The Conference Finals.

I like the sound of that.

It’s 100 degrees here in Phoenix, perfect hockey weather, just an obvious place to put a hockey team. You know I’ve never been to Phoenix before, or rather, Glendale where this team actually plays (we don’t call the Kings the San Fernando Valley Kings, so why are they the Phoenix Coyotes?), but it’s as pointless as I always imagined. Skyscrapers, everything. No wait, that was some other city, an interesting one.

You know they tried to pass a law here in Arizona that life begins when a women’s ovaries releases it’s monthly allotment of eggs. Going with that logic, the Coyotes loss tonight began when the Kings equipment arrived yesterday at arena.

But the Coyotes haven’t lost, yet, even if Arizona’s Governor has already lost her mind. The Kings may have beaten the shit out of their last two study partners and kept all the good grades for themselves, but now we’re taking finals.

I’m expecting a trepidatious game at first. When a team finally makes a mistake, the smell of blood will flood the air and the fangs will come out. Whether they are fearsome lion’s teeth or cowardly desert dog canines, only time will tell. I want the Kings to take the game to the Coyotes immediately. Hit them hard, make them fear our size. Put shots on Smith early but more importantly, put bodies in front of him. Don’t allow him to be comfortable in his net for a second. We’ve garnered a lot of our success by psychologically mind-fucking teams, goading our opponents into bad penalties. Let’s do the same to these punks.

In the bar we went to in Downtown Phoenix last night they were showing a replay of the game where Smith jumped all over Kopitar. Where Brown fought Doan and Richards fought Hanzal and Torres fought Fraser. Scribe and I noted that we had somewhat forgotten how hostile these two teams can get when the games are close and boundaries are tested, as they were when a Brown absolutely plastered Klesla (if memory serves). I can already feel the bottled up tension. At some point tonight, there will be an eruption.

The Coyotes are without Adrian Aucoin. The Kings are expected to go with the same lineup that has gotten them this far.

Let us pray, brothers and sisters.

In the name of the Captain, the Son of Philly and the Holy Goalie.


Bless us Oh Hockey Gods, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through LA Kings, Our Team. Amen.

Blessed are You, Kings our Team and Team of our fathers, Team of Dionne, Team of Luc and Team of Gretzky, the great, mighty and awesome Team, exalted Team, who bestows bountiful goals, who creates all wins, who remembers the insanity of the fans, and who, in love, brings a redeemer to their fans’ children, for the sake of Our Kings.

Peace be upon no Phoenix fan, without mercy or blessing of Kings.

Holy Sutter, Holy Stevens;
We give you thanks
that your Schemes, Attitude and Leadership
Are manifest with Power and Pressure
throughout all zones,
within all lines,
and we accept your Tutelage now,
in defense and forecheck.

I pray to the wunderkind, the play-maker, destroyer of all cap space, the enemy of forwards, of great brilliance, the descendent of Orr and of Borque, the one who shines like the Dewey flower.

I invoke and call upon thee O Father Mitchell,
Lord of long stick, Master of all lanes and gaps.
I invite you to the blue line;
Defend it, sustain it, make it home.

As it was,
As it is,
As it shall be
O Thou Carter
Of goals!
With the forehand
With the backhand
O Thou Carter
Of goals!
With the forehand
With the backhand

Voices above,
Voices of Fans,
Yell from your couch or barstool;
Voices below,
LA King’s Inner-voices,
Speak from the dreams of childhood;
So may our playoffs be beautiful.

Our Kings, who art in Phoenix
Hallowed be thy game.
Thy kingdom come, thy wills be done
On their ice, as it was on the Blues’
Give us this day our daily goals, and forgive no Coyote their transgressions,
As we pound into submission those who trespass against us.
And lead us past the third round,
Past these evil Coyote fucks.

Hail Kopi, full of grace, the fans are with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst players and blessed are the fruit of thy skills, goals.
Holy Kopi, dominant of centers, play for us sinners,
Now until the hour of our Cup.

Go fucking nuts.