Now I know the last couple of games since I started working on this post have been alright and the Wings seem to have escaped injury, but there have still been a couple of close calls (Rafalski and Helm took pucks to the face and Lebda looked like he might've been hurt for a while.) and I'm not willing to take any more chances.
So here goes nothing:
I, Kris, tormented my puppy during the playoffs by doing things like strapping a stuffed Al the Octopus onto her back (Look how defeated she looks here...poor Penny Lane.), putting red and white pompoms in her collar, dressing her up in a Shanny baseball-style jersey, and trying to train her to bark when the Wings scored. I may also at one point taken away all of her toys except her squeaky penguin chew toy so that she would be forced to gnaw on that one during the Finals. There was literally nobody happier to see the playoffs end than my dog.
I also admit to making fun of Valtteri Filppula’s hair. All the time. I’m truly sorry.
Over the summer, I clicked on a shortened link on Twitter and accidentally ended up on a puck bunny website. I sincerely apologize for this horrendous mistake and promise that it will never happen again.
At Hockeyfest, we sat on the bench and jumped over the boards like we were doing a line change. I’m pretty sure that this upset the natural order of things and was simply unacceptable. The fact that my sister can’t even skate and was pretending to take a shift at the Joe had to be deeply upsetting to the Hockey Gods. I’m so sorry for encouraging this type of behavior.
@RedWingsQueen19 chimed in with this confession:
I confess that I had so much hate towards Todd Bertuzzi and wished he was never aquired. I regret it, he proved me wrong so far@jennbikegirl admitted to wishing injury on Brett Lebda:
My confession: when I heard about Raffy's back, my 1st thought was, why not Lebda? Basically wishing injury on him = bad!Michael Petrella from The Production Line, however, had the most significant confessions to make. I think after reading his first story, all of the “intent to blow” nonsense will make sense:
I played hockey for a long time: I started skating as soon as I could stand up, and played competitive hockey all the way through college. I like to think of myself as a good sportsman, albeit one with a filthy mouth that never stopped running. Two stories stand out as examples of things I may have done to anger the Hockey Gods -- perhaps bad enough to create this rash of injuries to the team I love so dearly.So there you have it, Hockey Gods. We’re all very sorry for the many things that we have done to offend you. We take full responsibility for our actions and hope that you can forgive us. Now can we please get back to our regularly scheduled programming of dominating performances and an elite roster? And, if it’s not too much trouble, could you throw some puck luck our way? We sure could use it.
During a game I was playing in high school, I ended up on my butt, right along the goal line as a goal was scored against my team. It was so obviously a goal, and I figured everyone knew, that I reached in with my hand and angrily threw the puck back toward center ice in anticipation of another faceoff. But, it was must have been LaRue officiating because the ref skated over, waving emphatically "NO GOAL! NO GOAL! NO GOAL!" In my head, I'm thinking "really?" because I threw the puck only after I figured it was so apparent that everyone in the building saw it. Evidently, only I had seen it, and I didn't say a word. What I did amounts to no less than cheating, and I'm sure the Gods have had it in for me ever since. (P.S. the goal wouldn't have mattered as we lost by a good margin anyway...)
While in college, I was much more of a role-player, in the Kirk Maltby-mold, so I didn't get a ton of ice-time at that level, but cherished the few minutes I received every night. During the last weekend of the season (of my Junior year), we were playing in Wisconsin. We played back-to-back games on Friday and Saturday nights, as is pretty common in collegiate hockey. On Friday night, a senior who had played his heart out for our team for four years was injured by a fairly dirty hit. The kid got two minutes, but with a pretty severe knee injury, my teammate was going to miss his final game of collegiate hockey. I'll never forget his face - he was so upset because he never missed a team function, and now he was going to have to watch the last game of his college career from the press box. The following night, I spent every second of my ice-time aimed at retribution. I was offside more in that game than the rest of my collegiate career combined, because I didn't pay attention to the puck, only #21 in black. At one point, I even broke a stick on the back of his knee. As the final horn went, I took another three or four steps and tried my best to put him through the glass. He was about eight inches taller than me, so I ended up on the ice. I'll never forget what happened next because, even though these two stories aren't indicative of the kind of player I was or man I am, it taught me an important lesson. He took off his glove, and extending his hand to me, helping me back up. He said to me, "I know what you were trying to do, and I would have done the same. You played me hard, good game." Even though my teammate was the one on crutches, I couldn't have felt any worse.
I played hockey at some level for nearly twenty years, and it's fair to say that these two examples are the only ones I'm not proud of. And I'm just superstitious enough to think that the Hockey Gods noticed...