Sens at Land’s End

I don’t quite know how to feel about yesterday’s win. On the one hand, the Sens played extremely well, and even seemed to be enjoying themselves. It’s nice to see them win.

On the other hand, I feel quite sure they can’t keep playing well long enough to get back into the season, and every two points is two points that might take them further away from John Tavares.

Basically, like Five for Smiting and Sens Army, I’m conflicted, somewhere between happy and sad.

But they did look good last night, didn’t they?

Today, your friends at the OBC bring you a live blog slash support group. Join us, and we can all hold hands and talk about our feelings.

As usual on Saturdays when the Sens game is carried by the Ottawa CBC only, I was unable to get this game on Centre Ice. (There is mass confusion at the cable company about how the CBC works because my cable company is staffed by idiots.) I did watch the online stream, though, so I got to see the tiny little grainy Sens lose another game despite a pretty good performance by Brian Elliott in goal. The road trip is over, so they get to add being booed by their home fans to the list of indignities they’ve suffered this season, or they could add it if it was the first time it had happened I guess. At least Wade Redden didn’t score.

The other day I said I might have to start writing little stories about the team to make myself feel better because their reality is just so bleak. In keeping with that, here is a Sens fan bedtime story for you to read before you cry yourself to sleep tonight.

The Backyard Rink

Alfie finished clearing the snow off Shean Donovan’s backyard rink and placed the shovel by the garage. “Dono,” he called, “I’m done.”

Donovan poked his head out the back door to survey his captain’s handiwork and gave a thumbs up.

“Guess you’ve learned never to bet against Canada, eh?” he teased.

“Yeah,” replied Alfie, with a wan smile. “I guess you’re right.”

Driving home, Alfie felt a pang of sadness at the fate of the Swedish team. He didn’t like their diving, of course, but he was still a loyal Swede. If only they’d won, he thought it might have made him feel good about hockey again. As it was, he was so depressed he could barely stand to think about the sport he’d devoted his life to playing. Hockey did nothing but make him miserable these days.

Alfie parked the car in his driveway and stepped out into the evening gloom to survey his own snow-covered backyard rink. He thought of his young sons and how much they loved to play out there, sliding around and laughing wildly as they pretended to be their hockey heroes. Normally he loved being out there with them, too, but in his current frame of mind he almost couldn’t bear the idea of spending his days off on skates. It was about as appealing as the thought of losing to the Islanders again.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I should probably shovel the rink,” he thought. “The boys will want it tomorrow.”

Alfie felt exhausted almost as soon as he started clearing the snow. Though he hated to admit it, he didn’t have the energy of his younger self anymore. He had always been able to ignore the countless little aches and pains he built up at work, but lately that was getting harder. He felt all the bumps and bruises dragging him down, making it more and more difficult to keep going. He was finally getting older, and as he worked he thought that he felt every single one of his 36 years.

Suddenly, his head was spinning. His legs were weak, and he swayed back and forth.

“Oh,” he groaned, “no.”

When he fell, he landed flat on his back in the snowbank next to the ice.

*   *   *

It was the noise that revived him. He could hear the swish of skates on ice, the thwack of stick on puck, and the happy shouts of the men’s voices as they played. When he opened his eyes, Alfie saw the dark shapes of several hockey players, lit only by the moon and the porch lamp. They were in their street clothes, playing with no nets or goalies: just the men, their sticks, and a puck, with piles of snow marking the goals.

A great cheer went up from the players as one of them scored, and he heard them calling to him.

“Alfie! Come on, man!”

“Yeah, enough resting! We’re getting killed out here without you!”

He lifted his head. “Fish? Deano?”

Someone skated over to where he lay. “Dude,” the skater said. “You’re freaking me out.” He giggled, and offered Alfie a hand up. Alfie took Spezz’s hand and let himself be pulled upright. When he stood, he realized he had his skates on.

Another player skated over, and Alfie saw that this was his old friend and oldest teammate Chris Phillips. Philly looked concerned. “Are you okay?” he asked. “You didn’t hurt yourself did you?”

“No,” said Alfie, wondering how hard he’d hit his head. “I’m fine … I think?” And, miraculously, it was true: all his aches and pains were gone. In fact, he felt better than he had in months.

Anton Volchenkov glided out of the shadows. “You play, or what? Maybe too tired, or” — he paused dramatically — “maybe too old.”

“Yeah, old man.” This was the voice of Chris Neil. Alfie looked around, his eyes still adjusting to the dark, and spotted Neiler’s toothless grin. “Are we too fast for you?”

Alfie heard friendly laughter from all the players at this comment. His vision finally cleared, and he saw the entire group. Dono, Heater, and Kells were the other players on the ice. All of them were smiling, looking happy and relaxed, their cheeks rosy from the cold. Neiler was playing with the puck.

Alfie raised an eyebrow. Determined, he bent down to pick up the stick at his feet and before anyone could react he’d stolen the puck away and sped off down the ice. A-Train tried to follow, but Alfie was easily past him. His teammates whooped as he faked out the imaginary goaltender with a ridiculous deke and scored a pretty goal.

“Old, you say!” he shouted, to a round of applause from the guys. He skated back towards them feeling young and weirdly light, as though all the expectations and stresses he’d been carrying for the Senators had been blown off his back by the wind as he skated.

They played for hours.

*   *   *

“Daniel!” he heard his wife, Bibbi, shouting. “What are you doing? Are you alright?”

He opened his eyes and knew he’d been dreaming. “Yes,” he answered. “I’m okay.”

Alfie sighed, and slowly lifted himself off the snow, once again dealing with his nagging injuries. Only a few minutes had passed since he fell, he guessed, and there was nothing to do but keep shovelling.

The End.

Craig Hartsburg blamed the Sens’ most recent loss on mistakes by Daniel Alfredsson and Jason Spezza that led to Boston goals in the third period, and Alfie agreed:

“Those guys cost us the game,” said Hartsburg. “You try to trust your good players and those guys cost us the game.”

…

“That’s an understatement. It’s an awful feeling for everybody because this is a game that can get us going,” said Alfredsson. “We’re playing a really good team and we didn’t start very well, but we battled back to tie. I make one move and try to make another and they score the winner.

“It’s my fault. I’m trying to do too much. It was awful because everybody worked really hard and battled.”

Alfie … you’re killing me here. First there’s the pain of seeing the captain struggle on the ice. That is followed up with the pain of hearing him blame himself for everything. Throw in the terribly sad shots of the players sitting on the bench looking despondent after the team has found a new way to blow it — now an every-game occurrence — and the Sens’ season is turning into a tearjerker right up there with Terms of Endearment.

Does anyone remember when hockey was fun? No? I’m going to have to start writing uplifting stories (fictional, obviously) about the team to make myself feel better.

Meanwhile, Brian Elliott has been called up from Binghamton. Presumably management felt he was having too much fun down there. Part of me wants to believe this means whatshisface is being waived, but the rest of me feels that would be too good to be true.

Jarkko Ruutu has been suspended two games for biting the Sabres’ Andrew Peters. I don’t know about you, but if Andrew Peters stuck his hand in my face like that, I’d probably bite him too. Perhaps this makes me a bad person.

Matt Carkner has been recalled from Binghamton to fill Ruutu’s spot in the lineup.

Ruutu’s antics, shockingly, have the Sens being covered by Sportsnet Pacific on the night when the bald Swedish messiah rides in on his white horse to … do whatever he’s going to do to elevate the Canucks to a new level, I guess, or possibly just cause name confusion with the Sedin twins.

The west coast is also taking an interest in the potential management shakeup in Ottawa. Eugene Melnyk says it’s not happening … sort of … or does he? It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.

I’m left with several nagging questions. Will I wake tomorrow to find Pat Quinn and Bob Nicholson in charge? Or might I instead find Quinn in Pittsburgh? Do the Sens have a chance of beating the Bruins tomorrow? Well, maybe that one’s not so hard to answer.

But now I’ve really got to go: a chorus of boos informs me that Sundin has just set foot on the ice. I don’t want to miss his first shift!

I have reached a sort of zen state with the Sens this season where I’m not bothered about whether they win or lose. I’d like to see them admit that this season is a bust and just focus on the future. That way there’d be no pressure on any of the players due to expectations that are obviously unrealistic and they might look a little bit less miserable. I simply can’t take any more cameras panning down the bench to show an entire team looking on the verge of tears. I am okay with the fact that wins will be few and far between for the rest of this season, but it’ll be much easier to deal with it once we all accept that this is the way it’s going to be.

Also, I must confess that the shot of John Tavares and Erik Karlsson, who were respectively named the best forward and best defenceman of the tournament, getting their awards after the gold medal game at the World Juniors last night gave me a tingly feeling and visions of those two reunited on the same ice in a few years’ time, this time playing for the same side and hoisting a rather larger trophy.

This is why I’m switching my cheer from “Go Sens go!” to “Suck Sens suck!” I know you can do it! Embrace the suckiness. It’s okay. I promise: it’ll be okay.

So, instead of writing about the game (which I honestly didn’t pay that much attention to), I present another instalment of Toothless Tuesday, a feature analysing the relative attractiveness of hockey players with and without their teeth. I debuted this feature three months ago and then never followed up, though I had planned to make it a regular thing. I’m not sure what can possibly have inspired me to do a post on the subject of teeth today, or why it seemed so appropriate to focus on Mike Fisher’s pretty pearly whites. It just came to me, I guess. Call it a sudden inspiration.

Toothless Tuesday, Exhibit B: Mike Fisher

Left: Mike Fisher. Right: Fisher’s long lost twin brother Bubba, who was raised in the backwoods of Alabama.

Tooth Story: Somewhat incredibly given his style of play, Fisher had all his teeth until December 12, 2007. It was that fateful night, during what may have been the Sens’ best game of the 2007-2008 season, that Fisher took on Carolina’s Scott Walker in a fight after Walker got unacceptably close to the Sens’ goalie and Fisher jumped in to defend his teammate. Walker headbutted Fisher, and that was all she wrote for Fisher’s front tooth.

Dentalysis: My mother loves Mike Fisher — I mean really loves him — and when I showed her the picture of him sans-tooth, she said it was the saddest thing she’d ever seen. There may have been wailing involved. Fisher too seemed quite annoyed by the loss of his tooth and I can see why. With the tooth, he’s the super clean cut prom king guy you want to take home to mom (or in my case, he’s the guy mom wants to bring home). Even with a few days’ stubble or a silly biker moustache, he’s still smokin’ hot yet totally non-threatening. Without the tooth it’s an entirely different story: he becomes the scary redneck guy who’s got a rifle in the back of his pickup truck, which you don’t get into for fear of waking up later to find yourself strung up in his basement.

Verdict: That is one false tooth that should never come out. Except maybe on Halloween.