One of the dumbest games I’ve ever seen. Unbelievable.
Caps-Pens. Washington Capitals and Pittsburgh Penguins, two teams deeply disappointing to their respective fanbases, tonight combining like Voltron if he was just two parts instead of five and he had an average roster age of like 31.7 to turbo-disappoint the pathetic cretins that are us.
So there’s a guy name of Ryan Shea. I’ve never heard of him. This is his 25th game ever. Sure, he gets the first goal of the night and the first of his NHL career. Lindgren didn’t see it.
Fine. Shake it off. One bad goal early doesn’t mean the rest of the game has to reek like hot piss.
Except nine minutes later Pierre-Olivier Joseph got a bounce off Nick Jensen’s skate. Lindgren reacted late.
Okay, two-goal hole. We’ve all been there. Still a lot of game left. No reason to overreact and order Coldstone delivery and suck down a Love It Peanut Butter Cup Perfection while in a pity blackout.
Second period. A whole new period from the first one. New period, new Caps. Ah, alas, Michael Bunting beat Lindgren blocker-side with a slapper. The Caps were real bad.
It’s fine. Lots of “this is the most important game of the year” games feel like dunking your head in the porta-potty outside Rennfest in August after two periods. This music started playing in my head.
One thing we all know and that we can all agree on is that statistics are liars. Tonight the statistics tried to tell us, bald-faced, that the Capitals controlled 84 percent of the expected goals in the first period. Liar. That stat takes into account neither the abstract concept of heart nor the Penguins scoring two goals on their first two shots to give Charlie Lindgren a save percentage of .000 through like ten minutes. And dammit, that’s another statistic right there. The bastards won’t relent. They pursue me. Resolved: No more statistics for the rest of the night.
From the Suburban Propane out-of-town scoreboard: the cold indifference of the universe towards the sum of all human endeavor. YOU ARE BUGS.
The Caps went from 84 percent of the expected goals in the first period to 22 percent in the second period. Did you think I was telling the truth about no more statistics in the recap? Lying about statistics is a tautology. Yeah, it was a LIE. You fell for it. Another defeat for you tonight.
Tom Wilson came back from suspension. For this. Earlier, someone put a microphone in front of him and he had the temerity, the gall, the ostentation to say he was excited. He drew two penalties, both from Erik Karlsson.
Fourteen minutes left. The Capitals on a five-on-three as the Penguins dared them to score. They didn’t, but as soon as the Pens got back to full strength, Alex Ovechkin got his 27th goal of the season.
I can hear your thoughts. You’re doing the riff about how it’s not a loss as long as Ovechkin scores. No, it is still a loss. I promise. I saw the final score and everything. It’s a crushing and pivotal defeat at the hands of an arch enemy, the only other senate of old-timers more disappointing than the Capitals this year, and it came at the worst moment of the season. The whole thing burned like an over-chlorinated swimming pool.
Ovechkin’s goal is the 849th of his career. My mom texted me after it.
Lars Eller scored the empty-netter. I was rocking back and forth on the couch like Cypher at the end of The Matrix. Not like this. Not like this.
Loffs Watch tomorrow gonna read like the Plot synopsis section of the wikipedia page for Hamburger Hill (1987).
a well-tailored suit for an oversized game in this undercooked metaphor #joebsuitofthenight pic.twitter.com/CyYKd00tb5
— RMNB (@rmnb) April 4, 2024
I feel hollow. I am a cantaloupe that’s been scooped out so I can be filled with cottage cheese. Capitals hockey. I couldn’t feel any worse if I had to watch the Capitals tomorrow, unrested, face the dominating Carolina Hurricanes on the road, with their two Russian friends who love to be friends together. But I do have to do that. I can’t not. It’s my job. If someone says, “You watch hockey games for work? That must be so much fun,” then I go “Yeah, it’s great.” But like statistics I am lying. It guzzles farts.
Thanks for being sad in a group with me.
p.s. happy birthday to Alex from #crashers. Alex: thank you for saving managed democracy with me.
