Let me first say that there is absolutely nothing wrong with professional athletes letting loose, in almost any way they see fit, after putting in an extraordinary amount of effort and sacrifice prior to suffering a painstaking end to their season. Any fan that disagrees and think that players should be holed up in dark bedrooms wrapped in a thick cloak of humiliation and spending all summer sweating out their shame is an insufferable asshole. That's especially true when those players came within a couple unfortunate bounces of securing the most physically demanding trophy in all of sports. That being said, with the lone exception being any or all Stanley Cup Champions, these things can also be pretty uniformly said... A 31-year-old man dancing on top of a bar is a bad look. A 31-year-old man with a soul patch dancing on top of a bar is a worse look. A 31-year-old man with a soul patch dancing on top of a bar topless is an even worser look. A 31-year-old man with a soul patch dancing on top of a bar topless while wearing ski goggles is the worst of looks. Yet, none of things instances, in and of themselves, quite compare to a 31-year-old man with a soul patch dancing on top of a bar topless while wearing ski goggles in case of errant champagne during a celebration of second place in representation of a city that is entirely up its own ass in accepting nothing less than first. The only thing that compares to that, in terms of being objectively embarrassing, is a laughably untimely line change that played a prominent role in a team being left to tearfully watch history made on their home ice...
Again, to be very clear, Brad Marchand has every right to singlehandedly compromise the stick-up-the-ass superiority complex on Boston sports' by giving the entire internet second-hand douche chills. I just want to clarify that that is exactly what he did with a painfully cringeworthy display, fitting of a frat brother who forgot he graduated, that proved he's just as unabashedly unlikable off the ice as he is on it. Someone should call pest control because I can't be the only one whose skin legitimately crawled while watching a grown ass man so obnoxiously revel in being a runner-up.
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To be honest, I'm struggling for the words. The timing on a line change that all-too-perfectly resembled a rat choosing flight after having the brightest of lights turned directly on it while its mind was in a gutter was so mystifyingly stupid that I'm still damn near speechless. The most acceptable excuse for Brad Marchand scurrying off the ice as one of the last men back after whiffing defensively is that he thought periods had been changed to 19 minutes and 50 seconds in length. Unfortunately, he's probably going to have to do better than that to explain the otherwise inexplicable to the segment of the Bruins' fanbase that doesn't blindly blame Tuukka Rask (who was one win away from a Conn Smythe trophy, mind you) whenever they drunkenly dribble a little pee on their own pants. Now, to say Brad Marchand is guilty of losing the entirety of a Game 7 with one lazy lack of awareness would quite obviously be false. However, to say that going down two downright deflating goals with mere seconds remaining in a period that the Bruins completed dominated otherwise against a road warrior of a opponent whose goaltender already successful stonewalled their best shot is an inglorious gut punch couldn't possibly be more truthful. There was still a ton of time left in the game, but the Bruins' odds of winning the Stanley Cup were dealt such a sperm-stunning kick to the crotch by an insurance goal that the league's biggest lover of low blows almost had to be complicit in it. Combine that with yet another no-show from a top line that basically bottomed-out offensively all series, and 'The Pest' was predominantly a pain in his own team's ass. Of course, the Blues deserve a ton of credit for exterminating the impact of him and his linemates with a system that could suffocate even the most relentless rodent, but in playing 'Gloria' there's no more fitting undertone than the tearful face of failure belonging to Brad Marchand. After all, it was his familiar lack of focus that eternally altered a game that was well within reach... — ℳatt (@matttomic) June 13, 2019
Assuming you aren't the executive whose confidence in the team he assembled was unwavering as they went through the type of rough stretch that has driven plenty of resilient rich men to the bottom of the bottle, or the head coach that took over when the things were at their bumpiest in helping to smooth a road to relevance, or any of the players who believed in one another as they battled against near inevitable odds to make history, you can't possibly feel more vindicated than Scott Berry currently does. As sports' fans, we often look like unhinged idiots to the outside world in deriving a second-hand sense of either failure or accomplishment from the outcome of games we couldn't be further from factoring into, as though paying for tickets or memorabilia grants us some unofficial role within the organization. That realization is a pretty harsh one when you think about it, but it's one that Scott Berry can now comfortably avoid after putting his money where his mouth was in refusing to hedge on what was a bottom-feeder of a Blues' team that hadn't won a title in its 52-year existence and having it pay huge dividends. The phrase "ultimate fan experience" gets tossed around a lot. However, you could have been sitting on Jake Allen's lap last night and you wouldn't have felt more a part of the actual on-ice action than someone who watched his favorite team participate in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final while knowing full well that one bad bounce could cost him six figures. In that moment, as the clock struck zero and Blues achieved the unthinkable, Scott Berry absolutely had to feel a profound sense of pride that only pales in comparison to that of those who were about to hoist the greatest trophy in all of sports after months of physical and mental anguish and sacrifice. You honestly can't put a price on that, though a cool 100K would be a damn good starting point. PK Subban Mentioned The New Jersey Devils on 'First Take', And I Guess That's a Real Headline6/11/2019
What does this mean, you ask? Well, other than that the New Jersey Devils were universally understood to be the poster boys for a strangling level of defensive dominance en route to winning three Stanley Cups between the mid-90's and early 2000's, less than absolutely nothing. In fact, I'd go as far as saying that it even being referred to as though it might have some underlying relevance to an unsourced trade rumor of some sort speaks more to the point here, which is that Devils' fans are quickly approaching the cliff towards full-blown Crazy Town if they aren't soon offered the opportunity to feel even a little bullish about the team's blue line. Ray Shero, heed these words. I'm not even sure it gets more conspiratorial than studying the semantics in reading into PK Subban making easy-to-absorb basketball analogies to an ESPN audience that is half-witted towards hockey. However, if it does then you might as well make the first promotion a tinfoil hate giveaway if no NHL-caliber defensemen are added prior to October. I can't imagine Taylor Hall would be too ecstatic about the idea of continuing to receive outlet passes off the glass after spending 30 seconds a shift chasing the puck while his defensemen chase their own tail for the foreseeable future, and if he wants out then straight jackets might have to come complimentary with season tickets. Therefore, I strongly suggest some reinforcements are made to the backend so that a throwaway mention on 'First Take' is no longer the last resort of impatient Devils' fans who are near certain their pets heads are about to start falling off.
And now, we wait. As Jack Hughes gets ready to fulfill what has been his destiny for all of...::checks calendar::...two months and Devils' fans clench their asscheeks while clutching their Taylor Hall jerseys in preparation for what better be an eventful offseason, consider this signing to be a fairly good fail safe. Second to only a blueline that, figuratively speaking, is bereft of reasons to live, I think it's a pretty universally held opinion that New Jersey should be prioritizing the collection of high-level skill to flank their soon-to-be solid center depth. Jesper Boqvist, although entirely unproven on North American ice, unquestionably fits that bill as a dynamic offensive asset regardless of what happens between now and October. Whether or not he has danced enough Swedes in developing enough physically to make the team out of camp is probably about as reliant on his performance in said camp as it is on the outside additions made prior to it. However, he makes for a highly intriguing back-up plan for a team that hasn't exactly made a habit of owning the rights to top-six level skill-sets. As of right now, it's naively optimistic to pencil Boqvist in as a second line left wing for a team whose 'Hart' wants it wants, which is to play meaningful hockey beyond April. That said, it's nice that the Devils have another offensive option at their disposal as their fans have laid witness to far less provocative worst case scenarios than the one that has them deploying a multi-Jesper attack atop their lineup.
How? Just, how? Unless the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had a mole acting in the best interests of fellow rodent Brad Marchand in order to give the Blues the maximum amount of bad juju and the Bruins some billboard material, I don't know how you possibly let this see the light of day before the long overdue Stanley Cup-inspired smiles throughout the city of St. Louis were lighting said day. I guess the short answer would be that it's easier for such a mistake to be made when your medium is slowly dying due, in part, to the same cutthroat deadlines that forced an employee or two to prematurely put together a celebration section in bad faith. Still, to not quadruple check in making sure it was under some sort of foolproof lock-and-key when working on the most time-sensitive Sports Section in the largely unrewarding 52-year history of Blues' hockey is beyond comprehension. Now, the rational person in me knows that what got published in the online special addition of a paper has no tangible effect in what later played out on the ice. The truth is that this series always had the feel of one that was destined to go seven, as beating the Boston Bruins three straight times was as unlikely a proposition as getting through a playoff round without a dumbfounding officiating controversy. Therefore, it's hardly surprising that it has done so. The irrational sports' fan in me, however, is hearing none of it as my confidence in the Blues dropped about as low as my jaw when that tweet went viral. It's somehow exponentially less surprising that this series is going the distance after a challenging of the hockey gods suddenly opened up a season-long underdog story to a narrative of eternal mockery. Hopefully the spirits got all their spite out of the way during a Game 6 that allowed the home fans very little excitement, or that embarrassing use of the internet will live on in infamy. For a team that's spent all postseason attempting to erase the misgivings of fanbase whose balls have been left bluer than their jerseys far too many times before, I hope the type of devastating cocktease that will be revisited ad nauseam by an obnoxious opponent isn't in the cards.
I don't know that people are referring to fortuitous music being played behind the unfriendly fire of inter-fanbase fisticuffs between fucking assholes when they say that sometimes there are other forces at work during sporting events. That said, it certainly felt like some sort of higher-power - perhaps even a stumbling, bumbling St. Patrick himself - summoned his sense of humor in cueing the most aggressive entrance music in wrestling history as a bald drunk with an attitude problem dripped domestic beer while dropping an unprepared antagonist. If the surroundings, circumstances, and score of that shamelessly stupid scene weren't hand selected by the hockey and/or wrestling gods themselves then that's just some...ahem...Stone Cold serendipity. We're talking about a lottery-esque level of luck manifesting itself so that over-served idiots falling all over themselves could be part of something truly magical, as opposed to solely being a part of something truly stereotypical. The unmistakable sound of glass shattering in the background was the type of stunner of a script flip that could bring Vince McMahon to his knees, even if Boston fans belligerently boozing themselves into a 5-body pileup as their over-confidence turned into anxiety was the exact opposite.
Ha! Joke's on Bruce Cassidy, and I don't mean the perpetual punchline that has been the entirely overwhelmed cast of characters (poorly) officiating the Stanley Cup playoffs. Instead, I'm referring to the joke that is the implication that one missed call, albeit an inexcusably missed call that led to an eventual game-winning goal, has made any blacker eyes that already looked like those of a raccoon after being bruised beyond belief by a postseason that's seemed destined to expose every potential defect in the NHL's product. If we're rolling with the analogy that the league is a living entity that takes a punch every time they suffer a bad look then a dead horse has nothing on the beating they've taken prior to last night. Long story short, one passed up penalty, no matter how impactful its aftermath, is a drop in the bucket of tears from teams that have far more reason to feel fucked. Now, Bruins' fans absolutely have every right to bitch, just as Bruce Cassidy has every right to do exactly what Craig Berube did earlier in the series to try to influence officiating going forward. However, let's be very clear here. During a time of the year in which referees, for better or worse, tend to let the players play, every team in every game can point out a missed 3rd period penalty that went against them. They aren't always that obvious, nor do they always lead to backbreaking goals. However, it stands to reason that's partially because most victimized teams don't stand around, dicks in hand, waiting for a whistle instead of actually playing to it. Boston may have lost by a goal that shouldn't have had the chance to come to fruition, but to say they lost because of a goal that shouldn't have had the chance to come to fruition is a very convenient way to point the finger away their best players making their only impact on the groin of the opposing goalie. The officials definitely deserve their fair share of blame for, yet again, getting exposed as incompetent, but - make no mistake - this was no hand-pass assist in overtime. With a multitude of mystifying misses, such as the like, so fresh in everyone's mind, an objectively crappy judgement call not made with plenty of time left on the clock hardly meets the high standard of abject stupidity we've seen throughout the Stanley Cup playoffs. With the incredibly controversial way this postseason has played out, we were damn near guaranteed another high-profile head-scratcher during the Final, and - has been proven time and time again throughout the last few months - this one could have been much, much, much worse.
I typically hesitate to heap praise on hockey players for playing through insane injuries, as it tends to inspire fans of a beautiful-but-barbaric game to take out their insecurities on sports that don't encourage athletes to stitch, wire, or glue themselves together and (almost literally) gut it out for glory. Therefore, as it pertains to Zdeno Chara somehow making a strong case to play in Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Final despite being without the use of his mouth, I'll just echo the motto of an infamously resilient Jackass in stating that if you're gonna be dumb then you gotta be tough. Make no broken bones about it, even thinking long and hard about taking a beating from the band of brutes along the Blues' front lines with a busted jaw is remarkably dumb. That, more than anything, means it could only be considered a possibility by someone remarkably tough. Amidst a host of other qualities - such as proud, noble, tenacious, and persistent - Big Z is undeniably tough as a veteran who led by example long before that was literally the only means of communication left at his disposal. Whether or not the Bruins' captain actually follows through in lacing them up and taking the ice in a limited role tonight is irrelevant. Even putting himself through the painstaking process of putting a helmet on and answering a line of questioning in ink is proof positive of how much this game means to someone who has accomplished more than the teammates who should be taking note of how dedicated he is to beating the Notes. Again, even trying to mumble his way into lineup Kenny from South Park-style is extremely dumb, but it's even more dedicated, and - above all else - it's a contagious type of tough. Even Though it Was Inevitable, The Taylor Hall Rumor Mill Has Started Spinning Egregiously Early6/3/2019
May 31st:
TheAthletic- This is a big summer for Taylor Hall, who has one year left on his contract with the New Jersey Devils.
There’s been healthy communication between his camp led by agent Darren Ferris and Devils GM Ray Shero, although I’m told that things have not yet progressed to the actual beginning of negotiations. So, no numbers yet. Really where things stand as of now is that Hall is contemplating his future and at some point will re-convene with Ferris to decide how they want to proceed. But I also don’t think this is a “Sign on July 1 or you’re traded” scenario. I don’t think Shero wants to get boxed in by artificial deadlines. As long as there’s a chance Hall might eventually be willing to sign an extension, I think Shero would want to keep that window open. In other words, if it means waiting until November or January to get it done, so be it. Obviously, it’s a different thing if Hall decides outright that he wants to go to the UFA market in July 2020 and lets the Devils know this summer. That probably changes things for Shero depending on the kind of trade offers he would receive. But at this hour, there’s no reason to believe Hall isn’t interested in entering negotiations. There certainly hasn’t been any indication otherwise. --------- June 3rd:
TFP- As the Devils try to convince the 2018 NHL MVP Taylor Hall to sign a long-term extension with the organization, multiple well-placed sources have told TFP the 27-year-old, as of now, is not interested in signing a new deal with the club.
Devils GM Ray Shero has had an open dialogue with Hall’s agent, Darren Ferris, but it appears that for the time being, an extension is not in the cards. Ferris declined to comment about negotiations when contacted by TFP. “Ray and I communicate regularly and to respect the process I am unable to provide you with any details,” Ferris said via text message. -------- As inevitable as it was that the uncertain future of the still reigning NHL MVP would get gratuitously beaten to death as a source of clicks leading up to the last year of his contract, I was really hoping that ruthless rumor mill would lay dormant until July 1st. Ya know, considering that's the first day Taylor Hall is actually allowed to sign any sort of extension anyway. I guess I'm not surprised that there are already two separate articles, published days apart, putting wildly different spins on a piece of news that is only newsworthy in that it's not actually news at all. I'm just a little disappointed that what's guaranteed to be a shameless search for internet attention throughout the summer and beyond has already gotten off to the type of hot start that will leave New Jersey Devils' fans in a constant state of the cold sweats. With Pierre LeBrun being an exponentially more reputable source than David Pagnotta, I'm more liable to believe his report that all is currently well between Taylor Hall and Devils' management. After all, someone who was confirmed to be wrong multiple times last summer saying that a superstar who literally can't yet sign is not yet interested in signing is only helpful if what he's trying to accomplish is grabbing the eyeballs of 30 additional fan bases. Since the following isn't exactly the look of two sides that had forgone marriage counseling and are already headed to a messy divorce, I think I'm comfortable buying into the idea that they are probably still on speaking terms a month before those talks can even turn into a contract extension...
The truth of the matter is that Taylor Hall was always going to want to see what the Devils had in store for an insanely important offseason for which they are stocked with no shortage of assets before he committed himself to the organization for the foreseeable future. The only thing that's been given the chance to happen throughout said offseason is that they lucked into an insanely talented player who has the potential to eventually take the pressure off him as another dynamic puck carrier and play driver. That doesn't guarantee a damn thing in regards to a potential long-term future in New Jersey, but I hardly think the inevitable addition of Jack Hughes hurts a recruiting pitch that is still very much in its infancy. It's obviously very possible that it's only a matter of time before Taylor Hall is traded, but the clock isn't even ticking yet. Ray Shero is just as well-aware of the need for more talent as his most impactful forward is. Both have said as much publicly while seeming nothing but understanding of one another, so can we please wait until the process of player movement begins before we start ferociously biting at the hook of every asshole fishing for online traffic with repurposed and recycled bait? Taylor Hall has been very complimentary of New Jersey and the Devils' organization. One guy with an ulterior motive shouldn't erase all that, especially when his timing couldn't make less sense.
There I was, idiotically thinking that I couldn't possibly love Taylor Hall anymore than I already did. So, you can imagine my surprise when he spoke straight to my athletically appreciative soul by jabbing a knife in the side of every hockey fan that thinks diminishing the efforts of all other athletes should be a requirement of enjoying the NHL and twisting...hard. There honestly isn't one single thing that ignites the insecurities of hockey's most overly obsessive observers quite like bringing up basketball, and the (technically still) reigning NHL MVP did just that and more by unintentionally reminding the entire internet of what's been his own league's most pressing issue for multiple decades running. For that reason, I think it would be nice if Taylor Hall offered to pay the next therapy bill for the faction of close-minded fans whose world promptly collapsed upon reading a good ole' Canadian boy's gratuitous praise of professional basketball after his experience enjoying it in a non-traditional market. Now, said issue exists, in large part, because hockey inherently isn't anywhere near as superstar-driven or individualistically encouraging as basketball. You hardly need fully functional eyesight to see the amount of extreme differences that can be easily and immediately identified between two sports that, due to a multitude of factors (some avoidable, some not), clash culturally. That's why, as can be read in the actual words that Taylor Hall oh-so-carefully chose, this wasn't some sort of attempt at an apples-to-apples comparison. Unfortunately, if you don't think it will be defensively interpreted as such then you've somehow been fortunate enough not to encounter the type of hockey fan who will stop at no amount of illogical analogizing in a nauseatingly endless effort to get you to like their sport and only their sport. What Taylor Hall essentially implied is that, though the games themselves are a matter of preference, the NBA produces a much more intriguing show with better character development than the NHL (and all other pro leagues, for that matter). That might be a difficult thing to admit during a postseason that is unequivocally the most gripping in all of sports. However, how can you argue against something so blatantly obvious that a superstar who has dedicated his entire life and livelihood to winning the Stanley Cup felt comfortable saying so on a public platform that collectively bears its claws at contrarianism? The NBA has plenty of its own flaws, but among them are not a lack of adaptability, a lack of marketability, a lack of publicized personalities, or a lack of entertainment value. I say the following as a loyal consumer of hockey above all else: If you perceive that undeniable fact to be a subtle dig at the NHL then me thinks that you, as an overly sensitive hockey fan with an inferiority complex, doth protest far too much.
Shameful. Despicable, really. The last fanbase I expected to leave overpriced suds to suffer a fate of flatness was the FUBAR'd Boston faithful, and here they are abandoning yet-to-be-sipped stragglers as if their success in sports has made them forget that there are sober assholes in Africa, or however that saying goes. Whatever happened to "win or lose, we still booze"? That used to be a motto that the entire over-served city of speech impediments could stumble behind, but now some of its most loyal inhabitants have become so spoiled that they refuse to finish beers that aren't filtered through the thrill of victory? Is that what it has come to? Samuel Adams would roll over in his goddamn grave if he witnessed such willful wastefulness and entitled alcoholism. And to think, our forefathers fought for Boston's right to drown their Irish guilt in abused substances just for said substances to be left unabused when the outcome was undesired? Ugh, makes me sicker than a Masshole who fell publicly ill in a puddle of his own Jameson-induced vomit. Now, I know it was just one single row, but if Bruins' fans as a collective can't be entrusted to leave only empties after overtime then maybe they deserve the sobering reality of Stanley Cup sorrow as they are apparently still too drunk off the Patriots' dynasty. One thing is for certain, the same can't be said of St. Louis...
Welp, give that socially unorthodox anecdote its own damn chapter in the bathroom reading of both St. Louis Blues' and Stanley Cup lore. Carl Gunnarsson, who just as easily could have been watching from a luxury suite had Vince Dunn happened to have returned to the lineup last night, remaining entirely un-phased after hitting the post so hard you'd think it slapped his mother only to figuratively show his balls to Craig Berube while their dicks were literally in hand. It's not the most aesthetically endearing visual, I suppose, but what followed was the self-fulfilling of a mid-piss prophecy that perfectly encapsulates the predictable unpredictability of a postseason during which the unexpected is to be expected. A defensive-minded role player not only scoring his first ever playoff goal to give a long-suffering franchise its first ever finals victory, but also openly envisioning himself as the overtime hero at the urinal beforehand? That's so ridiculously surreal that it's actually the most real representation of a sport whose most significant moments so often make the least amount of sense. Call it wishful thinking. Call it irrational confidence. Call it the overly hopeful desire to completely erase from his memory the painful ping of the most unforgiving of iron...
Call it whatever the hell you want. Just remember that Carl Gunnarsson called it first when he talked over simultaneous streams in speaking his odds-defying OT goal into existence as someone that refused to be denied his own scene in any potential championship DVD. He didn't just prove, once and for all, that the most brilliant ideas are born in the bathroom. He also proved that persistence is key to Stanley Cup success by...ahem...relieving himself of a pee-bound promise in heroic fashion.
As someone who is not under some illusion that booze is the only thing that kept the Washington Capitals mildly alert during their entire week long binge with Lord Stanley's Cup last summer, I really, really hope that Evgeny Kuznetsov did actually blow some lines on that fateful night. Not because I care one way or the other about him ingesting enough booger sugar to be at risk of drug-induced diabetes, but because peaking off the purest of snow is at least a reasonable excuse for an NHL player to allow himself to get videotaped appearing next in line for carefully cut narcotics. If the Capitals' forward really did just get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time amidst the wrong company then he's just a dumbass, and I think that might actually be worse than being a recreational drug user in Sin City. Honestly, when you consider how prevalent coke presumably is amongst well-to-do, predominantly white professional hockey players in their early 20's to mid-30's, only being featured next to it on a hardly candid camera while celebrating a Stanley Cup championship in Las Vegas is at least as inexcusable as merely snorting as the Romans snort, metaphorically speaking. Again, I don't give a damn what Evgeny Kuznetsov drinks, sucks, sniffs, or blows for fun. However, being that the NHL definitely cares how he comes off, you'd think common sense would tell him to do the absolute bare minimum in terms of self-preservation by not sharing a smart phone screen with the most conspicuous of controlled substances, whether he was drawing them up his nose through a $5 bill or not.
First and foremost, I'm quite certain that there isn't anything that Kaapo Kakko could prove on a pull-up bar that he didn't already prove by physically overwhelming a laundry list of NHLers in helping to will his country to an international title for a third time prior to his 19th birthday...
That being said, if we're working under the somewhat uneducated assumption that he'd have to ace every single test to claim the spot atop the Devils' draft board then going full-on Ferris Bueller in playing hooky during the most notable one remaining only stands to hurt his case. Like, if Ray Shero and the gang are sitting at 51/49 in favor of Hughes as we speak then it would take something patently ridiculous like Jack skinning his knee falling off a stationary bike, suffering from vertigo during his vertical jump, or literally choking on his tongue during the interview process for him to drop to second overall. Swinging his proverbial sword as a workout warrior might seem like a small and unnecessary feat for a man-child who spent full shifts protecting the puck like he gave birth to it during the World Championships. However, with the scale being so close to balanced, simply showing up and stepping on it could have theoretically made a difference for Kaapo Kakko. With him staying home to celebrate, it sort of feels as though not much is being left to the imagination of inquiring minds. Of course, my jaw wouldn't completely drop if the full-bodied Fin were the choice when Ray Shero takes the stage on June 21st, but my eyes would at least widen with him opting out of one last pre-draft audition. All signs were already pointing to Jack Hughes becoming a New Jersey Devil, and the absence of the near-consensus second best prospect at the combine is yet another one of them.
It would be easy to point to a 'Player of the Game' worthy performance in Team USA's most important game of the tournament, that came on the heels of an inexplicable benching against their biggest rivals, and say "I told you so" to those that can't seem to compliment Kaapo Kakko without hating on Jack Hughes. After all, in just 12+ plus minutes of ice time, he was able to cause two turnovers (he pick-pocketed Ovechkin like he was a first-time international tourist just prior to the second highlight) that created two huge goals that somehow kept competitive a game against a Russian team that's loaded with top-level NHL talent. You'd think such a showing would prove the perfect counterpoint to the Finnish manchild's eye-popping assault on every hockey twitter timeline. The truth, however, is that what we saw out of Jack Hughes yesterday was far from perfect. There were still times where the slightest bit of contact sent him swimming. There were still instances in which he looked entirely overmatched physically, as exemplified by him being left bloody after being driven into the ice like a pick on a zone entry attempt. There were still plays where a 160-170 pound kid who turned 18 less than two weeks ago looked like...well, you might want to sit down for this...a 160-170 pound kid who turned 18 less than two weeks ago...
I say that not to discredit what was an undeniable reminder of the level of talent that's had Jack Hughes atop 2019 draft boards since 2016, but rather to point out that being underdeveloped in a way that's typical of far more than most teens isn't going to stop him from having an immediate (and increasing) impact on NHL ice. Finished product, he is oh-so-shockingly not, but try to imagine what his almost unprecedentedly slick skating, Patty Kane-esque puck skills, playmaking prowess, and innate ability to have an instantaneous impact will look like once they are attached to a man who is already capable of standing out amongst full-grown superstars, despite a limited role, as a literal boy. Honestly, it shouldn't really require 20/20 foresight. A massive amount of awe and respect to Kaapo Kakko for flat-out bullying his way into the conversation for first overall as a biological anomaly, but the previous projection is what still has Jack Hughes listed as the #1 prospect by a vast majority of the experts that don't adjust their rankings after each and every highlight. If you even care enough to live beyond the moment then you need next to no imagination to foresee that projection coming to fruition, even though yesterday's moment was pretty damn impressive in and of itself. American bias aside, while it'll definitely take a decade+ to officially declare one close to can't-miss player better than the other, his final pre-draft audition reinforced the reason to believe that there's more of Jack Hughes' best still to come than that of the Finnish freak who is already fully grown beyond his years.
While it absolutely sucks to feel robbed of yet another legitimate ending to what was an otherwise awesome overtime playoff game and once again be forced to discuss suspect officiating as opposed to the quality of hockey being played, at least we can all rest easy knowing that absolutely nothing could possibly be done to right such an obvious wrong. Human error (or professional incompetence, whichever you prefer) is simply an unfortunate and irreparable part of the game, as evidenced by the fact that the NHL never abuses technology in the type of paranoid pursuit of the puck's involvement in potentially illegal activities that would make YouTube conspiracy theorists proud. It's a tough break for the Blues that Timo Meier ever-so-subtly smacked the puck to a wide open teammate, whose hesitancy alone could have told you that a hand pass was afoot, mere feet in front of the net with the grace of someone with a bee sting allergy fighting off a swarm of hornets, but what are we to do? Believe that the striped supervisors predominantly treating their most important piece equipment as purely ornamental when pivotal postseason games hang in the balance can't handle their responsibilities? In all seriousness, I'm not one of those people that wants every little on-ice infraction brought to replay. That said, if four full-time officials can't be trusted to trust their eyes, nor comprehend that flat out refusing to blow the whistle when the outcome of a game is on the line has the exact same counterproductive effect on it as doing so too often, then it stands to reason that it might be wise to enlist the help of the 6,000 HD cameras swaddling every inch of the ice like a literal security blanket. I'm going to give the benefit of the doubt to the referees working last night's game by assuming they'd get at least the first three rows of letters right on a routine eye exam. Unfortunately, that leaves cowardice and incompetence as their only explanations for the lack of a painfully obvious call. If a postseason that has been governed by Murphy's Law in attacking every vulnerability and loophole in a rulebook that reads absolutely ridiculous in retrospect with respect to replay has proven anything it's that on-ice officials are either entirely inept or completely overwhelmed. In most cases, I don't necessarily blame them as the players are bigger, faster, and stronger than ever. However, much like pucks previously out of play ending up in the back the net, if we have to worry about blatant hand passes in the slot during sudden death going undetected by eight fully functioning eyeballs then let's just lube up and throw ourselves head-first down the slippery slope of going back and re-governing entire games at 1/100th speed. If the alternative is having half the Stanley Cup storylines be deja-vu inducing cries of injustice then it's the lesser of two evils.
Surprising isn't the right word. After all, anyone sadistic enough to heartlessly kill their own precious time in cold blood using the unforgiving stretch run of a lost season as the murder weapon (::shamefully raises hand from the back of Assholes Anonymous::) could tell you that Nico Hischier began oozing the confidence he was forced to build up without the help of Taylor Hall for most of the season. Prime example #1 (of many)...
Instead, we'll go with reassuring, as watching him continue to develop into a dominant presence and a versatile playmaker for a country relying heavily on his production is proof that the increasingly common glimpses of brilliance we saw in New Jersey weren't just hopeful relative to the general hopelessness they occurred amongst. Whether it be the type of saucy passing that makes you go back for seconds, a stronger desire to shoot combined with a more persistent penchant for scoring, or just his patience and creativity with the puck that is resulting in routine highlights, they are coming more and more frequently for a kid (yes, despite being half dead in comparison to Jack Hughes, he's very much still a kid) whose potential is that of a top-flight two-way center. I would have gladly let the inevitable offensive development of Nico Hischier serve as a surprise to the rest of the league but it sure seems like the Swiss' breakout star is already over being under the radar, as he hasn't been at all shy in doing something, or more accurately, everything about it.
First and foremost, let me state that, albeit very mildly, the NHL was complicit in that unrelenting display of undisciplined idiocy. With their continued failure to do so much as stick it in the box for two minutes, the league and its officials basically left it up to those whose legs it kept gnawing at to exterminate the irredeemable rat on the Bruins' roster. Of course, encouraging vigilante justice counterproductively plays right into said rat's trap, because...get this...the same type of shit that Brad Marchand somehow continues to scurry away from scot-free is actually illegal and enforced as such when done to him or his teammates in retaliation. I promise you that the last thing I am trying to do is justify Justin Williams' mentally unstable transition from consummate captain to unhinged asshole, as repeatedly targeting Torey Krug of all people wasn't even aesthetically satisfying in its abject stupidity. However, the truth of the matter is that what we saw was an indisputable reminder that it's impossible for the players to police themselves in the playoffs without potentially pissing away games when they are of their upmost importance. Now, that being said, far and away the most guilty party here is the veteran presence who served as the worst possible example to a young team when they needed his leadership the most. As much as I want to point the finger at the referees and scoldingly state "look what you've done" for giving a mile's worth inches to an unsubtle antagonist, Justin Williams deserves to pay the entirety of the security deposit after letting Boston bully their way into his head and under his skin to make an absolute mess of an otherwise experienced hockey mind. There is absolute no excuse for doing what was previously thought impossible by making Brad Marchand look somewhat smart in actively and repeatedly becoming the perfect manifestation of his mockery...
From swallowing a "poop sandwich" during Game 2 (his words) to being left with egg over his damn face during Game 3, Justin Williams has...::chokes back vomit taste::...proved positive the impact of a pest with his inability to feed into anything other than Brad Marchand's bullshit. As much as it pains me to say it, the latter should feel self-satisfied, because he got a high character player to act entirely out of character in focusing on everything other than hockey while his season was slowly being salted away. I'll wait until his impending offseason for an apology, but - regardless of his team controlling the damage of his repetitive recklessness - Justin Williams owes the entire sport an extensive one after providing the NHL's resident rodent the exact type of power he so shamelessly, dangerously, and incessantly seeks.
Prospective. Not the type you might be liable to gain upon being released from the juvenile detention of a full face shield, but rather the type that you'd be liable to gain from the idea that Jack Hughes was literally too young to use the same equipment as every other one of his teammates at the World Championships as of yesterday. With Kaapo Kakko making a quality case to be selected first overall throughout a tournament during which his main competition for that spot has looked physically overwhelmed at times, that type of perspective is exactly what is needed to keep grounded arguments that have become more imprisoned by the moment than Jack Hughes' face was imprisoned by perpendicular bars. In judging these prospects, we're talking about actual kids here. Kids whose bodies develop at their own personal rate, with that rate often getting ratcheted up well after they are drafted as teenagers. Point being, while his speed, skill, and skating might, Jack Hughes won't look anything like he does now as little as two years down the line. That doesn't mean it's going to take him anywhere near that long to contribute at the NHL level, nor does it mean that he'll ever be as imposing a presence as the prospect he'll forever be measured against by a bunch of outspoken assholes on either side of a remorseless rivalry. It does, however, mean that what you've only seen glimpses of in three games that were played prior to him having the ability to vote and after him having played a full international tournament elsewhere is hardly what you'll be getting a couple birthdays down the line. What Jack Hughes can't be taught, but it sure as shit can be trained, so let's just light some candles, have some cake, and let the professional prognosticators do their job of analyzing hundreds of hours of game tape over a multitude of years. Seems like that might be a more rational way to go about things. Especially since the alternative is assuming they are unqualified to do so based on a handful of highlights from someone who wasn't given enough initial credit when he was forced out of both sight and mind by a record-breaking performance that proved exactly how far ahead Jack Hughes is of every other one of his teenage peers whose body isn't absurdly mature beyond its years. |
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