Hairy Gelrose to replace Fidel Tortorella as Lightning Coach – Toronto Star by way of TSN
The Leafs fans on TSN, of course, are hoping that Tortorella comes to coach the Leafs–boy, won’t they be in for a shock when they realize after the first season and a half that Fidel is a coach whose half-life is measured in Planck Time. I mean, really. His harsh uber-disciplinarian style has a distressing tendency to grate on the players, and after a while all but the most fanatical will simply stop listening to him go on and on and on about La Revolucion Gloriosa because they just flat aren’t interested anymore.
Mind you though, they were all over having Chairman Mo as their coach three seasons ago, and look at how that turned out–there’s just no telling those Leafs fans anything, I guess.
Anyway, about MulletMan–sure, the guy took the Kings to the Finals in 93 (where they choked a series lead to the Habs, who SUCK…just sayin’), but aside from that he has done bobkes except for sit and rap about hockey for Bristol. Sure, The President of the Show may be a buddy of his, but c’mon; I am really not seeing that this is an upgrade coaching-wise for the Lightning.
Future Owner Oren Koules (who shall henceforth known in this space as FOOK) is reportedly barracking for this sea change in order to sell hockey in a market where home games already sell out much of the time–which just tells me that dudeman has his head up his ass even more than I originally thought, given that Tampa is currently 8th in the League in attendance.
Sorry Lightning fans–expect more rough seas ahead, but be glad…at least you’re not playing at the Trop anymore.
Wednesday night after I got home from watching the Rangers game, I sat down and joined the I’m Not A Puckbunny podcast crew along with Stars blogger Cat (from Untypical Girls) for a playoff preview.
I get zinged a time or two, I contradicted myself at least once because I suck at extemp speaking, and I almost made Finny fall off her chair with a zinger on that jugheaded Italian boy Jason Spezza.
And I also asserted that, even though I’m married, I’m certainly not dead.
I’ll be trying to find someplace to go watch Devils-Rangers Game 2 tonight, just so I don’t have to hear the Caps-fellatio that will be occurring on Versus.
I can’t bag on Versus too much though–they will be showing Game 3 of the Rangers series on Sunday, and they’ve got a pretty cool playoff promo:
Give ‘em Hell, Harry.
(“High Hopes”, by Pink Floyd. From their 1994 Album The Division Bell)
This is about how I feel right now. I honestly think that it would have been better if the Hurricanes had just imploded when the Warchief went down. It would have hurt less that way, because we at least would have known, going into the last day of the season, that all our dreams were torn asunder.
But no. We had to give it up to the Florida fucking Panthers. Nathan fucking Horton said after the game that it was nice to be in a position to decide who goes to the playoffs–and I knew at that moment that they were going to as good as throw the game tonight just to spite us.
I was not disappointed. Perhaps I’m taking it a little hard. I’m sure that by the end of the summer I’ll have a far more rational viewpoint. But right now, at this moment, you cannot in any way shape form or fashion convince me that the Panthers did not deliberately tank that game tonight to twist the lemon juice-coated salt crystal that they plunged into our hearts Friday night.
A couple weeks before the World Series in 1986, Bill Buckner sat for a TV interview–in that interview, he said that he thought the RedSox would win the WS, and he said that something crazy would have to happen like Mookie Wilson hitting a grounder between his [Buckner's] legs with the bases loaded for them to lose.
We all know what happened. I am feeling like that right now, because I had to open my yap back in the middle of March and say that the only way the Capitals would win the Division is if Raleigh were obliterated by a 10MT surface burst. Neither Buckner nor I caused the events that we spoke of, of course–we were simply the messengers, as it were.
Friday night, the bomb hit. Tonight, what didn’t get vapourized got levelled by the shockwave.