New York Rangers

Unrequited Stanley Cup Dreams

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With the 2015 Stanley Cup Finals starting in a few hours, fans of the Tampa Bay Lightning and the Chicago Blackhawks are poised for what should be a six or seven-game series, dreams will appear and then disappear with the maneuvering of a composite stick on vulcanized rubber, and lives and schedules will be rearranged to accommodate this frozen crucible.

Stan Mikita and Coach Billy Reay

But I am still stuck – rigidly and obstinately – on the failure of the New York Rangers to reach the Stanley Cup Finals. The Rangers’ failure has simplified my life: I can continue to slog through Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall that is taking me longer to read than King Henry VIII’s courtship and marriage to Anne Boleyn; there is more time to devote to a sixth grade research paper on uber capitalist pig and then generous philanthropist, John D. Rockefeller; I can watch New York Mets’ rookie fireballer, Noah Syndergaard, record a preposterously weird pitching line of 10 strikeouts, zero walks, and seven earned runs in four innings versus the San Diego Padres and not feel a twinge of guilt that I am cheating on the Rangers; enthusiastically enjoy the Poseidon Adventure that is the Boston Red Sox; and not hear from a nine-year-old boy that I have a strange and puzzling devotion to a hockey team.

From the mouths of babes tumble pearls of wisdom, and perhaps a nine-year-old boy does have a better perspective on the failings of a Manhattan-based hockey team than does a 48-year-old middle-aged man, who falls into a two-hour funk, after witnessing the Tampa Bay Lightning conclude the 2015 Eastern Conference Finals with a 2-0 shutout of the Rangers in Madison Square Garden.

I inhabit a world where pathos is viewed as a luxury. To be down or depressed about a hockey team, which is comprised of millionaires and is owned by the truly loathsome James Dolan, and find there is scant tenderness to salve the bruised feelings of an emotionally stunted middle-aged moron is unvarnished reality. A nine-year-old has no patience for a grown man, with what some could perceive as an unhealthy obsession for a hockey team, which seems to produce more angst than happiness when one could achieve sublime happiness by pulling off the boss of all Pokemon trades. In reality, a well-crafted Pokemon trade takes far more skill than cheering for the Broadway Blueshirts.

I will watch Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Probably. But I’m not sure.

My feelings are somewhat analogous to attending a former girlfriend’s wedding, which I have never experienced nor longed to do, as I don’t believe “Asshole” would be socially acceptable on a table placement card and that no good has ever come out of a situation like this. Chances are the ex-girlfriend is going to look pretty good on her wedding day, lost some weight, bleached her teeth, shares rapturous (real or contrived) looks with her tool of a soon-to-be husband, and for the GODDAMN love of God don’t get caught by your date looking verklempt when there is the exchange of vows because after the reception you will be sharing your hotel room with a white walker. The better scenario is to attend the ex’s wedding and bring Caitlyn Jenner as your date, which is sure to deflect some attention from the bride.

So, I sit here. Pounding on this keyboard, jealous of Blackhawks fans who can root for the irrepressible Jonathan Toews, who is arguably better at his sport than LeBron James is at his sport. Yes, that is the brilliance of Jonathan Toews. And I want the Rangers to have a Jonathan Toews, but there is no else like Jonathan Toews or Caitlyn Jenner. Alex Ovechkin was supposed be Jonathan Toews, but he is merely Alex Ovechkin. Rene Richards was Caitlyn Jenner, but without the extensive Kardashian media machine behind her.

Perhaps the Rangers will return to the Stanley Cup Finals next year, where more than two months of my life will be invested in the pursuit of a freaking cup, but before that occurs, I plan to enjoy the sense of freedom that has returned to me. I won’t have to avoid newspapers for a day or two until I have found the time to watch the latest Rangers’ playoff tilt, I won’t view the making of dinner as an impediment to my playoff viewing schedule, and I won’t have to hear from my favorite Polish American how much she certifiably and unquestionably despises hockey.

My life is returning to what approaches a normal life. I soak tennis balls in ammonia to chase a mother raccoon and her three offspring from their den, because they are destroying the shed that sits above their home. I will coach Little League and hear some 10-year-old punk talking shit to our team’s first base coach, who happens to be me, and then I will respond by sending every base runner to steal second base. We’re playing that kid’s team again on Saturday, and I am all about fucking up his shit, except when the kid catches because he has a cannon of an arm.

The Rangers will become yesterday’s news. I’ll harbor an unhealthy dislike of Rangers’ defenseman and scapegoat, Dan Boyle, and that douche bag 10-year-old. I’ll start coaching a Little League All-Star team. I’ll try not to have the lawn look like napalm has been thrown on it. And I’ll think of what could have been for the Broadway Blueshirts.

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.

Quick Hits: Michigan Lands a Michigan Man

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How much does the University of Michigan value a Michigan man to lead a football program that has fallen to the depths of being a bottom feeder in the Big Ten?

Reportedly Jim Harbaugh will receive a six-year, $48 million dollar contract from his alma mater, which would make him the highest paid coach in college football. According to USA Today, Alabama’s Nick Saban is the nation’s highest paid college football coach at $7,160,187. In the NFL, Forbes has New Orleans Saints head coach Sean Payton atop the money list with an average salary of approximately $8 million dollars per year.

Harbaugh’s deal appears to equal the best paid coach in the NFL, and will surmount any current deal in college football until Alabama quickly gives Nick Saban another raise. If Harbaugh was such a Michigan man, did the school need to provide him with the highest salary in all of college football to prevent him from pursuing another NFL opportunity?

The argument will be made that for Harbaugh to forego his dream of winning a Super Bowl – and achieving football Valhalla – Michigan not only needed but had to go to any heights to hire a coach that could potentially resurrect a Big Ten program that now has more in common with Rutgers than with in-state rival, Michigan State. Eight million dollars will make any decision easier, but has anyone considered that Harbaugh is a Michigan man and shouldn’t need dirty, filthy lucre to return to idyllic Ann Arbor.

Ann Arbor is clearly not an idyllic destination for any football coach. Michigan never embraced Rich Rodriguez as a Michigan man, and just fired a Michigan man, Brady Hoke. This is an athletic department struggling to find an identity, and has struggled to solve the two issues that undermine all athletic departments: the search for an effective athletic director and a winning football coach.

Harbaugh’s yearly salary is pocket change to the Michigan Athletic Department. Harbaugh will become one of – if not the – most powerful figure on the Michigan campus. He is a Michigan man, which is such a crock of self-pretentious bullshit perpetrated by Michigan alums and fans, that it makes me want to watch Michigan State and Ohio State kick the crap out of the Wolverines for decades to come.

It doesn’t matter that Jim Harbaugh is a Michigan man. It’s far more important that Harbaugh is a good football coach, which he has demonstrated at the University of San Diego, Stanford and with the San Francisco 49ers. In essence, $8 million dollars bought Michigan a Michigan man. Money talks and any Michigan man will listen to the sweet siren call of money.

Disclaimer: I strongly dislike Michigan alums and fans with their self-aggrandizing visions of their university and its athletic teams. To tweak these people, I’d like to utter four letters to these Bo Schembechler boobs: NJIT

Quick Hits

Dunkin’ Donuts is the official coffee of Liverpool FC in the Premier League. It’s nice to know that John Henry’s ownership group has allowed Masshole Nation to invade the shores of Great Britain.

It now appears to be socially acceptable to appear in a sex tape but not a porn movie.

I saw Santa Claus kissing Mommy under the Christmas tree. After wrapping all of the gifts and presents, placing them under the tree, and making sure Santa and his reindeer have fresh cookies and milk, no one is kissing anyone.

How many people cook a goose for Christmas? I’ve cooked a goose and it’s not easy to get it right.

New Jersey Governor Chris Christie rooting for the New York Rangers. 

The New Jersey Devils have three head coaches (Lou Lamoriello, Scott Stevens and Adam Oates). The New York Rangers are the hottest team in the NHL and own an eight-game winning streak heading into tonight’s tilt versus the Dallas Stars. The Rangers only have one head coach.

In the New Era Pinstripe Bowl at Yankee Stadium, Boston College loses to Penn St. because the Eagles have had a peculiar inability to successfully complete extra-point attempts. In OT, the Eagles missed a PAT wide right. High school teams can do this shit right. I thought wide right only applied to Bobby Bowden’s Florida State and former Buffalo Bills kicker, Scott Norwood.

In a silent protest, NYC cops continue to turn their back to NYC Mayor Bill de Blasio. I guess silent protests are alright unless you’re a St. Louis Ram holding his hands above his head to protest the grand jury’s decision regarding Michael Brown.

Have taken a shine to Southern Tier’s 2XMas beer.

I am a devout believer in the Great Pumpkin, but I fear pumpkin beer. It’s like drinking your grandmother’s spice rack.

Sage or thyme on a roasted turkey? Or perhaps both?

I tried to watch a PBS documentary on Richard Pryor and it had a narcoleptic quality to it. How can anything about Richard Pryor put a person to sleep with the exception of Brewster’s Millions?

Johnny & Chevy

Watched National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation the other night, and I disliked this in 1989 and still hate it in 2014. Christmas Vacation is a poor Randy Quaid second cousin to Vacation and European Vacation. In 1989, I never thought that the actor who portrayed Rusty would become one of 2014’s highest paid sitcom stars, which is The Big Bang Theory‘s Johnny Galecki.

Yesterday at Larz Anderson’s Outdoor Skating Rink in Brookline, Massachusetts, the skaters were moving in a counter-clockwise fashion to Led Zeppelin. Back in the day, I used to rock out to organ music at Mennen Arena’s public skate.

Pulled pork does not belong on pizza.

If I referred to a Trader’s Joe employee as Magnum P.I., would anyone get the reference?