"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!
Once We Had Hope, Now We Have ... E?
1 week ago