By Stephen P. Quin
I emailed this yesterday after the B's took Game 3 of the Stanley Cup Finals.
Boston (QP)- I will always remember the smell at around 9:30PM on June 6, 2011. Victory never smelled so much like bacon being cooked.
Unfortunately it was a Pyrrhic victory as our most clutch soldier fell on the frozen grounds of the Garden. Struck down by an errant, and malicious, shoulder to the head. As I watched while Horton was in the throes of early rigor mortis, I found myself with some vomit in my mouth...and a multitude of questions as they sent him off the ice like a Viking funeral.
Would this galvanize the team? Shatter their psyche? Would the crowd put the green men's heads on pikes?Would Milbury zip line with his Salvation Army tie from the rafters and beat everyone with his shoes?
A 5 minute major power play did not instill much confidence, a listless response to a fallen hero had me confused, and a lackluster announcing team that wants to suck Vancouver's collective nether regions did nothing to calm my burning anger. To that point, Mad Jack Edwards was sorely needed. The first period left me confused, extremely angry, but at the same time deflated. The only saving grace was Thomas, who seemed hell bent on putting a chastity belt on that net.
I took that morsel of hope into the second period and then...a broken stick...an aggressive forecheck...a pass to the point...knuckle puck...screen...GOAAAAL!!!
Fast forward a little, what's that smell? sniff sniff...oh man that smells good. Marchand self passes. Is that bacon? Marchand outspeeds his defender. Cripes! That is bacon. Marchand patiently waits for Luongo to do his best earthquake safety drill. BACONNN!!!! Marchand roofs the puck for the knife, no bet yet, the machete to the chest. The rest of that period was a blur of Vancouver bodies being annihilated into the boards like cartoon characters.
The third period had more chips than a Lays bag. Vancouver was owned in the 2nd period through offense and grit. Then they were owned in the third period through defilement (see Milan Lucic's Dirty Sanchez to Burrows) and utter physical domination (see any number of destructive body checks). I've never seen fear on a hockey player's face before, but Burrows wore it like "The Scream" by Munch.
I hope the epliogue to this Stanley Cup run is that Horton makes a miraculous comeback in Game 6 and scores the game winning goal with a neck brace on.
