By the time you read this, I’ll be somewhere in the middle of nowhere on the 5 freeway, heading north to test my lucky underwear out at the HPV Pavillion in San Jose. I won’t be in a car though, with plenty of adrenaline still pumping from that marvelous win on Thursday, I think I’ll just run there.

The Shark Tank, as it’s known, if you’ve never been there, is a wonderful gymnasium. It is a loud mother of a building, however in much the same way the 15 kids cheering for the talent show in the gym at high school sounded really loud, the Fish Bowl benefits a great deal from acoustics.

If haven’t met a Sharks fan, keep it that way. They are a hostile bunch, and unfortunately my posse and I will have to watch our typically loose lips. Last time we ventured up there, a fight or two had to be quelled before people ended up in the hospital or a cell, and no one needs that shit.

I’d say something now like “this is not going to be an easy” game, but none of them are easy. The Sharks have almost always been quite a good home team, but when the puck hits the ice, that doesn’t mean much if the Kings can stick to their guns. Having played one game now without Stoll, there should be less of an adjustment period. While the Sharks will draw energy from the hometown fatties, so to will the Kings feed off the Sharks’ jump. You want to amp this up? Let’s amp the shit up.

It would be nice to win a few more faceoffs, what the Kings mainly need to do is clog up the middle of the ice. Frustrate the Sharks into making stupid passes. The most important key for me though against this team, which is so swift in transition and zippy with the stick to sticks, is to get every damn puck deep. I want the Sharks skating 200 feet every time they get the puck.

Toffoli gets his first goal tonight.

That deserves a couple prayers, don’t it?

Hail Kopi, full of talent,
Your fans are with thee.
Blessed are thou amongst Slovenians,
and blessed is the fruit of thy Slovenienness,
Dominance.
Holy Kopi, first of our centers,
Play for us screamers,
Now, and take us nearer to the hour of our Second Cup.
Amen.

Our Kings, these reigning Stanley Cup Champions Kings, who art in the second round of the mother fucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On their ice, because it’s not good for much else.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for letting the Sharks think scoring three on Quick is anything other than a fluke.
And in the meantime give these dicks from San Jose a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the second round,
Past these ugly ass Sharks,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

That’s all well and good, but it would appear these yokels have sucked on a bit too much harbor fog and are having trouble seeing how reputations and punishment works.

I’ll start with McLellan, who said after the game yesterday:

“It really doesn’t matter what Todd McLellan thinks or what everybody else thinks now, because it’s been dealt with, and we have Game 3 now that we’re going to move ahead and prepare for without Raffi. But Raffi has our full support. As a player that’s worked hard to change his game, do I think that was anywhere near any of the other hits that he’s had in his career? Absolutely not.”

The part I bolded is what made my eyes cross. What is the insinuation here, that because Raffi has had a few good months of not severely concussing another human, taken with the fact that his hit on Stoll could have been worse, therefore… what? He shouldn’t have been suspended? I assume that’s his point, we know that’s what the entire Sharks organization thinks. And that’s fine, everyone has an observation bias on these things that slants in favor of their players, but the logic here is kind of disgusting.

Let’s apply this thought process to some other crimes.

“Why do you care that I stole your wallet? I didn’t rob the bank. I should get to keep your wallet.”

“Well, yeah I shot the guy in the face, but it’s not like I chopped him up and ate him like I used to do to people. Have a heart.”

“Listen judge, I know I raped a bunch of girls last year, but I’ve only fondled a tit or two since then, and this last rape, I didn’t even smack her around much! I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Makes sense, I can see where McLellan’s coming from.

Onto Doug Wilson, who released a statement today.

He argues that Stoll put himself in the vulnerable position, which has a modicum of validity to it, but only just. In reality, the angle that Torres took to hit Stoll, coupled with the fact that Stoll was bent down at the time Torres made the decision to hit Stoll (which is different than a player adjusting his position immediately before being hit once the decision to make the hit has been made), speaks to how dangerous of a hit this was. As Wilson states to open, “The Sharks organization fully supports the NHL in its efforts to remove illegal and dangerous hits from the game.” Sure, buddy, but not when it’s your guy making the hit.

But this isn’t what bothered me. Again, it’s the same mantra that came from McLellan, that Torres hasn’t fucked up in a while, so it’s unfair to judge him based on his history. Wilson says:

“Comparing the facts of this incident against the actual wording of Rule 48.1, it appears that the NHL has not only made an inappropriate application of this rule but is trying to make an example out of a player who is being judged on past events, one who has changed his game dramatically this season and taken only six minor penalties in 39 games.

We are proud of the work Raffi has put in to successfully adjust his game. Although it’s unfortunate that Jarret was injured on the play, we feel this decision is grossly unfair to the Raffi, his teammates and our fans. However, Raffi does not want to be a distraction to his teammates and has decided not to appeal this suspension and we respect that decision.”

A reputation isn’t made in 39 games of not taking someone’s head off. If a drug addict quits for a month or two and then smokes crack again, sorry, but he’s still a drug addict and his history of drug abuse is probably a good reason why he just smoked crack in your bathroom after excusing himself from playing pictionary with the fam.

Argue the logistics of the hit, fine. But spare me this sob story for Torres that he’s being mistreated because he’s done this exact same thing time and time again but not recently. The reaction should be, “damn, and Torres was doing so well!” and not “he was doing so well, so cut the guy some slack.”

I’ve long said that section 315 is the best section in Staples Center, and not just because I’m there. Ok fine, because I’m there. We’re loud, we’re fun, and we tend to get bunches of opposing fans to heckle, that and cajole since we are on the side of the ice where we get to see Quick make his brilliant saves for two out of three periods. Well, you may think your section is the best, but you are wrong. Now I have proof.

Madeline, the familiar face who greets all who enter 315, was honored at the end of the season as having been voted the best usher in Staples Center. It was announced before a game where she was brought onto the ice and recognized.

Madeline rules.

There are several of my fellow season ticket holders who rarely bother to sit in their seats, instead choosing to hang out with Madeline during the game. Whenever I show up to Staples and Madeline isn’t there, I’m bummed. Everyone with season seats gets to know their usher and the good ones get to know you. Madeline is one of the things that makes being a Kings season ticket holder a special experience.

For her award, Madeline was given a jersey with her name on it that she wanted everyone in the section to sign.

In my year end survey the Kings sent out to season ticket holders, when asked “How can we make your season ticket experience better?” I wrote, “give Madeline a raise.”

A free jersey ain’t bad.

By Kelsey Eyes

Thursday morning dawned with the amber glow of spilt King’s blood. The townspeople took to the streets, pitchforks and torches mightily in hand, to claim justice and vengeance as their own. No evening post had been delivered detailing what the fates had dealt our befallen warrior, and the silence on that account filled every marching step with brisk anticipation and purpose. Come noon, the bugles sounded and it was decreed that Raffi Torres would not hunt heads in the forests of the Kings again until the crisp autumn leaves had fallen. Great rejoicing and merriment filled the Kings’ village. But to find another, brave and true who could fill Stoll’s faceoff fortitude would prove a difficult task.

The rosy slumber of happy tidings was slapped from our faces, as the puck was dropped and Quick was immediately challenged with four shots on goal (three of which had the beguiling face of a maiden). But, as ever, he held our fortress. The smell of snake oil and black magic (“Ye Olde Axe Potion”) from the cavernous mines of Burnzie filled the nostrils of the Brotherhood. Sir Jeffrey Carter prepared his steed, galloping down the right wing, with King stalling an oncoming lance; he quickly fired a shot down low into the underbelly of the dragonbeast Niemi and scored the first goal.

Two young soliders, dewy cheeks radiating the naiveté of boyhood, let their wits get the better of them: Nolan slashing and Martinez holding, and headed off to the shackles. Prudence is needed, Master Nolan, lest thee is in hopes of collecting a three game streak of slashes. Indeed, with rookie Muzzin feeling the pressure and Martinez receiving two penalties (and being present for all three Shark goals), the burden fell to the veteran to lead the battle. And in the second period, the fates found a bearded Penner digging the puck out to Richardson whose stunning pass through the air to Doughty allowed him to score into the upper left corner from 40 feet.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most hideous NHL player of them all?” With speed through the neutral zone, Logan Couture passed to Thornton and the goal was tipped in by Marleau at the top of the crease. The opposing army had studied us, learned our weakness and become stronger. Instead of charging Quick like wild hogs, they created more traffic around the net, taking away Quick’s sight and movement. The next goal by Stuart from Gomez followed this bubbling potion’s formula precisely and tied the game with several players in front of Quick’s eye line.

To tie the game is such sweet sorrow, but to see Anze Kopitar lying face first on the ice is the most venomous of agonies. In the 9 minute absence of our hero, the winds of defeat began to blow across the napes of our necks. Gomez gained his stride, moving quickly through the zone and Vlasic tipped one in. We had fallen to one knee on the battlefield, hand placed gallantly on our bleeding chest. But our beloved Kopitar appeared to us, and the armies rose to their feet in unison to honour such valour and heroism. The young Toffoli raised Kopitar’s shield, with 5 shots on goal, an assist on the game winning goal, and being the victim of a tripping penalty for Stuart that created immense momentum.

With Shepperd and Stuart in shackles for various debaucheries, at 18:17 in the 3^rd, our fearless toothless Captain Brown scored on a shot by Richards to again tie the game. Still on the man advantage, Lewis scored from Toffoli with 1:21 left..  And the Kings are victorious for 12 straight games in their kingdom!! Peace, joyous tidings and sound slumber amongst the townspeople, and garland strands of lilies tied ‘round the necks of our returning warriors.

We ask the Mirror, Mirror on the Wall, to let us look into the next few games.  “Moving into the next (2) games, you shall see more of young Toffoli: his relaxed attitude, hard and quick release, arrival at the right time/right place, and his spectacular angle shot. The next games will see an improvement on turnovers, defensive coverage in the Kings zone, and the elusive riddle of the Kings faceoff will be solved. No longer will San Jose win 68% of the draws. No longer will you struggle through 8 different players in the faceoff and not fare better than Fraser’s 3/5. You will also sustain pressure around Niemi, just as the Sharks have against Quick. Also, feed this poison apple to that horse over there, and you shall sweep this series.”

“But Mirror, that isn’t a horse, that’s Logan Couture.”

“Exactly.”

Sleep well, my Princes of Montebello, my Kings of Newport Beach. The Kingdom is safe again, and soon we shall taste the spoils of victory.

Filed under: L.A. Kings News ]]> http://lakingsnews.com/2013/05/17/here-ye-here-ye-ye-olde-western-conference-semi-finals/feed/ 14 kelseyeyes http://lakingsnews.com/2013/05/16/sharks-kings-round-2-game-2-the-more-things-change/ http://lakingsnews.com/2013/05/16/sharks-kings-round-2-game-2-the-more-things-change/#comments Thu, 16 May 2013 18:30:29 +0000 Surly Jacob http://lakingsnews.com/?p=20438 ]]> It seems the only storyline heading into this game is Raffi Torres’ hit on Jarret Stoll, his imminent NHL hearing, and the latter’s injury and exclusion from the lineup.

So let’s talk about something else.

As we discussed before, and saw on Tuesday, San Jose is a much different team than St. Louis. They passed with zippy gusto and buzzed around the Kings’ zone like so many gnats that need swatting. There was no Hitchcockian clogging of the neutral zone, in fact there was open ice aplenty for the Kings to make use of, but probably still shell shocked, the Kings didn’t take much advantage of it.

And yet, despite the differences in player personnel and strategic schemes, what we saw was more of the same from the Kings. Withstand a storm or twelve, let Jonathan Quick tie down the valuables and hold onto the dog and then cash in on a few chances and ride the storm to the other side.

But now the Kings have more changes coming, with what will most likely be Brad Richardson subbing in for the dizzy Jarret Stoll (let’s hope he’s not dizzy and is just having trouble turning his head from side to side… Akin to an over-exuberant night spent buried between the legs of whatever blond celebrity floozy he’s currently cavorting with). At the time of this writing, no one knows what Sutter will do with the lines. For all we know Stoll shows up during warm-ups and plays, but that doesn’t seem likely. If it were me running the show I would just slot Richardson in between Penner and Lewis in Stoll’s spot and leave well enough alone. Wholesale changes don’t need to come, despite losing the special attributes Jarret provides.

Helene Elliott wrote an article I didn’t read that was titled something to the effect of Stoll’s injury and its potential to change the outcome of the series. I’ll simply say if we can get by without Willie Mitchell and Matt Greene, I have every confidence we can quickly overcome the loss of Stoll. In no way is that a denigration of Stoll and his contributions, but rather is a testament to my faith in Sutter and the team at large. Also, Brad Richardson is a slick hockey player and playoff type of guy. I’m bummed about missing Stoll and equally excited to see Richardson get some ice time.

Anywho, that’s enough words. How about some prayers!

Hail Kopi, full of talent,
Your fans are with thee.
Blessed are thou amongst Slovenians,
and blessed is the fruit of thy Slovenienness,
Dominance.
Holy Kopi, first of our centers,
Play for us screamers,
Now, and take us nearer to the hour of our Second Cup.
Amen.

Our Kings, these reigning Stanley Cup Champions Kings, who art in the second round of the mother fucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On our ice, because hey, we’re pretty good there.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for not acting on the urge to spend 60 minutes cross checking and spearing every player in teal.
And in the meantime give these dicks from San Jose a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the second round,
Past these ugly ass Sharks,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

I woke up early this morning. I sniffed at the air, my nostrils pulsating with disgust and confusion. I scrambled out of bed and searched for the source of this foul stench. Round and round my home I went, this way and that, my normally desensitized olfactory leading me ultimately to the toilet.

I edged my way into the bathroom, barely capable of progressing closer to what must surely have been worst thing I have ever had the misfortune of smelling. It was so bad My eyes were watering, my mouth drying, my stomach churning. I approached the toilet, lifted the lid and peered inside.

What did i see?

That’s right, it was a teeny tiny little shark.

It looked up at me with it’s Soulless eyes. Instinctively I said to myself “How the hell did you get in there?” when to my surprise, this little critter, this nasty, filthy wad of slimy flesh spoke back.

“I’ve been stuck here for days,” it said.

Before I could process how ridiculous this situation was, I was having a chat with this guppy.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, “There aren’t supposed to be any sharks in Los Angeles.”

“I came from up north, From waters not too far from here, though vastly different in nature.” said the Shark.

“Up north? You mean like Canada?

“No, not that far north. Do I look like I have my own nose jammed firmly up my ass?” it promptly retorted, clearly offended by the accusation.

I laughed. The shark smiled. We were starting to get along, me and my little fishy interloper.

“My apologies,” I said, “so if you aren’t from Canada, where are you from?”

“San Jose.”

Silence fell. My smile turned slowly to a frown. Every crease in my forehead prominently curdling. The Shark was still smiling. I became suddenly aware of a certain smugness about this measly little creature. It began to swim around the bowl, dancing through the water in circles, endless circles. I could have sworn I even heard it chuckling through the splashes of the tiny waves it made.

“So you are a San Jose Shark. I’ve heard of your kind.” I said.

It came to a halt and smirked up at me as it spoke, “Only goods things I hope.”

“Far from it. They say you are an unpleasant species. They say you are a futile breed.”

“Futile?” it asked.

“Yes, futile.”

“Hmmm,” said the San Jose Shark, “I don’t know what that means.”. And it began to swim around in circles again.

“It means without purpose,” I informed the ignorant Shark. “It means that your kind acts with no result. That you work without payoff. You keep trying, keep moving your little fins forward, but never seem to get anywhere.”

It kept swimming, round and round, trying to understand but all the while failing to realize how right in front of my face it acted upon the description which it could not comprehend.

Finally it stopped and again it spoke to me. “Futile, I think i get it. That’s hella mean.”

Hella.

There it was. The San Jose calling card. That silly, meandering phrase for the childish and the illiterate.

“Hella.” I repeated, a clear disdain in my voice.

“Yeah, hella,” it said sarcastically “don’t you know what that means?”

This little shark was really starting to get on my nerves. It had overstayed it’s welcome.

“Of course I know what it means. It means that you need to leave. It means you have been rooting around my plumbing for days, wandering as if this was your own home, taking liberties with my house the same as you take liberties with the English language. Hella. It’s a pitiful word, though I will use it once, and only once. I’m going to hella flush your ass down this toilet.”

And as I reached for the lever the Shark sprang up, pleading for it’s life.

“Please, oh please, King of this castle, do not flush me down the toilet. I am sorry for intruding. I was swimming along in my way and I got lost. I found myself here and I did the only thing I know how to do, I kept swimming. I had made so much progress, gone so far. I was finally going somewhere, I couldn’t stop. I’ve swum in circles for so long and your land offered so much promise, so much opportunity. But then I found myself stuck here. Please, help me.”

With my finger slightly depressed upon the lever, I eased. My rage subsiding as it was replaced with a much more devious emotion.

“Ok, ok. You win,” I said slyly. “I’ll let you live, pitiful little being that you are.”

“Thank you oh thank you!” beamed the Shark. “Anything I can do for you, you just let me know.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t want my reputation as a generous host to go unnoticed. Be my guest. Come to dinner tonight. We would love to have you.”

“That’s hella nice of you, sir! You’re far too kind.”

“Now off you go. Be on your way,” I said with a wink, “Dinner starts at 7:30pm.”

“I’ll be there.” said the Shark and with that, he swam down the drain and out of my sight.

Little did the vagabond from San Jose know that tonight, we are serving Shark fin soup in this castle.

GO KING GO

They may be right, but what doesn’t heal all wounds? A Stanley Cup.

Despite our glorious achievements and the San Jose Sharks distinct lack of them outside of a few meaningless division titles, these losers managed to oust us in the first round two years ago, and for that, they must pay.

This is likely to be quite a different series than the one against the Blues.

First of all, home ice! How cool is that? Bobby doesn’t care how long it’s been since we’ve had home ice, but I do because I’ve never been to a home ice playoff series, as I’m sure many of our fans, more than just the several thousand we picked up last year, have not. Being that no one in the NHL had more home wins than the Kings during the season, it’s a good thing.

San Jose is probably feeling very high and mighty about sweeping the Canucks, but you’ll notice that very few of the story lines from that series centered around the fantastic play of the Sharks. Instead, the hockey world couldn’t talk enough about the disaster that is Vancouver and mostly the massive clusterfuck that is their goalie management. Now, I watched a fair bit of that series, and San Jose did play well, we’ll give them that.

Their offense is where they shine, as always, which has worked so well for them in the past. Their defense, led still by the wide-eyed Dan Boyle (and by wide-eyed I mean his eyes are as far from each other as Logan Couture’s front teeth are from his bottom lip). Their defense is not without talent or size, but Todd McLellan ain’t no Darryl Sutter, neither in his ability to fluster reporters or upset opposing offensive schemes.

Can they handle the war of attrition that Darryl Sutter employs? Do they have an answer to Drew Doughty? Can they withstand the physical onslaught they are about to endure? Will any of this matter when Quick decides he is going to win games all by himself?

Speaking of goaltending, Antii Nemi isn’t terrible, but very few playoff goalies are. Yes he won a Cup, but while we have a Conn Smythe winner who seems to think he can do better this year, Niemi won his Cup the year that made the NHL say “see, you don’t need a great goalie to win the Cup!” Anyway, I have no real segue-way here, so…

The Kings are not playing their best hockey. The offense has been thin and the breakouts less than spectacular. The only Kings I would say played at a consistently high level last round were Justin Williams, Drew Doughty, Slava Voynov and of course, Jonathan Quick. While you may be concerned that the St. Louis Blues gave us all we could handle, and despite winning four games in a row, heavily outplayed us for large swaths of all six games, it is important to note that the Blues were a team built for the playoffs. What they lacked in offensive talent, they made up for in relentless forechecking, quality goaltending and a suffocating system.

The Sharks can provide nowhere near the defensive frustration the Kings overcame in the first round, so I am confident the offensive will come, quickly. Too many Kings went without goals or very few. Lewis, Stoll, Richards, Martinez – these guys will score. It’s not an if, just a when. In fact, I just decided that one of them will score tonight.

The other difference between these two teams? The one that was the ultimate deciding factor in beating the Blues, the same one that we just witnessed propel Boston to the second round with a stunning victory in game 7 over the Maple Leafs: the Kings know how to win.

The Sharks are well versed in losing. Lucky them they got the matchup with the losier losers in the first round. No such luck for them this round.

There is only one giant X factor in this series: Anze Kopitar

Whether Kopi’s poor play in the first round was due to fighting off an injury or vainly searching for warmth during a cold streak will not matter to the end result. He needs to step up his game. If anyone is due for a goal or six, it’s Anze. He snapped his long goalless streak, but he can’t let another one begin. So for this reason, we will add in a prayer for tonight’s game. Say it with me.

Hail Kopi, full of talent,
Your fans are with thee.
Blessed are thou amongst Slovenians,
and blessed is the fruit of thy Slovenienness,
Dominance.
Holy Kopi, first of our centers,
Play for us screamers,
Now, and take us nearer to the hour of our Second Cup.
Amen.

And for the team, we pray.

Our Kings, these reigning Stanley Cup Champions Kings, who art in the second round of the mother fucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On our ice, because we fucking earned it.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for any flaws in our game.
And in the meantime give these dicks from San Jose a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the second round,
Past these ugly ass Sharks,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

Well, Jared and I finally had time last week to get through all the submissions, many of which were great, some of which… Come on guys, try harder next time. It was great to see all the fans and readers from around the country and Canada, many of whom had traveled long distances to meet the Kings at various events, after games and to get their picture with the Cup. I wish I could send everyone a ring, but you can’t all be winners.

If you’ll recall there were two contests. One was to take a picture of yourself in your Kings jersey representing in enemy territory. The second contest was open-ended and the only stipulation was to amuse us.

The winner of the first contest was Ottis from Tampa Bay, with this picture.

Here are some great runner up, photos… This first one came REALLY close, but Otto won out for his pronounced hatred of having to live in Tampa Bay and the variety of photos he sent.

Now the second contest at once provided a few awesome entries, and many disappointing ones. “Amuse us” was interpreted by many as sending me an email saying some facsimile of “Hey uh…. Can I have a ring, please, I’m a Kings fan.”

First, the runner-up, which I LOVED. If I ever decide to get rid of my “back-up” ring I bought for myself, it’s going to this guy, John from Kansas. This is his homage to a painting called “Bleeding Kansas”

Also, always appreciate a good Kings tattoo.

If I spoke Spanish and could understand anything in this song, Bugarin very well may have won

Seriously this is great.

There’s another video I was sent that while helplessly cute, distinctly ignored my “No Briggs” rule. I’ll figure out how to get it loaded on WordPress later…

But the winner was a story sent to us by Valyrie from Simi Valley (which if you’ve been there, might as well be out of state, fuckin’ boonies, or, as the Australian goofball who lives with me would say, “Bum-Fuck-E”. Don’t ask why they call it that, I have and I don’t understand the answer).

Grab a beer and a tissue and take a few minutes to read the following, which is word for word (save for omitting her last name) the email Valyrie sent me.

——-

Dear Surly,

My name is Valyrie. I have not been a hard core Kings fan like many of my friends are but I fell in love with the Kings back in 2001 when a really cool guy I met through some friends invited me out from Vegas for the weekend and to go to a Hockey Game. I had never seen a live game before but I loved the game and was intrigued. That guy was David Courtney. Not only did David take me to a Kings game, but the Kings lost and he never lost his enthusiasm and we went to “Pinks” afterwards.

David and I became fast friends and after my first game I was hooked. I got a game puck, people were pissin and moanin about “who the hell is the red head and why did she get the puck”. Some schmo behind me yelled “This is David Courtney’s girl…shut yer trap!” At the time I had no idea David was a Rock Star.

David and I dated briefly but knew pretty much from the start we were destined to be the Best of Friends. I loved him so much. And when he met Janet, his beautiful wife, I knew my friend was going to be happy for the rest of his days.

Whenever David & Janet were at the house the conversation always came around to the Kings and the Cup. He always defended their every action and play and never criticized the players because he knew the day would come where he would announce them as the Stanley Cup Champions. David & Janet missed my 2007 wedding in the Sequoias because it fell on the weekend of Frozen Fury in Vegas. We had a bit of a tiff over this because I needed my friend there when I got married and he was committed to a damn hockey game. But when he told me “Val, they are my team, my extended family…I have to go, I made a commitment to them” …..I knew…..I had been trumped by a hockey team.

So last May, David did us the honor of officiating my daughter Ellen’s wedding. To her there could be no one to do it except her Uncle David. So he did, and it was beautiful. I remember standing with him and my brother, a San Jose Sharks fan, and admiring Davids World Series Ring. My brother was in awe and David said, “Yep its pretty special, and when the Kings win the cup, they will look pretty snazzy together”. And they did just a couple of weeks later.

The Kings made their run and the Cup was theirs. And you know as well as anyone, how devastating the lock-out was to Kings fans, especially David. He just wanted them to raise that banner at Staples….he wanted to announce his boys around the Cup. He waited his whole career for that and I had spent the last 11 years waiting for it also.

The morning Janet called me to tell me David was gone, is one that is still raw. I still cant reconcile the thought that I will never see my friend again. But, I find some small amount of solace watching the boys play. I haven’t been back to Staples since David died. I was supposed to go once with Janet, but the logistics never worked out. Honestly I don’t know if I can be there without him in the building. In the 11 years I have lived in Southern California I have never been in the Staples Center when David wasn’t there….I never thought of that until just now.

So why should I ask for the Replica Ring? Hmm…good question. I had dinner with Janet some weeks ago and she brought out Davids ring. I was aghast at how big it is and how heavy. And the minute she put it in my hand I sobbed…….I sobbed for what seems like forever…..because that ring would never touch Davids skin. It had touched Janet’s, his Brother John, his sister Carolyn, his best friend Dan and now me…….but it never felt the smooth skin of the Kings greatest fan.

I would love to have a Replica ring from a contest where I could tell you my story about David and how he brought me to the Kings fold….how I went from someone who liked hockey, to someone who Loves the Kings…win or lose. I would love to have something that I can share with my daughter, that one day she can give to her kids…because we do crazy stuff like that in our family. Because it wont just be a replica ring…..its a symbol of the hard work and dedication to a sport that my friend loved so so much.

Even if this doesn’t get me the ring, thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell you my story of how I came to love the Kings. I miss my friend so much. My one consolation is that David lived to see the boys win….and we were there too.

Take Care….

As for me, I’ve held back my generally unfiltered response to any hockey related question because the question has bothered me since the first time I heard it. I could not put a finger, fist or penis on it until this morning and coincidentally, the “why” of that occurred to me at 90 MPH on the 55 freeway…the only thing that focuses me faster than my Harley and an open road is my wife, naked. No, my wife was not traveling naked and at high speeds this morning. That was last night after I got back from the game.

You have heard from others or thought of all the following, right?

“I would rather play the Ducks because…”

• We get to finally build a real rivalry
• It would be home ice for every game
• Less travel
• Bruce Boudreau is fat
• Corey Perry is the dog shit that dog shit wipes from the bottom of its boot
• The opportunity to punch an Anaheim Ducks fan increases by 1000%

“I would rather play the Sharks because…”

• We have some unfinished business with those fucks from the 2011 playoffs
• Less travel
• Build on the already festering hatred between these two fan bases while mutually enjoying Anaheim’s elimination
• The only reason any of us would ever have any reason to end up in San Jose

But that is exactly where all of you are wrong and need to, like me, focus.

You see a chick (or for you ladies that read the site, still a chick) at the end of the bar. Do you give a damn who you bump into on your way to her?

The road over which your tires cruise, the cars you pass or the pit stop you make are not the destination. They are a means to an end or an irrelevant distraction.

Ducks. Sharks. Non Sequitur, translated into English as don’t give a fuck.

When the game starts, the team on the other end, no matter what jersey they wear, only merit our wrath and execration, their fan base gripped with fear and self loathing. That is our duty as L.A. Kings fans. We welcome no one to our house. Those who enter and do not wear our crest and colors leave fortunate to have lived to tell the story of the time their team was decimated and, themselves, through our charity, escaped with only their self-esteem forever scarred.

We ask for no team.

There are no invitations.

Only hatred for all other 29 and those who do not bleed our colors and have not earned the right to call themselves Kings fans.

They are all the same to me.

As they should be to you.

Because you are L.A. Kings fans.

And that is your defining attribute, your most flawless, essential feature and what makes you my brother or sister and for whom I have nothing but love.

Kill them all, no matter who and from where.

Because we want the Cup, again.

The Kings are going to the second round!

This isn’t a post game. We aren’t going to analyze the 60 minutes of hockey played, how Drew Doughty scored the most Drew Doughty goal ever, vaguely reminiscent of his first NHL goal against the Colorado Avalanche. We don’t need to remunerate Dustin Penner’s buzzer beater or how the Kings, once again, came out victorious despite playing a vast majority of the game hemmed in their own zone.

No. Fuck all that.

For all intents and misguided purposes, we swept the St. Louis Blues for the second year in a row. How much do Blues fans hate us right now? Tomorrow I’ll wade through the minefield of twitter to find out. For now, just smiles.

So we drink and we cheer and we grin big, stupid, happy grins. And then come Sunday we scowl. Game 7 of Anaheim-Detroit determines our fate. If the Ducks win, then the series we have all anxiously been awaiting for 20 years is wrought. If the Red Wings win, a rematch with San Jose is upon us, with whom we owe a debt of smackitude.

Who do you want?

All night people asked me this question, and I truly don’t have an answer. I think I want the Ducks, but I just can’t bring myself to root for them to win any game. San Jose is playing great, and the Ducks are a team ripe for game hunting/murder. I find them flawed in a way their record wouldm’t suggest. All I know is that whoever we play, we essentially have home ice and I am going to a whole mess of road games. I guess I also want Anaheim because I’m less likely to be tackled by a group of angsty, rapey homophobes near Disneyland than I am in the severely hostile Bay Area.

Either team, I firmly believe we can defeat. In eliminating the Blues, we have sent packing the Western Conference’s other best defensive team. Yes, other teams pose a far greater offensive threat, but that is only in the way of talent, not in the relentless forecheck the Blues brought. Regehr is finding his rhythm with the team. Scuderi is settling down. Jake Muzzin tonight finally realizied in his bones that he can play solid NHL playoff hockey. The defense is set in front of a Jonathan Quick that seems to think he wasn’t quite good enough last year.

So rejoice tonight and fuck it, rejoice tomorrow!

On Sunday we reset, and brace for the storm to come on Tuesday or Wednesday.

Then we fight to remain. The second round is only as good as it looks from the rear view mirror of the third.

I love being the fan of a kick ass team.

I love being a Los Angeles Kings fan.

GO

KINGS

GO

On Monday, I ran two miles and then ate two pieces of chicken at El Pollo Loco. The Kings went on to win their second game of the series.

On Wednesday, I was about to stop running when I hit two miles, but thought “fuck it, a third mile for our third win”. I then ate three pieces of chicken at El Pollo Loco. Unsurprisingly, the Kings then won their third game. Related? Obviously.

I’ve never run four miles straight before. I’m a writer and video editor, neither of which necessitate getting off your ass for more than a trip to the fridge. Three miles almost killed me. Four pieces of chicken won’t be a problem, but you know what? For the Kings, I’m gonna run four miles today. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because if I didn’t and we lost I’d never forgive myself.

But we won’t lose.

I’ll run four miles, I’ll eat four pieces of chicken at El Pollo Loco and I’ll wear the same exact clothing, from underwear to jersey, for the fourth consecutive time and we will win our fourth game of the series. With all that I’m doing, it’s amazing they bother to even play the game. We’ve basically already won.

What are you doing to help ensure victory?

Now for the fourth time, we pray our new prayer.

Our Kings, these defending Stanley Cup Champion Kings, who art in the motherfucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On our ice, because it’s time to face a new team.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for playing too often in our own zone.
And in the meantime give these dicks from St. Louis a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the first round,
Past these ugly ass Blues,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

“Wait a minute, Drew isn’t a lefty,” I thought to myself a few minute ago. “This is Jack Johnson’s stick.”

And there you have it. Jack Johnson who led the L.A. Kings in overtime goals by a defenseman brought that good fortune to the Russian gem that replaced him.

Somehow, it worked out. And that is exactly what this series has been for the L.A. Kings as they lead the Blues 3-2 and head into Friday’s game 6.

I can’t offer much in terms of analysis. My mind is focused on Friday and nothing else. It’s less than an hour after our victory and I’ve already forgotten about this game. I just want 4…because 4 is what matters and anything less is an incomplete grade and a premature exuberance.

Game 6.

Friday night.

It’s all that matters.

The rest is irrelevant.

GO KINGS!

I don’t have the brain right now for thinking about the “keys” to the game tonight, or whatever you want to call it. What I will say though, is that despite playing a majority of the game down by a goal or two, at no point did St. Louis truly scare me on Monday.

Oh sure, they had their moments, and a healthy enough number of shots, but their goals were… Meh. We were the more dangerous team and were rewarded with the hard-fought and spectacularly talented goals. Didn’t take no goofy bounce off the glass or awful rebound for us to score – though a timely splayed Blue at center ice helped. Our offense finally broke through the way it does best, off marvelously skilled rushes created by forced turnovers and hard-nosed cycles that had the Blues defense reeling and our stars getting open in front.

These are the things that win will us game 5.

It will be interesting to see what kind of game we get, whether both teams crack down and we see another low scoring affair, or if the floodgates have now opened and not even the brilliant play of either goalie can stop it. Scratch that, Jonathan Quick can stop it.

Taking this one on the road is huge. That goes without saying. Winning our third game in a row puts double pressure on the Blues, sending them to the brink of elimination as well the fear that they could very well lose four in a row once more. Ain’t nothing like an nagging trauma to rear up and bite your ass just because you made the mistake of thinking about it. But I get slightly ahead of myself.

Game 4 was a turning point. In the playoffs, you are punished for failing to drive a stake through the eyeballs of your opponent when given the chance. Be it in a single period, as the Kings saw in game 2 when they failed to score a padding goal despite dominating the play. Or in a best of seven, as the Blues did on Monday when they couldn’t hold on to two leads and keep the Kings from tying the series.

We got a big old momentum shlong swinging between our legs right now and… I’m not going to finish that analogy.

It’s time to stop chatting and time to start cheering.

It’s time to pray.

Our Kings, these defending Stanley Cup Champion Kings, who art in the motherfucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On their ice, because it’s about damn time.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves not taking the series lead sooner.
And in the meantime give these dicks from St. Louis a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the first round,
Past these ugly ass Blues,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

**And it’s with more than one man.

By Kelsey Eyes

(Seriously, Surly and Scribe… Can’t I be Kelsey ScrumEye? I have some major street cred to keep up here)

HolyFuckShitGoddamnFuckShitFuckingFuck.

These most sonorous and poignant syllables came pouring from my lips like the Trevi Fountain in Rome the moment last night’s game buzzer sounded and a paltry amount of confetti cascaded to the ice. My vocal fragments were as majestic and wild as the paints and palominos seen galloping through the King’s Travel Alberta commercials: musculature rippling, mane untamed. But probably more like if there was a naked dude riding them: willy flopping freely to and fro, man-boobs delightfully a-jiggle. (Note: I’m told Surly’s father enjoys gratuitous nudity, so I’ll do what I can to oblige him.)

The Fontana de Trevi’s aqueduct bath waters are famous for their ability to grant true love after a secret admirer tosses three coins to the feet of the god Oceanus.

(See also: Poseidon, 1770, by Dustin Penner. Late neo-classical sculpture depicting Poseidon/Oceanus son of Gaia as a Germanic Shepherd. Also the iconography of the Shield of Surf, which is appropriated to him.)

***Nick Nickson, Poseidon is not a yacht for the love of God I still can’t believe you said that on TV.

But I shall regain my ground here at any moment. The win washed over me as I sat in contemplative silence stroking the beginnings of a luxurious playoff beard. I thought maybe I would write a schmaltzy article about how the three “coins” of this game tossed into the Fountain had created “love” aka a win and then we could all play a nice game of Puff Puff Pass later as long as our mom didn’t come downstairs with the laundry and Tab.

Maybe I would write about how I loved to see Carter and Kopi rush the net and snipe again, rather than play Shooter Tutor. This of course being where the top players of the NHL gather in Quick’s kids’ basement to take turns trying to score goals on a Mighty Mite net with half sized twigs (Nathan Gerbe kills it). But this stand and shoot method unfortunately eludes Elliott about as much as the spray tan eludes Daryl Evans and Nick Nickson.

In my imaginary article I could lavish lots of attention on how I was right about Penner. He scored one of the more classically attractive men… I mean, goals… we had seen in a while. He had shots on shots on shots on goal as well as some big boy hits. *insert photo of Oshie joining Miley Cyrus’ twerk team after a glorious check by Penner here*. And more importantly I would write how you all can choose between either sucking it or lavishing this Hockey Oracle with tributes in the form of McFlurry coupons for saying I was wrong about him. I also accept Paypal.

And my third “coin” in the Fountain would have been Martinez. My pound puppies Martinez, Muzzin and AHL-erby get quite the barrage of shit most of the time and tend to bear the burden of any loss on their tiny water-winged shoulders.  But after this game, Martinez has officially joined the power rankings of Penner and Justin “Energy with Purpose” Williams into my personal playoffs A-team (which has near the same clout as Oprah’s Book Club mind you). Martinez brings offensive skill to the lineup. He watches, makes quick decisions, and when he decides to go, he goes all the way.  On the 3 on 1 for the Penner goal, he is the third man on the attack. He creates more depth and aggressively rushes the net. He ate the Cinco de Mayo bull’s testes and is ready to rock (and by bull’s testes I mean Muzzin’s, because evidently they’ve gone missing).

Oh wait hang on, I’m going to fuck up the flow of this article with a late timeout in the spirit of Hitchcock….

You guys watching this whole Game of Throne’s thing? I hear the Beckhams are leaving LA. Can I nominate a new Staples Centre game where instead of matching players to numbers we see if anyone in the audience can locate Alberta on a map? Can we call it Are-You-Smarter-Than-No-One-Knows-Anything-About-Canada-Eh?

Hitchcock and his Fresh Look Colour Contact Lenses looked mighty pleased with being able to detract from our momentum and steal a goal from it. He prides himself on weasel tactics like that. Well, and sticking his Attack-Poodle Perron on Jonathan Quick. He was either pleased or he was thinking about the bacon-wrapped Dodger dog he would treat himself to for sticking to his meal plan so well the past 72 hours. He’s a difficult read; give me a few more games to enter into his psyche completely.

I’m honestly way too FUCKING PUMPED UP AND PSYCHED AND AMPED AND FREAKING EXCITED AND I HAD THREE FUCKING REDBULLS DURING THE GAME so I won’t go through the play by play. I want to prove to the haters that I know hockey, but honestly, if you could just submit some sort of multiple choice SAT-style test for me to take, making sure it has plenty of before-I-was-even-fucking-born knowledge to make that one guy who said I reek of “been a fan since Brown lifted the cup” happy, that would be great. I’ll pass with flying coloUrs (yep.) and we can move on and focus on our team. For the record, I probably reek of rink, which is similar to Eau de Bandwagoner, but with heavy notes of blood.

What I really want to say tonight is that I love Los Angeles Kings fans. I love all your beautiful faces. I love you during the regular season and I will happily chat with you in line for the bathrooms and also when I’m sitting next to you asking if you’re gonna finish those fries. But I especially fucking love you right now, during Playoffs. You are a pack of wild, rabid wildebeests. You eat, sleep and breathe this team. Your tweets are consumed by them. Your love for every single player on the team surges in your chest. You would take a hit from an oncoming bus for any of our players. And you’ve never even met them.

The Kings playoff crowd is completely electric. The energy coming out of every warm body in Staples Centre is like being at a really wholesome rave. Well, wholesome in the sense that I’m totally going to scream FUCK in front of your three year old. You know, shit for the kids. Doughty even remarked in an interview about how they fed off of the energy and it led to their first win on Saturday night. Even last night, on TV I could hear the roar of the crowd and grinned like a Cheshire Cat at how much I fucking love LA Kings fans. You noisy motherfuckers.

We start our own chants. We yell “Hey Blues fan!!!!….. YOU SUCK” en masse in line for Popcornopolis. We yell at our players, we yell at their players, we yell at Refs. I brought a Canadian friend of mine to the game, and he even remarked, “Wow, LA has some real hockey fans”. So there ya go, Los Angeles, the official condescending stamp of approval.

But most of all I am so ready to fucking go all the way with you. Meaning I am ready to win the Cup again. Let’s not make this awkward. Why? For no other reason than it buys me more time to spend with you, the fans. We all bump the same drug. Nothing makes us higher than that big win. Carter’s smirk, Quick’s furrowed brow, Williams’ look of surprise, Brown’s toothless grin, Penner’s tweets, Richards’ “conversations” with the refs. We understand each other and speak the same language.

Before the game, I sat at Yard House at a round table of King’s fans. All discussing the team and its players, etc. As I looked around eight seats, I saw: three women, six different skin tones, five differing hair lengths, two enormous King’s fist shaped gloves, two vintage jerseys, one game-worn jersey, three different citizenships, four different religions, six different socio economic backgrounds. We spanned the ages of 20 to 50 plus and had so many different experiences in our lives. These are wonderful people I doubt I would ever know if I did not live and breathe this world. And now they are my brothers and sisters, and I would take a skate to the throat for any one of them.

I joke I’m on the team. But I think there is something to it. We are the LA Kings. Our job, when we put on the jerseys and go to the games to cheer ourselves hoarse is the same as our boys on the ice. These last two home games, we were the win. It was that amazing energy we gave them that made the difference.

Don’t take these last paragraphs as a naïve statement that Tinkerbell won’t die as long as we believe, but just as a love letter to all of you. I know and you know there are things to be worked on. But tonight was such a great win and such a beautiful time, with you, the fans, I would rather save the critique for later. For now, let us, you crazy hockey maniacs, enjoy the moment, and enjoy each other. Let’s not let a moment of this slip by. The most amazing thing about watching incredible hockey is the way you can completely disappear into the game. You come up for air, four hours and six games later, hungry and wondering where your Saturday went, but completely energized by the power of the game. I hope all of you can let yourselves go during these playoffs. Any inhibition that prohibits you from screaming for your team, speaking your mind in fear that some old guy will tell you the “correct” way to think about a certain play, or starting a “LET’S GO KINGS!” chant; release it. It is holding you back.

Let’s get crazy. Let’s have no regrets this time around. Let’s not wish we never said the things we wanted to say or lived the moments we wanted to live. I’m choosing to live them. I’m here with you, LA Kings fans, and I’m looking at all your beautiful faces. I’m not holding back my screams for my team, no matter who in the first level shushes me.

This has nothing to do with a stupid fountain and making wishes for love. Because I already found love. I love 18 thousand plus screaming, rabid people calling out for St. Louis blood. So, throw some motherfucking coins at that, Hitchcock!

Seriously. Throw some coins at that, season passes are expensive.

I love you. I’m into crazy.

What will Darryl Sutter do to boost the offense? Maybe nothing. He has always championed the idea that you keep working and the goals will come. This series is quite easily the tightest in the league, every inch a mile and those miles stained with blood and sweat.

He could play Toffoli; dude’s just sitting there. But I don’t think he does, nor do I think he should. If Kopitar and Carter are having so much trouble finding space to breath and work their magic, what makes you think Toffoli, who is much more likely to get exposed under such strenuous conditions than he is to flourish, will be able to succeed where the mega millionaire Cup champions have failed?

He could screw with the lines, and once again I will say I think Penner or Clifford belongs at Richards’ left.

While this is a tightly coached series, coaching has nothing to do with opening the floodgates on the Kings offense, or hell, at this point cracking room for a steady trickle. Our top players need to take it upon themselves to not be denied. Kopitar and Carter have not shown quite the level of hunger and desperation necessary. That trend will not continue.

But enough talk. It’s all bullshit save for what happens on the ice. I want Staples louder than it was on Saturday, which was not loud enough. I want encroaching Blues fans heckled mercilessly. I want this game to start already because damn it, I’m antsy.

Right now, I just want to pray.

Our Kings, these defending Stanley Cup Champion Kings, who art in the motherfucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On our ice, because that’s just the way it has to be.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for a deficit and tie this series up.
And in the meantime give these dicks from St. Louis a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the first round,
Past these ugly ass Blues,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

Alas, I nestled on the couch, scowl firmly implanted on my brow and watched a game that was about as loopy as my head.

The neutral zone is the battle ground

The St. Louis like to back check and their defensemen close gaps. That is what, in layman terms, gives the impression they’re all over an opposing team. The L.A. Kings play a similar game which is also why, to quote Willie Mitchell from last season’s playoffs, it is like “looking into a mirror.” Where the Blues have the edge so far in this series is their consistency in doing so, whereas the Kings are not getting the same level of push from their forwards. Fortunately, when they do, L.A. has been good on the transition. If we continue to improve our breakouts and get the puck behind their D (a key component to defeating any team that clogs the neutral zone), a sustained forecheck will let us create and maintain the cycle which will then lead…

To the net boys!

The one goal we scored came from a 3 forward attack to the net. Alec Martinez made a great play and Slava Voynov took a shot that still has me wondering what daylight he saw in the moment he released it. But that shot does not come off his stick unless the center and wings commit to the net when the puck ends up there. It is not enough against any good defensive team to play perimeter. Time is wasted. The net is where all of the action is and the L.A. Kings, for the first time, appeared more committed to storming the paint. Such a commitment pays dividends in every facet of the game, both on O and D.

1. It creates second and third opportunities, which are the stuff of playoff goals.

2. It forces the Blues to collapse which in turn opens up the points when the puck is worked free and, therefore, provides shooting lanes.

3. If the Blues recover the puck, it allows an immediate back check, with shorter gaps to close and hinders the Blues’ ability to get out of their zone and on the counter attack.

Carter and Kopitar

“More” is not what I seek. Different is what I want. Anze Kopitar is not trying to get open and he sure as hell is not looking to use that magnificent wrist shot of his. I don’t know if Kopi had a shot on goal tonight. The same applies to Carter. While he, like Anze, plays a terrific two-way game, we are starving for high percentage shots on goal and I look to these two first for the offense. I don’t want more hustle, more effort or more anything. They already bring that. Just want to see Kopitar and Carter looking to get free for a pass, followed by a wicked release that snaps the twine.

Justin Williams

I don’t care for cats but if I was one, I would have one less life after watching him stop Leopold from putting it into an empty net.

Alec Martinez

Told you.

Perron’s Penalty

What a cluster of poor officiating that was.

Pray with Surly

It was good to read Jacob’s pre-game playoff prayer. It took me to the Cup run. Surly must sustain his faith-based fever, as I try to break my virus related one.

Scribe’s Three L.A. Kings Stars

3. Jonathan Quick

2. Slava Voynov

1. Justin Williams

Monday

You already know…

GO KINGS!

But now? Now I feel FAN-fucking-tastic. I get to see live playoff hockey tonight. Kings playoff hockey, no less!

The energy is already in the air. Can you feel the excitement? In mere hours the lights will dim, the cheers will go up and the Los Angeles Kings will take the ice. I may lose my voice before the first period ends. In fact, I plan on it.

I’ve already said everything I feel about the game tonight, what the Kings need to do to win; everything they have already done + a few goals. It’s not rocket science. It’s not some elusive mistress. It’s breakouts, forecheck, shots on goal. If any oomph was lacking the last two games, let we fans oomph it in there ourselves.

I had a little epiphany last night. It’s a new year. A new playoffs. This is obvious, but there was a part of me holding on, trying to recreate last year on my end. That was naive. So let’s try something a little different.

Our Kings, these defending Stanley Cup Champion Kings, who art in the motherfucking playoffs,
Hallowed be thy game tonight.
Thy Kingdom come if thy wills will be done,
On our ice, because that’s just the way it has to be.
Give us this day our goals, however many are needed,
So that we may forgive ourselves for letting two slip away.
And in the meantime give these dicks from St. Louis a sound slapping.
That we may be led past the first round,
Past these ugly ass Blues,
Amen.

Let’s shatter glass and pierce our neighbor’s eardrums. Beat our chests and celebrate crisp passes, crushing blows and dance under flashing red lights.

Let’s go watch some damn Kings playoff hockey.

And go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO

KINGS

GO

GO KINGS GO!!!

I know! I know!

It’s because Ellerby sucks! And, and and, Muzzin’s too inexperienced! And that fucking prick Jonathan Quick let in two suck ass game winners! Stupid Kopitar won’t shoot the puck. Regehr is slow and I miss my 2nd round picks. Stupid penalties. Stupid road games. Stupid hockey.

I won’t deny the truth these statements hold on the surface, but the hockey gods haven’t forsaken us, we have forsaken them. See, the hockey gods are just like us, they are hockey fans, just with a little more say in what goes down on the ice. So when you do the things they like, they help you do more of those things because it tickles them in their little godly panties. When you don’t do those things, they ignore you, because they aren’t here to answer your prayers, they are hear to soak up your love and feast on your cheers.

So what do the hockey gods love to see?

Breakouts and forecheck.

Breakouts and forecheck.

The more I think about the first two games, these are the only two things that really matter if we are going to attempt to simplify things in any sort of meaningful way. These are team-wide things, and a team-wide dedication to them will make up for the lack of any individual talent in achieving them or particular slumps certain millionaires are going through.

We have seen both good breakouts and good forechecks at times from the Kings in games one and two, but thinking back to those first dominant 40 minutes from last night, we never really had both going for us at one time for very long. The breakouts were damn good for those 40, but for most of it, the forecheck left the hockey gods feeling a little jipped. Oh sure, we had some great scoring chances, but the hockey gods are not all male and unfortunately, the female ones need some foreplay. Forechecking is foreplay.

I want to wring my hands at Kopitar and Carter too. These dudes needs to score. I wish Ellerby and Muzzin didn’t get frazzled and fuck up as often as they do (which isn’t as often as most bemoan). I really wish Scuderi looked anything like the player we had the previous few seasons, I wish King did a thing, Clifford kicked the crap out of everyone, Brown stopped going over the line and goddamn would I like Doughty to just take over the game, end to end rush that shit and put Brian Elliott in his place.

But I’m done wishing. I wish none of those things. I only care tomorrow for things I can control.

Like what jersey I wear. The volume of my voice.

Individual heroics will come when the team finds the fluidity of cohesion. When every single guy on a line, regardless of skill level, is digging out pucks and banging bodies like they were a low paid grunt just trying not to get sent back to the minors, the goals will come. When back’s don’t get turned on defense and pucks aren’t thrown in panic, but caressed to teammates you trust will be there, because they will.

These things home ice will bring.

Breakouts and forecheck.

And as if you needed to ask: This is another article by Kelsey Eyes.

I finally crawled out of my bunker after Tuesday night’s spectacular flub to the Blues, the scent of Crown Royal and Birthday Cake-flavoured ice cream radiating from my pores (note to Canadian Speller’s Anonymous: I’ve relapsed).  I spent my entire Wednesday in a creepy Kelly Ripa-tron state of denial, telling myself: Jonathan Quick was beyond human stopping 40 shots on goal, he had his one Playoff mistake, never again. As I gargled Listerine, I said aloud, “Darryl Sutter will put the lines back. He has to. He will put Kopi with Brown and Carter with Richards.” My mind was still mulling over Sutter’s statement about Jeff and Kopi being a hot new item, completely disregarding Carter’s bromance with Richards.

Before tonight’s game, I lit a candle for Kopitar, praying for the Earthly spirits to release him from his current affliction of team babysitter. He evidently felt the need to step back from aggressive sniping into the role of being well placed for every missed pass and concentrating solely on backcheck. Lately, instead of seeing Kopi rush the net with Grade A scoring chances, I see him circling back to collect passes, spoon feeding chances to the younger set. Kopitar as the Mark Wahlberg of the ice: once a promising white rapper and now just a diaper-changer to four screaming children. Our beloved Kopitar had seemingly stepped into the early-season Doughty scoring mindfuck. Fans had not seen a Goal-pitar in 17 games, and during the first playoff game he produced 0 out of 6 faceoff draws.

My worry for FrankenKopi, cataloguing Sutter’s line changes and strategizing how to combat the Blue’s forecheck was completely shot to shit when I heard Quick had left the ice after pre-game warmups, bent over and grasping his leg. Kings fans have a huge amount of respect for Bernier and what he’s been able to accomplish this season, however, the blood of the 2012 Stanley Cup opponents was on Quick’s hands. We needed Quick. We needed him not only to psychologically redeem himself after his game one mistake, but we needed him to comfort us in a time when the lines were changing, Kopitar was in a draught and we spent so much time battling in our zone. Bernier is a world class goalie and deserves a starting position, but Quick is our security blanket. But like a Harry Potter security blanket that will attack people, burst into flames, and do your Muggle Studies homework for you whilst you kick it with Bearded Playoff Hagrid and drink Butter Beer.

I could finally settle in to watch the game once I heard that Quick was heading out onto the ice as starting goaltender. Oh wait. I couldn’t fucking watch this happen, I had to kick it all Renaissance and listen to the radio, because DirecTV cock blocked my game. What are we going to do tonight, Brain? Once I have eliminated DirecTV and Fox West, Pinky, my plan to take over the world will be complete. Are you pondering what I’m pondering?

The first period came to me in rainbow Technicolour. It was exactly what I wanted and it was beautiful. We had an early powerplay when Brownie was tripped, and Kopitar had a shot on goal. My expectations soared. We received another power play courtesy of Schwartz and a Richards shot on goal. Yes and yes. Done and doner. We were moving the puck exactly like we needed to be: two quick plays to get it out of the zone, speed through the neutral zone, keeping our five in tight like a pair of Daisy Dukes with crisp connecting passes. Forwards were moving back, making themselves more available and we were getting the pucks in deep to establish the forecheck. Pre-game, Fraser used the word getting “ready” for tonight’s game. Our defense was about as ready as a teen mom during game one. They weren’t ready to go in to retrieve pucks and so they didn’t get them out. A prime example of this is a Blue’s goal from a bad clear by Scuderi. But it looked like in game two we had corrected every single one of my gripes and were ready to play the Los Angeles King’s Collection for Target brand of hockey.

But then somehow the Blues’ stupid-fucking-penalty-icitis became airborne. A sloppy change (which also occurred during game one) led to too many men on ice and a power play for the Blues. The goal horn became enraged by the stupidity and decided to randomly sound, causing every space cadet in the crowd surfing Facebook to jump to their feet and cheer. It was then that the penalty-icitis became straight up Mad Cow disease and caused every Blues player to lose their damn minds. The Blues coaches and players had spent so much time and energy telling everyone, “we’re big,  we’re physical, we’re here to crush some bitches, trust me, I’m a doctor” that the team went into physicality overdrive and got stuck. Reaves received a high sticking call well after the whistle was blown first period and never stopped acting cray the entire game. Even calm as a cucumber Kopitar was riled up by a pushing and shoving Jackman before a faceoff. It was this coked-up, undisciplined style of hockey that led to a 5 on 3 for the Kings and a goal by Richards from Kopitar deflecting off of Brown at the top of the crease. Insert a Scrapbook photo save by Quick and we had a very solid 20 minutes of hockey first period.

Even though CNBC had their little gabfab bitchfest segment called “LA’s Nasty Edge” detailing some pretty sexy shots of our boys delivering what they refer to as “cheap shots”, I am still very proud of the maturity of my team. It is important for the team, of course, to have an emotional investment in the game and it is also necessary to play with an edge. But a great team plays with discipline. The Blues trash talked, cheap shot, and threw their weight around the entire game. Our boys stood firm, played rough, but maintained level heads. They never went into fuck-the-game-prepare-to-die mode, not even once and continued to focus on what was important. With the small exception of Jordan Nolan’s slashing call in the 2^nd period, when he naively succumbed to the bullshit and cost us a worthless penalty.

You might also call the penalty for the monster hit by Penner on Backes worthless. But as you know, I have a soft spot for Pancakes and I like to see him all fired up. Plus, I think Backes should try out for the NBA with his maudlin injury performance. So this ref says: meh.

Random side note: totally loving the effort by Williams lately even though he looks like J.C. Chasez from ‘N Sync. Just wanted to share that with the class. The Wonder Twins (aka Muzzin and Ellerby) also looked much more composed during this game, communicating and moving the puck to the forwards quickly. I also find it hilarious that Richards ended up being a total stud muffin tonight after Sutter was saying he was terrible on the road.

And then the third period happened, and we lost that lovin’ feeling. We had a bowl of spaghetti and I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor, and then my poor meatball caused Berglund to score. Good things happen to those who wait to shoot, and drive the net to score on the rebound, yaddya yaddya… Blues can suck my nuts.

Brownie tried to recapture our lead with a dramatic curl and “FML I’m crashing into the goal post thigh first”, but it seemed as though both he and Elliott rubbed some dirt on it and were okay. But our tight passes had escaped us like the skin of an Orange County housewife considering botox. We couldn’t get the puck out of our zone quickly and in a similar fashion to game one, there was a last minute goal. Only it wasn’t ours. Harrassin’ Jackman wristed one in on a rush with 50.4 seconds left on the clock to win the game for the Blues.

And the word we are left with is Adversity. Well another good one would be Faceoff. As in, you know, winning one (not directed at you, Jeffrey who won 6 out of 7. I’m talkin’ to you under 50%ers. You know who you are). But right now I’m going to go all Tony Robbins on you and help you achieve your dreams.

So we are down two games. I’m not sure if you had Stanley Cup amnesia, but we’re the LA fucking Kings. We are the champions of the underdog. We love to be underestimated and show you what we can do. Fraser also used the phrase playing like we have “targets on our backs”. We are now in the spotlight, being watched and are expected to perform, and we aren’t accustomed to that.

This is why I love my team, not even being from Los Angeles. We are not what you are accustomed to. We win when we goddamn feel like it. We want you to think you have us licked, and we will come back stronger and knock you on your ass. The first period tonight proved we have what it takes to defend the Cup. Now we improve the face off and work on stretching the intensity and ability over the course of 60 minutes. Game one I didn’t even recognize my team. Tonight I saw the boys I love. I know their determination and yours. Like Elle Woods said in Legally Blonde when teaching a friend how to seductively retrieve a pencil from the floor, “you’ve got all the equipment; you just need to read the manual”. We have the pieces to win again and we demonstrated them tonight, our boys just need to stay focused throughout the game like the game’s got really big boobs. And take those faceoffs like maybe they could see them later.

Hey there, buddy. Wanna get some ice cream? Will that make you feel better? It’s gonna be okay, you know. We got this. You wanna know how I know?

After a King’s shot on goal, Harassin’ Jackman and Co. are getting chippy and squawking like spring chickens, and Jeff Carter skates off in the other direction with his bemused smirk. We are poised, disciplined and confident. And that is the attitude of repeat Stanley Cup Champions.

But I don’t know anything about hockey so this is all just spitball, eh??

The Kings did not play well as a team in game one. Little hasty with the passing, little slow with the forecheck, lotta hesitation on the shooting. They know how to fix this and tonight they will.

We have seen the best the Blues have to offer. They were marvelous throughout game one and for all their shots and incessant pressure, it took a massive fuck-up by Quick for them to put the game away. They came out with a full head of steam, but racers and sixteen year olds will tell you it’s never a good idea to shoot your wad early. Unless you’re Mike Tyson, but the Blues aren’t Mike Tyson, even if Tarasenko looks like he’s tasted human flesh.

Things I want to see in game two: Scuderi making smart outlet passes, Ellerby closing gaps, Muzzin knowing when to pinch, Doughty wristing the puck, Carter with Richards, Brown with Kopi, though it doesn’t seem like those two will happen, but oh, while we are talking about Kopi, it can only be good if gets over his shootthefuckingpuckaphobia. This series, this playoffs, this team, ride heavily on Kopitar’s ability to be the best player on the ice. Selke worthy defense isn’t enough.

I also want to see the Kings get a little nasty. Much of their success starts with dominating the physical game. I want to see Ken Hitchcock’s neck fat waddle furiously “W-w-where was the call on that hit wref?!”

“Sorry Ken, that was clean. Well, clean if you don’t count Barrett Jackman’s blood on the ice.”

I’m switching my shirt and jersey tonight.

We muse,

Kopitaire, Kopitaire. Wherefore art thou Kopitaire?
Deny thy nature, shoot thy puck!
Or, if thou wilt not, pass to Cartaire.
And he’ll bury that shit.

We pray,

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

Amen.

Go fucking nuts.

GO FUCKING NUTS!

GO KINGS GO!