I hope you all had a shitty Valentine’s Day. I mean that, in the nicest way possible.
I hope it was depressing and filled with regret. It would tickle me the appropriate pink if the rose you bought wasn’t red enough, the words in the sappy card rang false and that the chocolates you ate gave you both diarrhea. Maybe if you spent your Valentine’s Day bitter and pissing out of your rear end you’ll rethink going along with the charade next year. Maybe you’ll remember to treat those you love with the kind of adoration the rest of the year expected of you on a day Rite Aid’s around the world decided they needed a boost in sales.
If its worth the effort when you’re told it matters most, its worth the effort the rest of the fucking time.
A lesson the Kings could learn. Monday against the St. Louis Blues the Kings played like they did in the playoffs. Perhaps staring down Ken Hitchcock’s chin waddle swathing over the opposing bench fooled the team into thinking it was the playoffs again, back when every game was really damn important. But even on the days that the National sponsors aren’t singing your praises, the same tenacity and dedication to every moment is required. Even against boring, useless franchises like the Columbus Blue Jackets the game must be played like these guys are what stands between us and the Stanley Cup.
I’m excited the Kings are home again. It’s been too long. Three day interims between games at this point is longer than a half season lockout is after a summer. As I expect the Kings to play tomorrow, so shall I be in the stands. I’m ready for this crappy start to the season to succinctly be snuffed out like so many kittens beneath an drum of oil tumbling down a hill. Loud, rowdy and raucous. Let team and fan be a reciprocal echo.
Friday night games are rare. You ain’t working Saturday. You don’t have to pretend you care about Sunday church in the morning. Get there early. Stay late. Burn it all to the ground.
I’m feeling it. The engine is revving and the team I saw on Monday is waiting to be unleashed again. Cascading waves of aggression towards the net. Stubborn sticks in narrow lanes. Attack, defend, recovery, no recoil. Swift and decisive plays.
I’ve got nothing coherent to say. I’m a snarling fiend.
Tonight the leash comes off.