. . .you know, like dicks.
Sorry. No. In all seriousness. Most people thought this series would go to seven anyway.
Going up 3-1 and having two consecutive chances to put the Lightning away is more than we might have asked for, considering the depleted offense and stellar defense that for some reason takes drugs every now and then and looks ridiculous and asleep.
But, we don't hate. We believe in the integrity of this team to band together and win games. So much of the battle in hockey, in any sport, especially in a 7-game elimination series, is mental. Pens didn't show up mentally, sparking nine thousand (approx.) conspiracy theories and "reasons" (note the quotes) presented by dicktouchers on Twitter. ~*~*~* AFTERNOON GAME *~*~**~**~*~*******. Pens defense was weak. Chances weren't capitalized on early in the game. Brother Steven called the LDS Church and they prayed up some favors to Utah Jesus. Shut the fuck up.
Every game is do or die, every game should be treated as one that you either win or go home. Tampa forcing a game 7 from their home gives them all the momentum in the world. They are already cocky as all hell. They had their top power play unit on the ice time after time, regardless of how many goals they were ahead. They capitalized on every quality chance they had, it seemed. Our wins aren't going to be pretty, but we can do the same thing. A lot of growing up to do between now and Monday.
We're going to pull a Pens Report and just post music that we think is helpful, like we did last season, except it's generally allowed for us to do this since we don't get paid by the Penguins to blog about the Penguins or provide timely, relevant hockey information.
Cursed, going on the road, ain't nothing funny anymore.
Sorry for fake!cap. No stage play could do this justice.
Inspirational somethingorother to come shortly.
Washington could very well become the second team to advance, so put your eyes on that and become the biggest Rangers fan ever.
Or not. Whatever.
Take on all the guilt.
Today, we were bitches. Tomorrow can be different.
battle hasn't even begun when it gets like this.
. . .you know, like dicks.
Fucking Bizarro World we live in.
We didn't RIP the Coyotes yet, so here's a heartstring-tugging photo of Bryz:
Until next year, babe.
Go to a beach and catch up on your Socrates.
Last night, Boston tied up their series, thanks to a goal by Michael Ryder, who, true story, is kind of adorable despite being Bruins' fans requisite scapegoat:
Carey Price looks like he needs a Bud Light and a Newport.
Chicago just won't die. Luongo sucks. We are so unbelievably over this Canucks/Hawks thing. It is a bad angsty slash fiction that just needs to end, preferably with Chicago not advancing.
And, lastly, the San Jose Sharks are walking tall with a 3-1 series lead. Hopefully they still know that anything can happen:
We love that we can't predict the future. It's what makes sports fun. And life. Baking, less so.
We don't even know what to do about a noon Saturday playoff game. CBC wants the Montreal game 5 in primetime, so we're all going to have to gargle cocks and get out of bed bright and early. What do you suggest? We'll get the ball rolling with a James Neal Blingee:
In today's installment of Penguins Epics, we take a look into the deranged lives of the Pittsburgh Penguins dichotomy between frat boys and responsible students, a jointly exhaustive system.
Please drink along.
We are in the dorm rooms of the Pittsburgh Penguins. DWAYNE ROLOSON has somehow crept into the room MAX TALBOT and JAMES NEAL share, undetected, and waits until MAX is within ear range to appear.
So guys, I hear that today is Spring Fling.
What was that?
MARTY ST. LOUIS
You know, Spring Fling. What, Max, you didn't start with kegs and eggs? Do you guys want to hang out? I have some beers back in my room.
MAX TALBOT looks panicked momentarily. His eyes are wide. He pulls at the corners of his jersey.
Max, don't listen to him. He's so lame. And we have a project due in the morning, for which you have done nothing.
As NEAL speaks, Talbot rummages in his closet. From inside, he pulls two forties. He twists the cap off of the first one, and begins drinking. He may also be crying, but one can't be sure.
Max, come on man, I've got a paper due in the morning, we can't do this.
DO YOU HAVE ANY DUCT TAPE?
I do. Also, isn't it funny that spring fling falls on 4/20 this year?! How crazy! I could get us some pot if you guys wanna come with me.
(Sobbing openly as he begins duct-taping the forties to his hands.) GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE MAN, I AM BUSY, CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?!
Elsewhere, LETESTU, KENNEDY and MICHALEK are on the quad in a smoke circle, laughing about something. DWAYNE ROLOSON happens upon them, frisbee in hand.
Hey guys...can I join in?
So weird, that's exactly what your mom asked us last night.
Hahaaa, yeah she did.
You need some silverware, cause you have been seeervedddd. Hahaaaa.
Come on, guys, let's go get some tacos.
ROLOSON walks away, stunned by the coldness of the incredibly stoned boys on the grass. They laugh and point at him as he walks away. He heads to another place on campus where people surely won't be so cruel: the library. There, BEN LOVEJOY sits hunched over a textbook, while ARRON ASHAM furiously scribbles notes nearby.
Hey guys, you working on that presentation for women's studies like Max and James?
(Looking up, annoyed.) What? Who are you?
Very funny Arron. Do you guys need some help?
What? Are you even in our class? Get out of here.
DWAYNE ROLOSON sighs and walks away, heading home where he will contemplate hanging himself with a tie for the rest of the evening.
Man I fucking hate that guy.
I know, right?
MARTY ST. LOUIS runs screaming, naked, through the library. ASHAM and LOVEJOY barely look up.
Didn't he just get out of his alcohol classes?
That guy's the fucking worst.
Meanwhile, MARC-ANDRE FLEURY is at a relatively calm house party up the street from campus. The party goes sour when SEAN BERGENHEIM and his CREW rolls up.
Where the fuck is the keg?
Weee 'ave some Coronas.
Yeah, that's gay as shit, I need something better. Come on guys, let's get some mad beers in here!
Um. Are you guys friendz weeth Kris, or...?
Who the fuck is Kris? I need mad beers!
SEAN BERGENHEIM screams about mad beers until someone find him a bottle of Everclear, which he immediately begins chugging. Moments later, he is doubled over, vomiting on MARC-ANDRE'S lap.
Thees ees horrlbe! Now what weel I wear to zee bars tonight?
Back at the dorm rooms, TALBOT is laying unconcious next to the toilet, a contented smile on his face. JAMES NEAL stands nearby, kicking him repeatedly in the ribs.
You piece of shit, wake up.
Do I seriously have to do this whole thing myself?
JAMES works through the evening to finish all of the work he and MAX were supposed to do for their project. When MAX is capable of walking again, he helps him out the door and to SIDNEY CROSBY'S house, where they are all finishing up their spring fling. Everyone meets them there, at varying levels of intoxication.
So, how was spring fling? Malks and I have been playing Mario Kart all day.
It was messy. You should have been there.
No, we good here. I beat Sid with Princess Peach.
EVERYONE laughs and settles in. MAX vomits some more in the bathroom, joints are circulated, and everyone is pleased with themselves.
It may have been the best Spring Fling ever.
In tonight's installment of our stage odyssey, which we encourage you act out at home with your friends and family, rotten deals go down regarding the importation of ponies to Tyler Kennedy's ranch, the use of elbows and hands, and a hazy judgment day looms in the future.
Underneath a palm tree on some anonymous beachfront street, STEVE DOWNIE lights a fat Cuban cigar with a match from a tattered matchbook. CHRIS KUNITZ approaches in a white linen suit. DOWNIE picks tobacco and the flesh of kittens from between his teeth.
I didn't think you were coming. I thought you were scared.
Steve, you know what we're doing is illegal. I can't abide by it.
Make it look like an accident. I'll reward you handsomely. I have certain standards to uphold. Coli and I--
Oh for the love of Christ, Steve, do you really fucking call him Coli?
Shut up, Kunitz. You know what happens when you try my fucking patience. After an intermission or two, I'm a goddamn animal. . .
A stupid animal, that can't even feed itself, and--
You're going to make a mistake. And I'm going to unload these ponies whether you like it or not.
My client doesn't want your ponies. They are imported. We only trade in American and Canadian goods.
Throw an elbow tonight, Chris. Throw it and he can have all the ponies he wants. You know how desperately he seeks them. You know how he cries at night.
A solemn expression falls upon the face of CHRIS KUNITZ. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks around nervously. MARC-ANDRE FLEURY is seen on the beach, running through the surf with his harpoon. Unsuspecting birds are being slaughtered in his wake.
We don't need it.
I've talked to my associates. Trust me. You will. Heh. Have you ever watched a kitten struggle to escape your hands?
No! Jesus, Steve. (pause) This is just chaos for chaos' sake?
It's what I do. That, and murder.
STEVE DOWNIE walks towards the beach, a trail of cigar smoke tinted pink by the sunset in his wake.
A dreadful din fills the St. Pete Times Forum as STEVE DOWNIE launches into BEN LOVEJOY behind the net. MAXIME TALBOT is the next man to touch the puck. He valiantly skates up-ice and scores. STEVE DOWNIE maintains a glint of purpose in his eyes after the goal.
What did I tell you guys? You're never going to be safe.
Suck it, Downie, you piece of shit! (Scores a goal.)
Oh just you wait. . .I make good on my promises.
As TYLER KENNEDY sits on the Penguins bench, he hears a voice in his ear. He cannot discern what the voice is saying, but he is instantly reminded of his pony ranch, its location a secret from all except his most trusted confidantes. He thinks of how the ranch has fallen on hard times, how many of his assisting hot babes have had to return to modeling despite their love of horses and equestrian activities. He needs more ponies.
(The sounds of delighted, pampered horses fills the air.)
STEVE DOWNIE directly taps TYLER KENNEDY on the shoulder.
I'll give you one chance, kid. One chance. . .one chance to get some ponies. Do you hear me?
Offstage, the screams of SIMON GAGNE can be heard as CHRIS KUNITZ has elbowed him in the head. No one can be sure of his intent. The replay has not yet gone up on the board.
I knew he'd crack. Be afraid, kid. Be very afraid.
What on earth are you talking about? I just wanna go home to my ranch, I just--
Oh, you'll go to your ranch all right. Do you want my protection or not?
TYLER KENNEDY, after much strife, and further offenses by MARTIN ST. LOUIS and the egregious ELK AKA NATE THOMPSON, eventually scores the game-winning goal.
STEVE DOWNIE spits at center ice and opens up his box of Cubans.
A cavalcade of shady vans pulls up behind the Penguins' team bus as they attempt to leave St. Pete Times Forum. Each van has a trailer on the back of it, a hulking mass moving inside. MATT COOKE looks out the window in horror.
What's going on out there?
I think. . .I think they're ponies.
God damn it.
Are they. . .are they for me? Because I won the game?
Those are tainted ponies, Tyler. You can't have them. Or someone will spearhead an investigation. I think they've been illegally acquired. Matt, I can explain--
Bullshit, Chris. You know how many people already think this is my fault. We can't have this shit following us around. . .
Leave it to me.
SIDNEY CROSBY exist the bus, and invidually coaxes ten to fifteen ponies out of their trailers. He smiles at them, looking positively beatific in the glow of the streetlights in the humid Florida air. He walks off towards the highway. The ponies follow.
I really wanted those, guys. . .I really did.
You earned 'em, kid. But we can't be part of this racket anymore. I mean, did you see me calling for any ponies while Rupper was humping me?
No. . . (depsondently)
Let's get this bus going, boys.
What about Sid?
He can handle it. Just move. MOVE.
As the bus pulls away, Steve Downie can be seen blowing smoke into the night air from the shadows.
Not included in this stage play is the struggle of James Neal, as it was deemed too inappropriate for children.
GO PENS. Shit.
It's only part of the way through the first round, and we get the distinct sensation that everyone feels like they've been beaten over the head with a sackful of bricks.
Let's have a pity party.
The New York Rangers are down 2-0 in their series with Washington, because Michal Neuvirth woke up one morning and decided he wanted to be a real boy. We are investigating this oversight, but it's Srs Business time for the Rangers right now. Their game is currently in progress.
The Preds and the Ducks are tied 1-1, middle aged women everywhere fan themselves.
We don't know who actually goes to Preds games, btw, which should make today extra interesting.
The last time we were at their arena it was full of cowboys.
That pesky Canucks-Blackhawks series. Luongo is on everyone's fantasy team, at least everyone who wants everyone else to hate them.
Chicago sucks and they deserve to die. Except Jonathan. Jonathan can live.
We have no idea if everything is going to be okay or not with everything, but we believe.
Once again, we present to you a one-act stage play, which we encourage be acted out with friends while doing some heavy sorrow-drinking. Dwayne Roloson reappears in his role as the duck, with guest star Nate Thompson as the elk.
Pittsburgh is a metaphysical playland again, but not in such a happy way.
We see a familiar pool at center ice. A duck floats upon it and an elk drinks, seemingly innocent, at its banks.
Never you mind my friend. Just watch and see.
The PITTSBURGH PENGUINS step onto the ice as the pool freezes over once again. ROLOSON gets into position, staring down MARC-ANDRE FLEURY from across the ice. THOMPSON scrambles across the ice to get to his station. Elks aren't good with ice.
You gonna be okay down here, Flower?
Yes. You promised juiceboxes.
Woooo! Do you see there, my duck friend? You just wait until their guard is down. Brewer had some of my muffins this morning. Do you...do you like muffins?
Suddenly, it looks like someone has done a charity event to let the special kids put on some Bolts gear and skate around on the ice.
Yes, good question. The special child also had a muffin. Would YOU like a muffin?
Let me show you what muffins can do for me.
That's what I thought...
What the shit are those animals doing on the ice?
LOL pay attention, we're floating
ROLOSON nibbles at his muffin he got from the mysterious elk. It tastes kind of gritty and full of pill matter, but he is a duck so he doesn't notice. He is just happy to have bread. A feeling washes over him; he stands on his head, in a duck display of delight.
Can someone please seriously tell me why there are animals on the ice?
Good job, Max! What to distract 'em!
But seriously guys, what the fuck?
PITTSBURGH PENGUINS TEAM
Come on man, stop distracting us. You're being crazy. Now I have to go get this fucker.
But guys, there is a fucking elk and a duck right there.
The ice goes dark as the teams leave to the runways. TALBOT hangs his head as he stands in a spotlight, delivering a monologue everyone misses because they were out getting nachos.
The lights go on over the ice as both teams take their place. ROLOSON is twitching in his net, quacking at random.
Guys, maybe we should actually pay attention to max.
No, I mean, look at what is happening. Something is right here. I found a feather in my breezers between periods.
Seriously, nothing can get into that net, either. But there's gotta be a logical-
IT IS A FUCKING ELK, RIGHT THERE, ARE YOU KIDDING ME.
OHLUND skates up to the net as everyone on the PENGUINS looks over to investigate. The team sees him pick up a muffin as a duck quacks in the distance. OHLUND bites the muffin and immediately taps the puck into the net.
Holy shit, Max was right.
Alright, boys! Let's go get high in Tampa!
Guys, it's a fucking elk, do you see it? It's ri-
WE KNOW, TANGER.
Guys, I told you this entire time.
Shut up, Max. At least now we know. And if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, I can eat it alive while it's ducklings watch like a duck. Let's go to Tampa.
I hate all of you.
So what happens on these dark days between playoff games?
What happens on an average Thursday night in the springtime, waiting for another hockey game to start?
Same old shit.
Philadelphia fans are being classy as shit.
Someone get them a monocle already, they are so fucking fancy.
Regardless of how you feel about them, some hockey players are wearing some damn nice suits this evening.
Let's appreciate a well-tailored suit.
Thank you, Mister Sabres.
Detroit is lying about something.
Somehow they still exist. Lolz, rite?!
Also, on these offdays we have time to think about worthless things.
Such as -
Remind you of THIS:
Also, we should say:
We're just sick of seeing him in a suit. We thought it'd be nice to bring Sid back into the mix for pretend.
Hell, while we're at it, enjoy this for a second:
Nostalgia aside, the boys are doing great. We're freakin' proud of our team. They have OVERCOME ADVERSITY and all that jazz. We're looking forward to the rest of the series, and the next series, et cetera.
You know how it is.
In this short one-act stage play, which can be acted out at home with friends, Dwayne Roloson is a duck. That's really all you need to know. Also, Pittsburgh is a metaphysical playland.
The world is new and dark as the sun sets on the city of Pittsburgh. At the center of the Consol Energy Center ice, a small pool of water can be seen glistening in the lights. Two figures emerge from the pool, which appears to be eternally deep.
Shhh, Dwayne. This is important. You have to get your shit together, okay??
The PITTSBURGH PENGUINS step onto the ice. The pool at the center freezes over, and ROLOSON waddles towards his net, quacking softly. MARC-ANDRE FLEURY sharpens the harpoon in his hand.
Do you guys think you got this?
Sure, we got this. Just. . .go over there.
I'm back here for you guys, you know, if you need me.
KRIS LETANG draws his sword, and tries his secret unicorn call, waiting for the majestic stag to come galloping over section 122, but he hasn't seen his friend in far too long.
We'll be fine, Marc. You just sit there and look pretty.
The first period begins, and FLEURY must hold the fort during repeated attacks. His harpoon feels heavy in his hands. Meanwhile, ROLOSON quacks behind the play.
A heavy fog lifts as the TAMPA BAY LIGHTNING crowd around DWAYNE ROLOSON in the dressing room. He is crying pathetically.
MARTIN ST. LOUIS
We have to help him. We have to do something.
I can only do so much, guys. Someone is going to have to do something. Victor? You alive over there?
That's right! We're going to get them in the third, right boys?
STEVE DOWNIE gnaws on bones in the corner. He stands up, and stands over ROLOSON, drooling.
You know what happens to ducks when they die?
They float. Feet up. Heh. . .heh. . .
Shut up, Steve! You're scaring him! We have to save him!
He should be scared, kid. . .
The team gathers and exits the room, as fog fills it once more.
ALEXEI KOVALEV sees nothing but darkness. His vision has gone black and he feels pain and uncertainty. He drags himself up, and light returns to him. He realizes that he is alone. The puck is on his stick. He puts it behind DWAYNE ROLOSON without having to think. The deed has been done.
There is nothing all around but light, and noise. But the journey is hardly done.
MARTIN ST. LOUIS
This isn't fair! (Bleeds)
Fuck you! (Scores)
This is really, really quite unfair, you guys!
Don't do shit unless I tell you you can do shit, men. Hold the line. Don't. . .don't. . .
The light and noise overwhelm the city.
While we are happy, we know, no one is safe.
Apologies in advance for this. I had a fever today.
The Pens literally did the "grind these bitches down" play.
WHAT A SERIES ALREADY. More later.
all things were disasters and the Pens prevailed 5-2. Mike Comrie scored the first preseason goal for the Pens, and the last regular season goal this season. He has bookended the Penguins' season of love, hate, and crying.
We already knew that we were up against Brother Steven, Midgets, and Cake-Eaters for at least 2 weeks, so we could have laid down and gone to bed, but we didn't. We kicked ass. Eric Godard's assist will give you approximately 28 children.
Tonight determines every single seed.
Chicago can be pushed out if Dallas beats Minnesota. Which would be lols.
Not that the playoffs are about lols. They are about all of the serious business we have to attend to.
But we all know what you're really waiting for, and that is:
THE OFFICIAL CONCLUSION TO THE PUCK HUFFERS FANTASY HAIRLEAGUE TOURNAMENT!!!
Here are some notes before we proceed:
1. We have arbitrarily (sort of) determined that Hair Points can no longer be obtained, as of the conclusion of ROOT Sports' broadcast of today's game versus the Thrashers. The last Hair Points acquired were Tyler Kennedy's interview that was shown on ROOT prior to its joining the next program in progress, whatever the hell that was. If any interviews go up on the Pens site or if any photos surface, well, suck it.
2. Things like the broadcast of Shirts Off Our Backs and the team portrait did not count towards Hair Points since nearly everyone got them and it would have been annoying to add them up. We didn't watch every episode of Inside Penguins Hockey, either. If you did and want to contest that points from those web-shows were not included. . .whatev.
3. TEAMS THAT HAD SUBSTITUTIONS TOWARDS THE SECOND HALF OF THE SEASON HAD TO BE CALCULATED ENTIRELY BY HAND. Basically, if you asked for a sub before the midpoint of the season, we gave it to you straight. If you submitted late in the season, you were officially The Worst Person, but I did the math anyway, because I love you. If mistakes were made, or you think this method is unfair, feel free to write an angry letter.
4. We also cannot guarantee that we recorded every single legal instance of hair. We are not superhuman and we do not have magic powers.
5. If you are a winner, we still don't know what we're getting you, but it's going to be something good. You will receive it before the start of next season for sure, and probably much earlier.
6. If you submitted your entry after the deadline time, we deleted your entry because we're awful, and you haven't been counted. I noticed that a couple of people submitted substitutions for teams that, I late realized, did not actually exist. So if you don't see your team in the list. . .that's the reason why, or it never reached us in the first place. When you're trying to run a 157-team fantasy game on Google Docs spreadsheets, that's what happens. Sorry! Better luck next time.
7. We recently unearthed some entries that for some reason didn't make it onto the spreadsheet or were accidentally deleted. They have been logged towards the end of the spreadsheet of teams--sadly, none of them were winners.
So without any other bullshit:
CLICK HERE TO SEE THE WHOLE SPREADSHEET
Instructions for viewing:
1. the "summary" tab is kinda useless.
2. click on teams, and hit ctrl+F to search for your name or your team's name
3. or just scroll a lot??? Depending on your screen size, you may have to scroll sideways to view parts of the sheet.
4. click on "players" to see each player's points total.
5. Click on "Logs" to see each of 766 reported instances of hair.
6. Setup shows a list of possible players and how much shit was worth. Bonus was for facial hair which may not be accurately tabulated at all. Many In-Game instances were worth 3 and were changed manually, due to official rules stating that between-periods and warmup/postgame hair appearances were only worth 3 points.
7. If you have any questions about anything, feel free to send an e-mail.
We will be entertaining:
FOUR FIRST PLACE WINNERS WITH 654 TOTAL POINTS:
Jessica Portner, Melissa Fritz, Christina Nowak, and Lily Repa.
ONE SECOND PLACE WINNER WITH 635 TOTAL POINTS:
ONE THIRD PLACE WINNER WITH 615 TOTAL POINTS:
Congratulations to the winners. We will be e-mailing you if we do not have your mailing address for prizes.
You can feel free to refuse your prize, in protest to the fact that the Penguins sometimes did not refuse the power play when it may have been prudent.
the tang hair compels you.
the unicorn will prevail.
NOTE: Sorry for the delay, the server went down when this post was being made.
They TRIED to take it all away from us so many times this season.
"They" being the haters, the dicktouchers, and the universe.
The Forces were really on their game trying to make sure the Penguins went the way of the former Phoenix Coyotes, moving towns and reinventing themselves as a team, hoping no one would remember their sorry past.
But you know what, ya'all can suck it.
We are not about to become the Oklahoma City Bulldogs.
MOST BADASS GOAL EVER
It seemed like there were about one hundred thousand Islanders in front of the net.
And not in the "oh, you're so skilled defensively" way, more like in a "oh my god get the fuck out of the way, what are you retards doing here" sort of way.
Everyone is trying to plow in a garbage goal, but the puck bounces a little bit further back, Rupp snatches it up and pretty thoughtlessly throws it towards the net.
It looked like a total, unthinking, knee-jerk reaction.
Somehow, it found its way through the crowd.
The was a Rupp goal assisted by Godard.
What the fuuuuuck.
WORST USE OF PENALTIES
Feeling a little feisty after getting that point, Godard engages with Gillies, in the nasty way.
The refs start out knowing that they are going to do something stupid.
Gillies probably wins, he gets in a couple more hits, but it's really more one of those draw situations. No one went away hurting too bad.
That is, before the refs decided that there was a reason to hand out 10 minute game misconducts along with the more obvious fighting penalties.
Handin' out misconducts like Snoopy cards on Valentine's Day really isn't our idea of ideal reffing.
Later on Konopka and Asham do the cutest little gay dance.
We don't want to bring too much attention to their love.
More absurd penalties handed out.
The NHL is really losing its grip on reality if this is how penalties are going to be called from now on.
In the second period we stay up by one for a while, then, during some powerplay cycling, Michalek does something that flashes Gonchar in your mind.
Fucking laser from like, three miles down the street.
Everyone was pretty shocked, so there's no photo, but enjot rhis photo of Michalek dominating little Kyle Okposo:
LVP (to the Penguins)
We can't deny that the goals Comeau got were pretty good lookin' goals. Not the best, but we also can't really call him a bag of dicks at this present moment in time.
The goal in the second period was more understandable; you gotta put up some sort of fight, Isles. It's no fun when you just lay there waiting for the end to come.
The third period goal by Comeau, however, was a little bit more worrying. Kris Letang tried SO GODDAMN HARD to keep it from happening, and we love him for it.
Alas, that bag of dicks got it in the net.
Letestu gets one in like lightning.
This photo is so golden.
We're all ready to call it a game.
THE REASON WE COULDN'T CALL IT A GAME
Oh Brooks. That face says everything that we felt.
Hamonic, you are fucking terrifying.
Press was pretty on point tonight, as also displayed in this photo:
Smells like Home Ice.
Going to go ahead and wrap this up here, seeing as it's a billion years late anyway.
To everyone who was in New York for this game, glad it was such a fucking awesome one for you to witness.
Also hope you bought Zoe some nachos, she deserves them.
Now, let's climb those ranks with what we've got left.