right to comment on anyone's play, but when has that ever stopped me? I feel compelled...Nay, I feel morally obligated to echo the observations of so many other, superior, bloggers--Todd Bertuzzi is making Pavel Datsyuk look like an average player, and for that, he must die.

Seriously, I'm a supporter of Uncle Mike for the most part. I think he's doing his job, and making a decent effort at keeping our asses kicked this season in an attempt to get us to realize that we're going to have to WORK for our successes this year. But what the hell was he smoking when he decided to put Bertuzzi on that top line? Because I'm starting to think he nipped it from a private stash normally reserved for NHL referees and people who think Rosby is the next Gretzky.

(Excuse me for a minute. Typing those names so close together just made me throw up in my mouth.)

Bert's gotta move. He's becoming a frickin' millstone around Pasha's neck. I won't go so far as to say he needs to be dropped altogether (I try not to ever be dumb enough to say Kenny Holland could make an actual mistake), because in spite of general idiocy, he has generated some chances and hasn't looked like a stooge in every single minute he's been on the ice. But he needs to come off that line before bloggers like me start staging hang-ins, in which we show up at the games and in a coordinated ballet of synchronized movements, jump off the over-tunnel railings with skate laces tied around our necks. I'd rather see fucking Maltby on that first line, and if that doesn't speak of my desperation, I don't know what would.

Anyway, I know the chances of me getting my wish are slim, but I need to put it out there, on the off chance that the Hockey Gods might be in a benevolent mood.

Hey, a fan can dream.




*If this makes no sense to you, go read this right now. Actually, do that anyway. It's a better blog than this and always will be.

Dallas Stars @ Detroit Red Wings

It's Dallas tonight. Currently they're only 1 pt behind us in the conference, so here's to another 2 pts of cushion. Not that I want to count my chickens or anything (personally, I'm not a big fan of poultry that hasn't been breaded, seasoned, and fried), but I've got my fingers crossed for this one. I can't say that I ever take a Wings loss well, but something inside me shrivels and weeps whenever we drop one to a team from a southern state. In the alternate dimension where I rule the universe, no city without an average of two snowfalls per winter may host a professional hockey team. Originally, it was no city south of the 42nd parallel, but it's been argued that might be a titch too restrictive. I don't get that.

Anyway, puck drop is at 7:30 eastern. I might be able to catch the first few minutes of the 1st period, but I'll have to DVR the rest while I head out to a concert. Great Big Sea is playing tonight, and I am so all over that, especially since tonight, every time they play an Irish tune, I'll dedicate it in my head to Shanny.

Go Wings!!!

Wings 7 - Ducks 4

Am I the only one who sees the telecast come back from the period break and holds my breath waiting to see which Wings will re-emerge from the dressing room? This split personality thing is getting crazy. I was hoping that the last two games against Columbus and Vancouver were the signal that we'd shaken off the rough start to the season and were ready to buckle down and play 60-minutes a night. Ah, the naivete! Clearly, while this team is more than capable of posting consecutive 60-minute efforts, they'd rather fuck with my head and follow up a solid first with a cringe inducing second (I really hope someone smacked Jonathan Ericsson upside the head after that pass. You know which one.) and a third that alternates between brilliance and chaos.

I'm tough, though. I can take it. We have to be honest here. None of us should have expected us to skate out the door on October 3rd looking equal to the teams of the last two seasons. Too much changed over the summer for that. Personally, I feel that this year's team is packed with more talent that last year's (deserters be damned) and easily the equal of the mighty 2008s. But the changes meant that we'd need to get to know each other, take some time to work out the kinks, develop the chemistry, and get into the groove. I think we've done that, much to the chagrin of all the naysayers who've spent the last 5 months or so predicting that our time is past.



Past, my ass.