"Zetterberg," I muttered to no one in particular.
Stuck with another shitty, non-usable VCR and working overtime at my dead-end job, I spent most of the game refreshing Yahoo hoping against hope. Outshot 17-2 in the second? Six minutes of tied hockey all game? Didn't look good.
Then, despite Detroit being up in the third, some sort of clairvoyant premonition came into my head: a vision of a thousand Oilers fans on Whyte Ave just one turned-over car short of a riot, cheering like cleft-headed retards. My Edmontonian sense was tingling, but I was surrounded in a workplace full of unsympathetic Easterners, Leafs and Sabres fans, and mostly women who, sensibly, hate hockey. Pisani's two goals earned the Oilers two tightly pumped fist along with a hissing "Yesss!" just under ear shot, but I still felt like I was about to miss something. Despite working overtime, and being paid time and a half for it, I dropped everything and headed over to the Corporate Boardroom for the last five minutes of the third.
Just in time, I got a taste of cosmic justice with Hemsky's video review, and then, like lazer jazz on ice, Hemsky's winner, fittingly scored against the Red Wings' slipshod defence. Cut to a blogger's gayest post-celebration dance in recent memory: a proudly metrosexual number that gets full marks for its pointe work, with a bit of spanish flavour that practically begs for castanets and ruby-studded boots (click on attached drunken, freehand sketch) . A high water mark for both the Oilers and one man's search for dance perfection.
mueva de un tirón sobre un coche para mí, mis amigos!
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