You may have noticed I haven't posted in a while. I apologize. It's because I've been building shelters and stocking supplies for the impending zombie apocalypse. Oh, you didn't know that the zombie apocalypse was starting? It's true. Grab your canned goods and boomsticks while there is still time, dear reader.
There have been two high-profile incidents of cannibalism in the United States over the past two weeks, which is exactly two more incidents of cannibalism than I can remember reported over the past 22 years of my life. It started with a man named Rudy Eugene, who I will call Patient Zero from this point forward, attacking a homeless man in Miami and literally chewing his face off. No, seriously. And to put the cherry on top of the sundae of creepy in that story, he remembered to strip naked before commencing his feast. The Miami-Dade police, displaying an awareness of the zombie threat rarely found in law enforcement agents, shot the man dead--a process that took no less than a half-dozen shots, according to initial reports.
A few days later, the terror struck close to home when a student at Morgan State University 'fessed up to killing his roommate and proceeding to eat his heart and brain (to absorb his power, one would assume) and disposing of the rest in a dumpster behind a church. The crime only came to light when police arrested the student after his brother found a human head and two hands in a trash can in the student's residence. Again: no, seriously.
I can't speculate how the infection spread from Florida to the mid-Atlantic so fast, but its presence in such highly-populated areas is certainly a bad sign for our chances in coming war for our survival. The shuffling hordes of Latino zombies headed north in the coming months, marching to meet their Yanqui compatriots in a diabolical yet shambly pincer movement, might well spell our doom unless awareness is spread and preparations are made. Don't delay! These sorts of things can't be done overnight. Ready your weapons and supplies now. Start cramming on zombie lore now-- to quote Chinese general and all-around man's man Sun Tzu: "It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will
not be imperiled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies
but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know
your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle." If anybody would know about the level of danger we're in right now, it's definitely a long-dead warrior/philosopher who may or may not have existed.
On one hand, I am a little bummed out over the end of civilization as I know it. But it is good to know that all those hours I spent playing Resident Evil and Left 4 Dead won't have been for naught. I evidently spent my teenage years in vital research for the betterment of mankind! Huzzah! If this blog goes dead for an extended period I think it would be safe to assume that I've been killed by a rogue zombie who has eaten my face and vital organs. Heck, maybe this means the Mayans were right after all!
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Advertising campaigns that wouldn't suck
The product: Men's body wash/cologne/deodorant/etc.
The tagline: "You won't smell awful."
The pitch: I consider myself a mostly reasonable man, at least when I'm not in the vicinity of a Chipotle or Five Guys. So already I know that I'm not in the target demographic for Axe body spray and similar products. I, like many similarly sane consumers, know that no matter what sort of scent I apply to myself I'm not going to make women drop what they are doing and chase after me. All I want is to not smell awful. I don't want to smell like body odor, but I also don't want to smell like a douchebag who doused himself with cologne because it think it will help him "score some pussy" or whatever. I'd enjoy a bland, mildly pleasant scent that will allow people's first impressions of me not involve the olfactory sense.
Odds of it happening: Pretty good. I believe there's a fairly sizable chunk of people who are similarly annoyed by the cloying scents on the market today, so it's not unreasonable that some manufacturer might court that demographic with such a campaign.
The product: Junk food
The tagline: "Worth the impending bypass surgery."
The pitch: Products like Doritos and Cheetos and Hot Pockets would like to focus on anything except the nutritional content of their stuff--a fuzzy mascot, their innate appeal to the intoxicated, the convenience with which they can be imbibed. And this is all for good reason, since that shit will kill you faster than a vacation to Iraq. But if there is anything that Sarah Palin has proved, it's that middle America will tolerate any level of idiocy as long as it comes out of a mouth it would collectively like to fuck. If there's a second thing that Sarah Palin has proved--specifically, with the level of offense she takes at Michelle Obama's measures to curb childhood obesity, and the positive reception it subsequently gathers--it's that as a country we love our junk food more than we love our health. If Hostess, for instance, were to run out a campaign that said, subtly, something along the lines of "All those hippies say this shit will kill you, but we think these cupcakes are fucking delicious and you should eat 'em if they taste good to you," you think that wouldn't strike a chord with some red-state residents? Enough to make it worth Hostess' while? Shit, I think it would be worth it just to watch the furious reaction from health groups.
Odds of it happening: Somewhere between 0 and never.
The product: Mid-range beer/liquor/wine
The tagline: "It'll do, for the price!"
The pitch: This sort of pitch would work even better with the Keystones and Natty Lights of the world, but those brands don't really produce advertising because they don't need to. College kids are going to buy their shit no matter what the companies say. High-end booze can't reasonably say it's worth the money when the average consumer can't appreciate the fineness of what they're drinking, especially after they've mixed it with Coke and chugged it on a dare. A $30 handle of Smirnoff will be a similar amount of fun as a $60 handle of Grey Goose, so why not point that out? It seems like the moderately-good brands like Smirnoff or Cuervo would attack the good stuff with this line of thought, and see if they can't grab a little market share with honesty instead of the usual bullshit.
Odds of it happening: Next to nil. Companies, as a rule, don't like to admit that their product is inferior, even if it very obviously is. They'll keep trying to sell us on how hip and fun they are and how beautiful women will have sex with you if they drink their product.
The tagline: "You won't smell awful."
The pitch: I consider myself a mostly reasonable man, at least when I'm not in the vicinity of a Chipotle or Five Guys. So already I know that I'm not in the target demographic for Axe body spray and similar products. I, like many similarly sane consumers, know that no matter what sort of scent I apply to myself I'm not going to make women drop what they are doing and chase after me. All I want is to not smell awful. I don't want to smell like body odor, but I also don't want to smell like a douchebag who doused himself with cologne because it think it will help him "score some pussy" or whatever. I'd enjoy a bland, mildly pleasant scent that will allow people's first impressions of me not involve the olfactory sense.
Odds of it happening: Pretty good. I believe there's a fairly sizable chunk of people who are similarly annoyed by the cloying scents on the market today, so it's not unreasonable that some manufacturer might court that demographic with such a campaign.
The product: Junk food
The tagline: "Worth the impending bypass surgery."
The pitch: Products like Doritos and Cheetos and Hot Pockets would like to focus on anything except the nutritional content of their stuff--a fuzzy mascot, their innate appeal to the intoxicated, the convenience with which they can be imbibed. And this is all for good reason, since that shit will kill you faster than a vacation to Iraq. But if there is anything that Sarah Palin has proved, it's that middle America will tolerate any level of idiocy as long as it comes out of a mouth it would collectively like to fuck. If there's a second thing that Sarah Palin has proved--specifically, with the level of offense she takes at Michelle Obama's measures to curb childhood obesity, and the positive reception it subsequently gathers--it's that as a country we love our junk food more than we love our health. If Hostess, for instance, were to run out a campaign that said, subtly, something along the lines of "All those hippies say this shit will kill you, but we think these cupcakes are fucking delicious and you should eat 'em if they taste good to you," you think that wouldn't strike a chord with some red-state residents? Enough to make it worth Hostess' while? Shit, I think it would be worth it just to watch the furious reaction from health groups.
Odds of it happening: Somewhere between 0 and never.
The product: Mid-range beer/liquor/wine
The tagline: "It'll do, for the price!"
The pitch: This sort of pitch would work even better with the Keystones and Natty Lights of the world, but those brands don't really produce advertising because they don't need to. College kids are going to buy their shit no matter what the companies say. High-end booze can't reasonably say it's worth the money when the average consumer can't appreciate the fineness of what they're drinking, especially after they've mixed it with Coke and chugged it on a dare. A $30 handle of Smirnoff will be a similar amount of fun as a $60 handle of Grey Goose, so why not point that out? It seems like the moderately-good brands like Smirnoff or Cuervo would attack the good stuff with this line of thought, and see if they can't grab a little market share with honesty instead of the usual bullshit.
Odds of it happening: Next to nil. Companies, as a rule, don't like to admit that their product is inferior, even if it very obviously is. They'll keep trying to sell us on how hip and fun they are and how beautiful women will have sex with you if they drink their product.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Liverpool v. Fulham, 5/1/2012
Oh, mercy me. We as fans often complain about tanking around this time of year, with the NBA regular season having just winded down (the gold standard for tanking) and the NFL draft having just gone on (the Colts having reaped the reward of their previous season's tank) but I've never seen anything in American sports to compare to this debacle. Today's match on ESPN2 features the Liverpool JV team against Fulham, whose first XI are ostensibly playing but really sort of drifting about the pitch as if they're waiting to punch out their timecards and go home. It is probably the worst game of professional soccer I've yet seen--and I've watched the MLS.
As I typed that last sentence, Liverpool's Stewart Downing launched a ball from the right side of midfield to the left edge of Fulham's box. I groaned aloud as he did that, like much of the Anfield faithful, because there were no Liverpool players standing anywhere near the left edge of Fulham's box. The nearest red shirt was the one worn by Andy Carroll, standing on the right hand side of the penalty area, between the penalty spot and the channel. I'm pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes as the ball flew hopelessly over him.
Liverpool today trotted out their second string so that their first eleven will be well rested for the FA Cup Final this weekend, a game which a team in 9th place has determined is more important to win than a comparatively-meaningless Premiership game against an opponent who they have no real animosity against. Fulham, for their part, is one of the complement of teams who are comfortably above the specter of relegation yet not so competent as to be challenging for a spot in Europe. Their season is for all intents and purposes over, and the only motivation left they have is of the strictly selfish variety of padding stats and inflating value for their next contract negotiations.
As the ball flies over the uninhabited wasteland of Fulham's penalty area, one white shirt settles underneath it. It's Stephen Kelly, the right back of choice for Fulham. There is no opposition around him. Behind him and to his left is his goalkeeper, Mark Schwarzer. To his left, standing perhaps three yards outside the 18 and centered in the goal, is his center back Aaron Hughes. About a dozen yards in front of and maybe 5 yards to the right of him is Maxi Rodriguez, standing in the posture of a man waiting for a bus or perhaps standing in line of Starbucks. The situation could not be less pressure-filled; all Kelly has to do is take the ball down, get his head up, and then find a pass forward for Fulham. As the ball falls towards him, he hauls his right foot back and takes a mighty swing at it. He scuffs it off the outside of his foot and the ball spirals lazily towards Rodriguez, who controls it out of instinct more than anything and now finds himself more or less wide open 20 yards out from goal.
As I've been composing this bit, play has of course continued at Anfield. The quality has not improved, and we're now entering second-half stoppage time as the fans stream from their seats in a disgruntled sort of way. I'd be disgruntled, too, had I paid over 40 pounds for a ticket ($65, for those without a grasp of world financial systems) to watch 22 very wealthy men half-ass it for a little over ninety minutes.
The biggest difference between the European football season and American athletic seasons is that the former doesn't include any form of playoff (the lower divisions do include a playoff for promotion purposes, but for simplicity's sake I'll stick to the top-flight leagues here). This works out perfectly well for soccer, which is a game in which form plays such an important role in any given match. It's impossible for a team to struggle for 2/3 of the season, sneak into the playoffs, catch fire and wind up winning a title. Winning the Premiership or La Liga or a scudetto takes consistent excellence over eight months, not a run of good results when it counts. On the other hand, it gives teams like Liverpool or Fulham (sitting safely midtable) very little incentive to push themselves at the tail end of the season.
Of course, on the other end of this equation is that the threat of relegation ensures that the bottom-feeders will be fighting to the bitter end, no matter what. Anybody who has watched a local NBA or NFL team "limp" to the finish line may find relegation to be an appealing alternative, as unlikely as it is to ever appear in a major American sports league.
Maxi Rodriguez, to return to our sad narrative, now possesses the ball within shooting range of Schwarzer's goal, with plenty of time to let it fly. Past history suggests that he's primed to bang one home from this range. He looks up at goal, back down at the ball, swings that right leg of his back, and buries one into the mass of portly men standing in row M to the left of the goal. It's the perfect conclusion to this microcosm of midtable drudgery I've been walking us through, and both the Anfield crowd and I on my sofa can't contain our disappointment. After the comparative excitement and relative quality of the Manchester derby yesterday, I suppose most games would be a letdown. But even still, I can't help but wonder if I can't have found a better use of my afternoon off. Here's to waiting for next August, when all 20 teams will once again have hope--and motivation.
As I typed that last sentence, Liverpool's Stewart Downing launched a ball from the right side of midfield to the left edge of Fulham's box. I groaned aloud as he did that, like much of the Anfield faithful, because there were no Liverpool players standing anywhere near the left edge of Fulham's box. The nearest red shirt was the one worn by Andy Carroll, standing on the right hand side of the penalty area, between the penalty spot and the channel. I'm pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes as the ball flew hopelessly over him.
Liverpool today trotted out their second string so that their first eleven will be well rested for the FA Cup Final this weekend, a game which a team in 9th place has determined is more important to win than a comparatively-meaningless Premiership game against an opponent who they have no real animosity against. Fulham, for their part, is one of the complement of teams who are comfortably above the specter of relegation yet not so competent as to be challenging for a spot in Europe. Their season is for all intents and purposes over, and the only motivation left they have is of the strictly selfish variety of padding stats and inflating value for their next contract negotiations.
As the ball flies over the uninhabited wasteland of Fulham's penalty area, one white shirt settles underneath it. It's Stephen Kelly, the right back of choice for Fulham. There is no opposition around him. Behind him and to his left is his goalkeeper, Mark Schwarzer. To his left, standing perhaps three yards outside the 18 and centered in the goal, is his center back Aaron Hughes. About a dozen yards in front of and maybe 5 yards to the right of him is Maxi Rodriguez, standing in the posture of a man waiting for a bus or perhaps standing in line of Starbucks. The situation could not be less pressure-filled; all Kelly has to do is take the ball down, get his head up, and then find a pass forward for Fulham. As the ball falls towards him, he hauls his right foot back and takes a mighty swing at it. He scuffs it off the outside of his foot and the ball spirals lazily towards Rodriguez, who controls it out of instinct more than anything and now finds himself more or less wide open 20 yards out from goal.
As I've been composing this bit, play has of course continued at Anfield. The quality has not improved, and we're now entering second-half stoppage time as the fans stream from their seats in a disgruntled sort of way. I'd be disgruntled, too, had I paid over 40 pounds for a ticket ($65, for those without a grasp of world financial systems) to watch 22 very wealthy men half-ass it for a little over ninety minutes.
The biggest difference between the European football season and American athletic seasons is that the former doesn't include any form of playoff (the lower divisions do include a playoff for promotion purposes, but for simplicity's sake I'll stick to the top-flight leagues here). This works out perfectly well for soccer, which is a game in which form plays such an important role in any given match. It's impossible for a team to struggle for 2/3 of the season, sneak into the playoffs, catch fire and wind up winning a title. Winning the Premiership or La Liga or a scudetto takes consistent excellence over eight months, not a run of good results when it counts. On the other hand, it gives teams like Liverpool or Fulham (sitting safely midtable) very little incentive to push themselves at the tail end of the season.
Of course, on the other end of this equation is that the threat of relegation ensures that the bottom-feeders will be fighting to the bitter end, no matter what. Anybody who has watched a local NBA or NFL team "limp" to the finish line may find relegation to be an appealing alternative, as unlikely as it is to ever appear in a major American sports league.
Maxi Rodriguez, to return to our sad narrative, now possesses the ball within shooting range of Schwarzer's goal, with plenty of time to let it fly. Past history suggests that he's primed to bang one home from this range. He looks up at goal, back down at the ball, swings that right leg of his back, and buries one into the mass of portly men standing in row M to the left of the goal. It's the perfect conclusion to this microcosm of midtable drudgery I've been walking us through, and both the Anfield crowd and I on my sofa can't contain our disappointment. After the comparative excitement and relative quality of the Manchester derby yesterday, I suppose most games would be a letdown. But even still, I can't help but wonder if I can't have found a better use of my afternoon off. Here's to waiting for next August, when all 20 teams will once again have hope--and motivation.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Praise the Ward!!
What a fantastic finish, for both lovers of the Capitals and fans of pun-related headlines. The bar I was in was cracking from the first faceoff, and then emitted a scream best described as "primal joy" when Ward banged home the winner.
And I know it's the 21st century, and that we've elected a black president and thus ended racism in America, but I have to wonder: is this not the highest point a black man has ever reached in the realms of professional ice hockey? I mean, the list of black NHL players if fairly limited, and those who spring to my mind aren't exactly Hall of Fame-worthy. Kevin Weekes was a serviceable backup goalkeeper but no Braden Holtby, if you catch my drift. Donald Brashear was a stereotypical goon. Grant Fuhr won a cup and is the in the HOF, but he's only half-and-half genetically and was raised by whites, which means he hardly counts. Yes, I know, we're not to talk about race in the public domain (do you think we'll hear this sort of discussion on SportsCenter this week?) but these are the questions I have to ask.
Awkward racial discussions aside, the Capitals have put me in a joyous mood and I have beers to drink and thoughts to think and therefore must bid you a fond adieu, dear reader.
And I know it's the 21st century, and that we've elected a black president and thus ended racism in America, but I have to wonder: is this not the highest point a black man has ever reached in the realms of professional ice hockey? I mean, the list of black NHL players if fairly limited, and those who spring to my mind aren't exactly Hall of Fame-worthy. Kevin Weekes was a serviceable backup goalkeeper but no Braden Holtby, if you catch my drift. Donald Brashear was a stereotypical goon. Grant Fuhr won a cup and is the in the HOF, but he's only half-and-half genetically and was raised by whites, which means he hardly counts. Yes, I know, we're not to talk about race in the public domain (do you think we'll hear this sort of discussion on SportsCenter this week?) but these are the questions I have to ask.
Awkward racial discussions aside, the Capitals have put me in a joyous mood and I have beers to drink and thoughts to think and therefore must bid you a fond adieu, dear reader.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Chelsea v. Barca
Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug. Or, in Barcelona's case, you're the windshield moving 65 mph (105 kph, if they're playing in Camp Nou) that runs into a bug wearing Chelsea blue that was apparently created in a lab, given an adamantium exoskeleton, a penchant for parking the bus, and a flair on the counterattack (This is evidently the same lab that tore down and rebuilt Fernando Torres, replacing his malfunctioning scoring unit).
Rarely have I seen a team defend as resolutely as Chelsea did today, a display made even more impressive by doing it without proper center-backs. Terry definitely deserved his red card, regardless of what excuse he trots out about Sanchez stopping short or the devil making him do it or whatever. I, for one, thought that was the end of Chelsea's chances. Having already conceded, the crowd rocking, and the captain in the shower, I was pretty sure that was taps. I hadn't reckoned on the ability of Ramires to take the high road, Didier Drogba doing his best center-back impression, Petr Cech doing his best brick wall impression, and the timely resurrection of Fernando Torres.
Today also shone light onto the ugly underbelly of this Barcelona team, which is the fact that their back-line and keeper are actually fairly mediocre. Their best defensive strategy is their possession, which isn't all too bad of a thing given the quality of their possession play. But once they do (finally) give up the ball they're quite open at the back. The midfielders and forwards do a good job of pressuring immediately after turning it over, but if you can move the ball quickly after a takeaway there will be plenty of green to run into. Chelsea did a great job of that for all three of their goals in the tie. Granted, the circumstance was probably exacerbated by Barca's attacking desperation, but Real Madrid did something similar over the weekend in less dire circumstance.
The other problem they have is that Victor Valdes, to be honest, isn't very good. Oh, sure, he's good enough to play in La Liga and is vastly better than I or probably anybody reading this will ever be. But facts remain that Chelsea scored three goals on four attempts over the two legs of the semifinal. When Barcelona needed him to save the bacon, he was nowhere to be found. On Tuesday there was probably little that he could have done differently on Ramires' chip, but his dive at the feet of Torres in second-half stoppage time was, to be frank, pathetic. Even Fernando Torres--the butt of so many jokes these past months--was able to dribble around the prone keeper and find the empty net. It looked like a sniper hired by Roman Abramovich had taken him out at the last opportunity. It's a tough thing to do, to stand there idle for much of a half and then be called upon to keep the team in it, but it's what is required by the Catalans' no. 1. If Valdes can't prove that he can do that consistently, I think that they might have to look into finding somebody who can.
I had a slight rooting interest for Barcelona in this one, strictly because I think they play the more beautiful football, and nothing I saw today caused me to reconsider that stance. But them's the breaks, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't an immensely enjoyable 2+ hours. Here's to hoping that Real and Bayern can give us comparably entertaining stuff tomorrow afternoon.
Rarely have I seen a team defend as resolutely as Chelsea did today, a display made even more impressive by doing it without proper center-backs. Terry definitely deserved his red card, regardless of what excuse he trots out about Sanchez stopping short or the devil making him do it or whatever. I, for one, thought that was the end of Chelsea's chances. Having already conceded, the crowd rocking, and the captain in the shower, I was pretty sure that was taps. I hadn't reckoned on the ability of Ramires to take the high road, Didier Drogba doing his best center-back impression, Petr Cech doing his best brick wall impression, and the timely resurrection of Fernando Torres.
Today also shone light onto the ugly underbelly of this Barcelona team, which is the fact that their back-line and keeper are actually fairly mediocre. Their best defensive strategy is their possession, which isn't all too bad of a thing given the quality of their possession play. But once they do (finally) give up the ball they're quite open at the back. The midfielders and forwards do a good job of pressuring immediately after turning it over, but if you can move the ball quickly after a takeaway there will be plenty of green to run into. Chelsea did a great job of that for all three of their goals in the tie. Granted, the circumstance was probably exacerbated by Barca's attacking desperation, but Real Madrid did something similar over the weekend in less dire circumstance.
The other problem they have is that Victor Valdes, to be honest, isn't very good. Oh, sure, he's good enough to play in La Liga and is vastly better than I or probably anybody reading this will ever be. But facts remain that Chelsea scored three goals on four attempts over the two legs of the semifinal. When Barcelona needed him to save the bacon, he was nowhere to be found. On Tuesday there was probably little that he could have done differently on Ramires' chip, but his dive at the feet of Torres in second-half stoppage time was, to be frank, pathetic. Even Fernando Torres--the butt of so many jokes these past months--was able to dribble around the prone keeper and find the empty net. It looked like a sniper hired by Roman Abramovich had taken him out at the last opportunity. It's a tough thing to do, to stand there idle for much of a half and then be called upon to keep the team in it, but it's what is required by the Catalans' no. 1. If Valdes can't prove that he can do that consistently, I think that they might have to look into finding somebody who can.
I had a slight rooting interest for Barcelona in this one, strictly because I think they play the more beautiful football, and nothing I saw today caused me to reconsider that stance. But them's the breaks, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't an immensely enjoyable 2+ hours. Here's to hoping that Real and Bayern can give us comparably entertaining stuff tomorrow afternoon.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Kevin Gregg is the worst pitcher in baseball
There. I said it. This fucking guy is terrible. You know you're awful when even the Baltimore Orioles--the owners of the 14 consecutive losing seasons Baltimore Orioles--decide that you suck too much to be their closer. They don't even get enough leads to need a good closer, and they decided to go in a different direction than Kevin Gregg. Now he just gets to blow games in the middle innings, which produces the same result but is convenient from the fans' perspective because it saves us about an hour of suspense. Extra time to start drinking, which is the only way to console yourself that you still support a team who pays that jackass many, many times more than your annual wage.
I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in professional baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. For that matter I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in amateur baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. Somewhere in Japan, there surely must be a 19-year old phenom with a filthy slider and an anime fetish that we could sign. Hell, I'd be happy with some other mediocre 30-odd journeyman reliever, as long as he doesn't have those stupid RecSpecs and ability to inspire terror in the fanbase. Good Christ, I need to go crack another beer or three after merely thinking about him long enough to write this.
I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in professional baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. For that matter I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in amateur baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. Somewhere in Japan, there surely must be a 19-year old phenom with a filthy slider and an anime fetish that we could sign. Hell, I'd be happy with some other mediocre 30-odd journeyman reliever, as long as he doesn't have those stupid RecSpecs and ability to inspire terror in the fanbase. Good Christ, I need to go crack another beer or three after merely thinking about him long enough to write this.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
FUUUUUUUUCK
Goddamned Chris Kelly went and ruined what had previously been a fine evening for the Capitals, who had been enjoying a nice defensive performance and excellent work from Braden Holtby in his first playoff start. I mean, it wasn't exactly the most titillating (heh heh heh) game in the world, but it was certainly much more exciting than the 0-0 scoreline would imply. In fact, if you were a fan of neutral zone turnovers, battles for pucks in the corners, and dumping and chasing you were happier than a pig in shit during game one. Also sure to be pleased were fans of jumping up excitedly as scoring chances materialized, only to sit down sheepishly when the onrushing attacker whiffed on his shot and the puck returned to its natural habitat along the boards.
As losses go this one really hurt, because it was such a different way to lose than I'd been anticipating. I was thinking it was going to be more along the lines of 5-3, with the Capitals jumping out in front early and then having a defensive lapse and/or a soft goal past Holtby derail them. As more and more time went by and the back end held up, the more you thought that Washington would be able to steal game one with a goal in the third. Alas, not tonight. I am doing my best to stay optimistic for the rest of the series, seeing now that our defense and goaltending have shown they can hang with the B's, but it's hard after such a deflating defeat. And unfortunately even my rose (crimson?) colored glasses can't overshoot the gross disparity in shots, and hits, and other such objective numbers.
So all in all I'm not feeling too great right now. The best I can say is that this year I was at least expecting an early elimination, unlike previous iterations of Lord Stanley's Challenge. It's much less exciting to be that cynical, but at least I won't get blindsided by the Tampa Bay Lightning again. So at least there's that.
As losses go this one really hurt, because it was such a different way to lose than I'd been anticipating. I was thinking it was going to be more along the lines of 5-3, with the Capitals jumping out in front early and then having a defensive lapse and/or a soft goal past Holtby derail them. As more and more time went by and the back end held up, the more you thought that Washington would be able to steal game one with a goal in the third. Alas, not tonight. I am doing my best to stay optimistic for the rest of the series, seeing now that our defense and goaltending have shown they can hang with the B's, but it's hard after such a deflating defeat. And unfortunately even my rose (crimson?) colored glasses can't overshoot the gross disparity in shots, and hits, and other such objective numbers.
So all in all I'm not feeling too great right now. The best I can say is that this year I was at least expecting an early elimination, unlike previous iterations of Lord Stanley's Challenge. It's much less exciting to be that cynical, but at least I won't get blindsided by the Tampa Bay Lightning again. So at least there's that.
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