"Hell may have no fury like a woman scorned but heaven hath no sweetness like a sports fan vindicated." - Samcat

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Tedy Bruschi Does Not Sleep. He Waits.*

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*Title stolen from some wondrous thing Annette found on the internet and posted on the Surviving Grady Message Board. I'll keep searching for the original link.

My personal favorites include: "In an average living room there are 1,242 objects Tedy Bruschi could use to kill you, including the room itself," "Tedy Bruschi has yet to get a Jeopardy question wrong. Jesus has missed two," and most especially, "Crop circles are Tedy's way of telling the world that sometimes corn needs to lie the **** down."

Ah the internet. It never ceases to amaze and delight/terrify me.

And speaking of football...so it's Broncos, eh? All right then. Truth be told, I was a bit torn on Sunday when choosing my rooting interest. Because y'all know how I feel about the Steelers. Namely, I don't like them. I don't like them one bit. But, as Marianne reasoned, if we ("we" being "the Patriots") had to play the Broncos in the next round and we lost, we'd be upset, but not homicidal. If we had to play and potentially lose to the Colts, well, I'm'a kill someone is what I'm saying.

And it's entirely possible that Kimo von Olhoffen can pull a Palmer and roll over Peyton Manning's leg. Which, ouch. But I think I'm gonna have to cheer for the Steelers this weekend. I know, I know, I feel dirty just typing it. But the thing is, my hatred for the Steelers is long and slow burning, but my hatred for the Colts? Akin to that of the white, hot passion of a thousand exploding suns. I'm just sayin.'

Of course, this is all null and void if we don't get past the Broncos. Down with equine-themed teams! I'm not entirely sold on Jake Plummer's newfound ability to avoid interceptions and earn himself the name Jake "Big Game" Plummer, and, well, I have trouble taking a guy seriously who looks like he's auditioning for the lead role in
Boogie Nights 2, Feathered Mullets Are All The Rage by way of Jim Morrison's laundry hamper. Boy has a pair of distressed leather pants or two in his closet is what I'm sayin'. But we shall see what we shall see.

It's been said a million times over the past few weeks but that doesn't make it any less true. The Patriots team playing now is not the same Patriots team that started this season. And until they show otherwise, I've got all my faith in them.

In the time between playoff games, I've been attempting to keep myself busy with hockey (because I swear that if I read ONE MORE "Manny wants to be traded...no he doesn't" headline, I'm going to start taking hostages). But the thing is, the Bruins? Turns out, not so good. I went to the game last night with the hopes of seeing Jumbo Joe's triumphant return to the Garden version 2.0. (Though it's awfully hard to look properly "triumphant" while sporting teal). But I entered the building at approximately the same time Thornton exited it after getting called for a major hitting from behind penalty on hapless Bruins' defenseman Hal Gill. Gill crumpled to the ice and didn't get up. He grabbed his shoulder and flopped around like a hooked fish. And the crowd? The crowd cheered. These aren't good times in Bruins land, people. Not good times at all.

Gill was finally helped off the ice and word began to spread once we collectively realized that Thornton hadn't returned for another shift after his penalty had expired. "He got kicked out," someone yelled. "Intent to injure," someone else added. And then, from a few rows over, "Gill's got a broken collarbone." I called my brother between periods and told him what had happened. "Thornton drilled Gill from behind and now, apparently, Gill's got a broken collarbone." (Turns out, according to today's Globe, it's actually a pinched nerve.) My brother, never a fan of Gill's, snorted derisively, "See? Joe's still doing the team favors."

And this is to say nothing of Andrew Raycroft's, shall we say, "lackluster" performance. After the fifth goal, the crowd started chanting, "We Want Thomas! We Want Thomas!" Namely, they were calling for Tim Thomas, our third string goalie (Hannu is still hurt and was therefore unavailable) to replace Raycroft. Yup, the fans were calling for a minor league goalie to replace the defending Calder Cup winner. My, how the mighty have fallen. Of course, by that time (5-1 Sharks in the 2nd), it was too late to really stop the bleeding. But the change in goaltenders did lead to a rather graphic, yet remarkably apt discussion on the part of Amy, myself and Marianne.

Amy, who'd never been to a hockey game before, observed, "Raycroft is uh, not very good, huh?"

"No," Marianne said, "No, he is not."

"And he only has one job," Amy added. "I mean, he doesn't have to score goals or anything."

"No," I said, "But they call goalies 'the last line of defense.'"

"Huh," Amy said, mulling it over. "So the goalie is kind of the condom of the hockey team."

Marianne and I burst out laughing.

"Actually," I said, "that's quite an astute observation."

Marianne added, "And, like with condoms, you don't want to fuck around with dependability and effectiveness of goalies."

"And Raycroft is not dependable or effective," I said.

"So what you're saying," Marianne added, "Is that Hannu is like the Trojan Magnum of goalies and Raycroft is, I don't know, the inflated sheep's bladder."

"This is what I'm saying, yes," I said.

"Huh," Amy said.

I paused for a second to consider as the Sharks scored yet another goal, "I miss Hannu."