New York Post

Game 7 Lightning vs. Rangers: In King Henrik We Trust

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It appears I am going to write another NHL/epic/Game 7/balls in your throat/Iceman Cometh/Bleed Broadway Blueshirt piece.

Two go in. One comes out.

This should be better than Pacquiao vs. Mayweather.

And In King Henrik We Trust.

______________________

The New York Post’s Larry Brooks wrote this week that we are living through the golden age of New York Rangers hockey and he is so right. In today’s 24/7 social media news cycle, it’s hard to fully appreciate the accomplishments of any sports franchise.

Tonight, the New York Rangers have the opportunity to play for the Stanley Cup, in consecutive years, by vanquishing the Tampa Bay Lightning in Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals. The last time the Rangers achieved this feat was in the 1932 and 1933 Stanley Cup Finals, where the Rangers lost to the Maple Leafs in 1932 and returned a year later to defeat Toronto in 1933.

Rangers fans have waited 82 years for this possibility to exist again. Being a cynical and pragmatic Rangers fan, there is no chance of this happening in my lifetime again. This is akin to hitting the lottery, winning the Scripps Spelling Bee and getting hit with lightning all in the same day.

1932-33 New York Rangers 

This edition of the Rangers is a flawed team anchored by a world class goaltender, Henrik Lundqvist. New York is a quagmire of ineptitude on the power play, they lack a true #1 center and struggle to win face-offs. Martin St. Louis is an aging future Hall-of-Famer, who has little left in the tank. If The Boss, George M. Steinbrenner, was alive, he would affix Rick Nash with the moniker of Mr. March.

The Rangers survive and advance because Henrik Lundqvist is the best goaltender in the world, and with where the game is heading, he may be the last master of his position who is under 6’5″. The 6’1″ Lundqvist is a tadpole compared to Tampa Bay’s goaltender, the 6’7″ Ben Bishop (Bishop played at Maine.  Maine Sucks!). Back in 1979, the Rangers advanced to the Stanley Cup Finals behind the stellar play of John Davidson between the pipes. At 6’3″, Davidson was considered one of the game’s first big goalies. Davidson’s ’79 squad lost to Montreal and ruined a twelve-year-old’s dream of a Stanley Cup.

JD

Hockey is not my favorite sport, but I make a greater effort to watch the Rangers and the NFL’s New York Giants than I do any other sports franchises. With the creation of the NHL Network, I tape one-hour re-broadcasts and religiously watch the Rangers as they provide some amount of heat in a long New England winter.

I root for no other NHL franchise. I possess a monogamous love for the Rangers.

The New Jersey Devils are more Bada Bing. The New York Islanders have a fan base comprised of Entourage’s Eric Murphy and Joey Buttafuoco. Boston Bruins’ diehards are fat men in unfashionable goatees who believe the Big Bad Bruins style of hockey is still relevant in 2015.

There is no coquettish and sexy competitor for my attention. The Rangers are my one true love, and no Long Island Lolita will ever change that.

Hockey is a cruel sport. Outcomes can sometimes be attributed to a lucky bounce of the puck, a deflection off the boards that defies the teachings of science and logic, and a call or non-call that has all the erudition and aplomb of an Antonin Scalia Supreme Court majority ruling.The Rangers will need the hockey gods and what remains of Madison Square Garden’s ghosts to overcome a young and talented Lightning squad,

But, most importantly, the Rangers will need Mr. GQ, Henrik Lundqvist, to lock down another Game 7. Lundqvist is the best big game goalie of his generation, and the Rangers will need every bit of his skill and experience to defeat the Triplets (Young Guns), Steven Stamkos (ASSHOLE!) and former Rangers, Brian Boyle (Boston College great) and Anton Stralman (Underrated).

PREDICTION: This game will rival the trial by combat between Gregor Clegane and Prince Oberon Martell. In typical one-goal give me an anxiety attack fashion, the Rangers will win tonight’s epic one for the ages Game 7 by a score of 2-1.

The Real March Madness

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March Madness has commenced and billions of dollars will be bet on a group of “student-athletes”, who are predominantly between the ages of 18 and 23, and we will fixate on these young men with a fever and a hunger that can only be matched in intensity by elderly men and women looking to make a score at the local parish’s Bingo Night.

Bingo ain’t for pussies, and I’m not frontin’ when I say those Bingo ladies wield a Sharpie like it’s a MCI Cedar Junction shiv.

But the real gangster is the guy sitting next to you at the bar. Frankly, watching the NCAA Tournament at home is as much fun as deciding to make St. Patrick’s Day a family event. Observing the indescribable mess of St. Patrick’s Day drunks is the true essence of St. Patrick’s Day, and let’s not allow some Family Research Council wannabes to ruin the day by taking away from anyone a reckless amount of Jameson or Guinness. So, go to a bar and watch the Tourney. Give up your remote for the day, walk away from your flat screen, and take a walk on the wild side to a suburban watering hole that attempts to ineptly impersonate an urban drinking oasis.

That guy sitting next to you at the bar with a Bud Light, a cell phone situated perfectly atop his tabloid newspaper and bearing no outward sign of allegiance to any March Madness school is the guy you want to sit near. That is a straight-up old school bettor, who will stay all night long for the action and could give a shit what your office pool bracket looks like. Let me emphasize the newspaper has to be a tabloid paper; such as the New York Daily News, the New York Post or the Boston Herald, because old school G’s like to read the initial betting line from these august newspapers.

The phone is probably not a smart phone. It’s old school. It could even be a flip phone, and this guy uses his phone to connect with his illegal bookie and not some online presence in the Cayman Islands. His phone is used to facilitate a bet – not to Tweet or Facebook. His bet is placed with a person, who he will banter with about the day’s action, and not a Caribbean offshore LLC. Our Old School G prefers the one-to-one interaction with a live customer service agent and not the online anonymity of an electronic transaction.

Old School G

Sit near this guy. Don’t sit next to the three guys wearing poorly fitting Dockers and ordering drafts of Blue Moon, who have their office pool brackets splayed before them on the bar, and are conversing about the chances of a #12 seed beating a #5 seed in this year’s seemingly chalk heavy tourney.

Hone in on the guy who is sweating out the finish of #16 seed Lafayette versus #1 seed Villanova. Villanova is favored by 22.5 points, but the Leopards of Lafayette aren’t going to be intimidated by Jay Wright’s Main Line squad. Try to decipher where he placed his money. His face will be inscrutable, a sphinx-like presence at the bar, and only slight facial tics may provide an indication on what team will either add to or reduce his pile of tourney betting cash.

Watch the way our Old School G orders his drinks. He’ll know the bartender. He will know other patrons sitting around him, who will each possess an intimate and arcane knowledge of past point spreads for NCAA Tournament games. The Old School G will work a less than glamorous job – perhaps a cook at a nursing home – but his obsession with where the spread is moving will be complete.

This is the real tournament within the tournament. Hardcore bettors mock your office pool. There is too much luck and not enough skill in that particular endeavor. And when Gloria from Accounts Payable wins your office pool, because her grandson helped her with her picks; and he just happens to be studying Quantum Physics at M.I.T., where his fraternity has built an NCAA Tournament simulator to increase their odds of winning random office pools, our Old School G will laugh at that often repeated tale of a basketball ingenue capturing the cash.

So, go to the bar. You know, the one where they don’t have kiddie meals and they don’t serve Cupcake chardonnay and enjoy the tournament.