I know what you may be thinking but — despite the title in the header of this blog — this is not a website dedicated to the Chicago Blackhawks Game 4 performance.

In fact, one of the reasons we named the blog ‘Dirty Games’ is so that we could call that sort of cheap, thuggish and staggeringly impotent behaviour exactly what it is: An ugly, failed ploy from an increasingly desperate and outmatched hockey team.

We usually pride ourselves on being something of a thinking person’s sports blogger. When the topic turns to athletics, we try to provide the context, the overarching themes and the literary metaphors to lift the discussion from sports bullshit to somewhat more legitimate grounds. It rarely works, but we try to do it anyway, because there’s not enough of that kind of sports writing — or at least there’s not enough of that kind that’s any good — floating around the internet.

Today though? Fuck it. The Blackhawks deserved to get the shit pummeled out of them yesterday, if only to restore karmic balance to the universe. And one of the other reasons we started this blog is so that we could swear with motherfucking impunity.

The Hawks didn’t show up for the game and got their asses handed to them. You cannot ever bring less than your absolute best game against the Red Wings in the playoffs and expect to have a chance. It’s pretty much a given by now.

But the best part of this entire series has been the coaching matchup and the postgame press conferences. If the games themselves have been — in a metaphor the entire hockey world has slept with like a security blanket through the entire series — Big Brother vs. Little Brother, then the coaching matchup has been teacher vs. student. Or maybe principle vs. student. Or principle vs. special-needs-short-bus-riding student. It’s honestly not even that close.

The point is that Joel Queneville has been outclassed, out-thought, outmaneuvered and made to look like an increasingly frustrated and whiny little bitch. Basically, it’s May, so he’s doing what he does. But the meltdowns, as well as Mike Babcock’s explanations of what’s really going on, have added some much-needed drama to a series that has pretty much lacked it on the ice.

Here’s Babcock, explaining why Kronwall didn’t deserve a penalty, and why Quenneville is lying and he isn’t:

I guess to me, you hit the guy in the head, you hang out your elbow, hit the guy in the head, you’re headhunting for him, like when he’s… But that to me is not what I saw there.

So, now, good thing about it is you’re asking a biased guy. I heard Joel Quenneville talk about it. What he does is he comes in, whether he believes it or not, he tells you what he’s got to tell you. I actually believe what I’m telling you. It’s the facts.

I mean, I went over it a hundred times. Before I came in here, I wanted to see did he leave his feet. Kroner, what he does, usually he’s got so much pop in him, he explodes through the guy. At the end of the check when he’s done, he’s off the ice.

That wasn’t the case here at all in the situation. Anyway, enough of that. What else?

It’s fairly obvious that the Red Wings are more talented than the Hawks, but if you switch the coaches in this series, the Hawks would be at least tied and probably up 3-1 right now.

Consider: The Blackhawks had what one could call — without any sort of hyperbole — the best pre-game situation they could hope for:yesterday. Nicklas Lidstrom, the six-time Norris winner and best defenceman in the last 30 years? Out. Pavel Datsyuk, Hart trophy nominee, the team’s leading scorer and reigning defensive forward of the year? Out. Kris Draper? A heart-and-soul component of four cup-winners, a former Selke winner and the best faceoff man in the NHL? Out.

Add to that the motivation the Hawks could utilize to avenge the evil Niklas Kronwall for his “gutless” hit on their treasured teammate, Martin Havlat. Add to that the Willis Reed-esque motivation of Havlat demanding to play despite still being a little bit woozy. Add to that a raucous home crowd and the momentum of a miraculous overtime victory in the previous game.

I mean — what the hell else do you want? Aside from politely asking Johan Franzen if he would mind not playing the role of Force of Nature tonight, and him agreeing for reasons known only to The Franzen … you couldn’t ask for more.

And then you go out and get smoked 6-1?! With all those factors in your favour?! And you have nothing to say after the game but some reprehensible bullshit about “the worst call in the history of sports”?!

Meanwhile, Mike Babcock calmly gets his team ready to play, missing Hall-of-Famers or not. They play a balanced game, avoiding dumb penalties and emotional bullshit, and dismantle their opponent. And all Babcock says is that “I thought guys were gonna step up.”

Not to put too fine a point on it, but everything about the Blackhawks’ effort in this game was moronic, pointless and self-defeating. They couldn’t even manage to extract proper thuggish revenge, if that sort of juvenile achievement was indeed their goal.

Mike Babcock finished the game looking like the same kind of classy coach he always does. He should have worn the fedora he sported at the Winter Classic, just to remind everyone how much of a pimp he can be.

Quenneville, meanwhile, looked like a harried father — a man who agreed to take his own kids, as well as the neighbours’, to the zoo, only to realize, with a dozen brats running wild everywhere and other patrons giving him increasingly dirty looks, that he’d bitten off far more than he could chew. He had, quite simply, no control of the situation. For a professional coach, that’s a pretty damning indictment.

Yep. Teacher vs. Retarded Student, indeed. It’’s called being out-fucking-coached.

One of the easiest things to do in life is to say ‘fuck it’ and walk away. Things ain’t happening. You get the short end of the stick. You keep shooting and nothing goes in. It goes in and then it doesn’t count. You show up on time and the bus breaks down. Do a good job and get a pink slip. Sometimes a middle finger and a retreat seems like the obvious move.

It’s easy. It’s an appropriate response, even. Sure some people would be disappointed, but they wouldn’t really blame you. And even if they do, you’ve got plenty of reasons why you did it. A lot of them are perfectly understandable.

Things don’t break our way, so we walk away. A lot of us do it, in small and in what we think are meaningless ways, all the time.  Hell, sometimes, it takes a concerted effort not to fold your tent. So it’s inspiring when a bunch of guys shut their mouths in the face of less-than-perfect circumstances and go to fucking work.

The way the Wings chased Jonas Hiller from the nets, played their own brand of hockey and refused to give a single inch after being outplayed, outmuscled and outreffereed in Game 4 is the stuff, plain and simple, of men who understand what it is to look in the eye of something ugly, nasty and possibly futile and say, ‘Yeah, I’m down for whatever.’

This series might not end with a Detroit victory. It might, and then it might end next round. This is one of the more phenomenal collections of talent I’ve seen in 15 years of watching professional sports, but they ain’t guaranteed shit except a sixth game in Anaheim. And that doesn’t matter.

They’re demonstrating that they won’t lose. They’ll have to be well and truly beaten. Isn’t that all we can ask of the teams that we cheer for?

For all the bullshit involved with being a sports fan … for all the idiocy and stigmas and targeted marketing and network television ratings and steroids and arenas that have different names than they used to … at least we get those occasional moments when you understand why you bother.

When the collection of millionaires that have you really have no business being emotionally invested in can demonstrate what it means to stare down failure and refuse to even think about taking the easy way out … well, I don’t feel so bad for dropping $15 on a hat and sacrificing a some Saturday nights.

I can't take credit for this. Thank fark.com.

I wrote a piece after the Cup win last year about how this team meant more to me than the others, because they’re the ones I watched from the very beginning. It’s rarely more true than when the line that leads them to victory is Hossa-Franzen-Valtteri Filppula, while Lidstrom and Chris-fucking-Chelios patrol the blueline. It’s a strange thing to watch the past, present and future come together like that.

Kudos to the Ducks — excepting Chris Pronger, of course — for being a more than worthy opponent. When Perry scored and then Bobby Ryan ran over Hossa, you guys must have thought you’d finally beaten these foreigners down. I can’t engage in vicious trash talk (aside from pointing out that Chris Pronger looks like a severely retarded kid who grew up down the street from me) but I will say this:

These Red Wings are NOT the San Jose Sharks, motherfuckers. Do not get that twisted for one damn second.

Well, the first round somehow went mostly as predicted by my seat-of-the-pants verse. We went 7/8 on overall predictions with the Flyers over the Penguins in seven games being the one we totally whiffed on.

No matter. In my own egotistical little world, I think this gem, made before a single playoff puck had been dropped, more than makes up for that little miscue:

Prediction: Caps in seven (with Varlamov in net before the end of it)

They don’t come more accurate than that, folks.

So, with visions of success — and of the local weatherwoman Chris Pronger banged in Edmonton one day writing a tell-all book —dancing in my head, Dirty Games is proud to present Round Two, in all its poetic glory.

We’re going to stick with haikus and limericks for this one. But seriously, I really will do some sonnets for the next round. And if when the Wings make the final I may delve into the sort of epic poetry that Milton would produce were he a) alive and b) privileged enough to call himself a Red Wings fan.

Without further ado:

Western Conference:

No. 2 Detroit Red Wings vs. No. 8 Anaheim Mighty Ducks

A reputation
Can stick to a man like glue
Watch out for elbows

Once upon a time they were Mighty
Making hits, scoring pretty goals nightly
Then they came to the Joe
Left with tags on their toe
And now these birds aren’t so flighty

Prediction: Wings in six

No. 3 Vancouver Canucks vs. No. 4 Chicago Blackhawks

Age may bring wisdom
It also brings broken hips
Whither Mats Sundin?

A goalie nicknamed Bobby Lou,
Lamented that he could not score, too:
“All my teammates have done,
is put me up by one.
Now it’s my job to somehow see it through.”

Prediction: Canucks in seven.

Eastern Conference:

No. 1 Boston Bruins vs. No. 6 Carolina Hurricanes

Does hard work pay off?
Seven long games, and for what?
Crap, here comes Chara!

At the Garden, their voices all shout:
“Please, Bs, end our long Stanley Cup drought!”
They’ll be halfway there,
After this brief affair,
Quickly blowing the Hurricanes out.

Prediction: Bruins in five

No. 2 Washington Capitals vs. No. 4 Pittsburgh Penguins

Gary Bettman came
Not to watch this, he just came
Right there in his pants

It’s Sid versus Alex for real
And it does have a certain appeal
Will Sidney Crosby pout?
Will Alex knock him out?
It’s a show Malkin’s planning to steal.

Prediction: Penguins in six.

Mr. Getzlaf, good to see you again. Mr. Niedermayer, it’s been too long. Mr. Pronger … don’t ever touch me. You’re an asshole.

It’s Ducks vs. Wings again, and I couldn’t be more excited, but things are a little different around here this time. We all still remember the epic battle we fought in 2007. Who could forget a series, and a selection of dangerous elbows aimed at heads, like that one?

Times change, and more importantly, rosters change. But there’s no hate like old hate. And man, do I fucking hate Chris Pronger and the rest of those band of neanderthals.

I will exclude Teemu Selanne, because he’s a legend. And J.S. Giguere, because he sucked all year and lost his job right after his father died, so I just feel bad for him.

The rest of them — hate. Not like the Sharks, whom I dislike because they have no heart, but whom I also secretly love because they made me look good by doing exactly what I told everyone they would do. Not like the Avalanche, whom I used to hate with the kind of intensity that supervillians have for the masked dude who foiled their schemes, but whom I now just pity because watching that franchise is like watching a young man with AIDS waste away.

I hate the Ducks like it was all fresh and new and I just met them the other day and then came home to find them banging my wife six hours after I shook their hand. I don’t care that we haven’t seen them since 2007. It feels like Chris Pronger was lining me up for an illegal elbow while I was walking to work yesterday.

And all of this is awesome, because I am sure that what the Ducks are thinking right now is the same thing they thought — and were pretty close to being right about — two seasons ago:

‘We can intimidate these guys. We can bang them and elbow them and hurt them. We can scare them into submission if we’re nasty enough.’

And that’s just totally awesome, because no. They can’t. They will be humiliated if they try. They don’t know that yet, but they’re going to find out real fucking soon and watching them realize it is going to be as awesome as the first time 14-year-old-you snuck a peak at some pornography.

This is a different Red Wings team. And I am sure that, watching the Ducks thug their way into an upset of the Sharks last night, they saw a series of nasty, intent-to-injure and intent-to-intimidate hits and smiled to themselves as they watched the Ducks make their way to the penalty box.

Your average dumb penalty, when taken against this Red Wings power play, is approximately 57% dumber. The Ducks jumped out to a 2-0 series lead against the Sharks when Joe Thornton and Co. went 0-for-12 in the first two games of the series with the man advantage.

If there is anybody reading this who thinks that you can give this Red Wings power play 12 chances to score over two games and still win those two games, then I will say this to you, Mr. Pronger: You’re an asshole. Don’t touch me.

If they do that, they will lose. There are ways the Ducks could wrestle this series away from the Wings — if Osgood isn’t at his usual playoff best; or if the Ducks play the trap, stack their potent defence back at the line and wait for mistakes — but there are many more ways the Wings could win it.

A quick review of the players who weren’t wearing Wings uniforms — or who were sitting in the press box — the last time these two teams met. It’s a pretty interesting list.

First of all, just because we were speaking of intimidation, there are these two guys:

Brad Stuart, Niklas Kronwall: Considering the last time the Wings met the Ducks, Kronwall and Mathieu Schneider were hurt, Chris Chelios was playing major minutes while hurt and our entire blueline consisted of Nicklas Lidstrom and some warm bodies … these guys are somewhat of an upgrade. The very first time that a Duck is unfortunate enough to keep his head down coming out of his own zone or admire a pass as he moves up ice, that’ll be one of those moments of clarity.

Oh, shit. Speaking of defencemen we didn’t have last time, there’s this guy, too:

Of course Jonathan Ericsson can be intimidated! He’s Swedish! Don Cherry told me that all Swedes will back down if you push them.

There is also, since we’re discussing additions, the matter of this little guy named Darren Helm, who I would really like to watch in a reality-TV style documentary. I often wonder if he does everything the same way he plays hockey. I have this mental image of little Darren Helm racing through a Sobey’s, his cart almost-but-not-quite out of control, bouncing off the shelves as he madly grabs cereal, milk, frozen pizza and whatever else he can get his hands on before making a mad dash to cut in front of someone just pulling into line at the cashier, sending them sprawling into the gum rack.

But yeah, Darren Helm isn’t exactly your daddy’s easily-intimidated Red Wing, either:

I mean, I could go on for a very long time about how different this team is from the one the Ducks remember from 2007. And for sure, the Ducks are different, too. They’ve got better depth on defence with the addition of Ryan Whitney. They’ve got a new goaltender (though it would be tough for any goalie to be better than J.S. Giguere’s been against the Wings over the years, so I don’t know if that’s an upgrade or not). They’ve also got Bobby Ryan, who I should have added up top to the list of Ducks I really like, because I thought he was a bust, but he’s proving that he’s anything but and I love guys who get written off then come back strong.

But the core of the team — Pronger, Niedermayer, Getzlaf, Perry … is pretty much the same.

Oh, Jeez. That reminds me, speaking of the core of the team. I almost forgot a couple of key additions, what with getting so caught up in the intimidation angle.

The last time the Ducks met Johan Franzen in the playoffs, he was a third-liner who killed some penalties and maybe dished out a check or two while playing a mostly defensive role. Now he has 19 playoff goals, eight of them game-winners, a couple of Red Wings franchise records for playoff scoring and a big ol’ dose of confidence that gives him the belief that he can embarrass you with his hands and skating as well as with his size and strength. His play has created an internet meme, and really, you can’t ask for more than that.

Plus, and dammit I cannot remember his name right now, but there’s some other guy on this team that could also make a difference. Crap! What was it? It was kinda like ‘Mule’, but not. A different kind of animal, maybe? This is terribly embarrassing. I mean, the guy is probably pretty popular. Came here as some sort of free agent or something. Shit! It’s on the tip of my tongue and everything … but anyway, that guy, whatever his name is, he might be able to make a difference, too …

Right! That dude! He’s good, too.

Anyway, my whole point — aside from taking the time to find videos that proving how awesome the Red Wings are — was a serious one. I’m not worried about the Ducks. Not at all.

If the opening series against Columbus was indicative of anything, it serves to illustrate how ready Babcock had this team for the playoffs. It’s not the same team that was beat-up, bruised and sent home in 2007. Not only, as I’ve gone to great lengths to display, is it a new cast of characters, it’s a different attitude.

I never thought I’d say this about the Red Wings, because they’re such mild-mannered, respectful people, but there’s a swagger about this team, and I love it.

Chris Osgood, whatever you think of him as a goalie, epitomizes it. They doubt him, so fuck them. He knows he can do it. Nick Lidstrom is going to lose his Norris trophy race this year to Mike Green, who can’t play defence at anywhere close to his level. Pavel Datsyuk is going to lose the Hart trophy to a fellow Russian, despite being the best all-around hockey player in the world right now. Henrik Zetterberg and Johan Franzen signed long-term deals that were questioned in some places because of their respective injury histories. Darren Helm an Jonathan Ericsson have been dogs in a minor-league cage all season. Now that they’re off the leash, you think they’re not starving to prove they’re ready to stay here with the big boys? Marian Hossa has been called a ‘traitor’ in so many places one would think he criticized the Bush administration.

Anaheim knocked off the No. 1 seed and justified their season. The Red Wings still have a big goddamn chip on their collective shoulder. Watch what happens.

Sports, and sports fandom, exist partly to mark the passage of time.

You can see it in the names we give to some of the events (the October classic, March Madness, etc.), by the way a diehard fans of certain sports use championships and other events as a way to remember dates (ask a Maple Leaf fan about 1993 or 1967), the way we tend to lionize players who are able to play into their 40’s (at least, those who do it without performance-enhancing substances), and especially in the way that both the retirements of older greats and the ascension of younger stars can force us to examine just how old we are getting, and how very quickly we’re doing it.

The first time a man in his mid-20’s sees an athlete who was not yet a pro when he began following sports call it quits, an nervous sense of mortality creeps up a little closer behind him.

(Unless it’s Eric Lindros, because he no doubt saw that one coming a long time ago.)

So time ebbs and flows, from World Series to Training Camps, to the World Juniors at Christmas … past the Superbowl and the All-Star Games, then the NCAA tournament and the Masters … into Spring Training and the Playoffs and Opening Day … through the Dog Days of Summer and baseball games that really don’t matter much, into the pennant races and then to October and back to the World Series.

Somewhere in there (right about the time the pennant races heat up) I have another birthday, and kids go back to school, and various countries vote in various elections, and terrible disasters happen and we wonder if these damn games matter so much anyway. Then we realize that they don’t, but that if we don’t play them, the Terrorists Win … so we play ‘em. What else can you do?

So … yeah, sports mark time, or at least they do if you bother to follow them.

Which is why watching this just-concluded Red Wings season has been such a joy. Shut up and indulge the schmaltz for a minute…

I’ve seen the Wings win cups before. Three times, to be precise. The first time it happened, in 1997, I didn’t quite appreciate what I was watching. I’d been a hockey fan for about five years, and although I’d already suffered through some awful losses (to the Leafs, the Sharks and the Devils, just to name a few) I still didn’t quite understand just how long it had been and how difficult the journey was from Dead Things to Stanley Cup Champions. I was just happy for Steve Yzerman.

The second time it happened, I was happy, but I barely paid attention. I was young, I was busy falling in love for the first time and it seemed at that point that the Red Wings would win a healthy percentage of the next five or 10 cups … so why worry? Besides, some things are just more important. Realizing that is part of growing up as a fan, too.

Anyway, I got to see the final game of the finals (on replay, late at night) and I think I bought a hat. My eyes still get a little cloudy when I watch Yzerman hand the cup to Vladimir Konstantinov, in one of the most touching sporting gestures I’ve ever seen … but this was still a veteran team, and beyond Yzerman, and a few players I’d adopted as my own, I didn’t have a feel for them.

The third time it happened, I was in the Canadian Press newsroom in Toronto, watching on tv and displaying anything but journalistic objectivity. Which was fine, since my main duties in that newsroom were updating the weather, sending out the horoscopes and making sure there wasn’t anything on the CBC that we didn’t have. I loved it. Yzerman’s one-legged heroics were inspiring, Nicklas Lidstrom was the first European to win the Conn Smythe trophy and Dominik Hasek finally got his cup …

But again, this was a veteran-heavy team, full of guys like Brett Hull, Igor Larionov, Luc Robitaille, Hasek, Shanahan, Chris Chelios, Jiri Slegr who were in the NHL before I ever bothered watching a game or looking forward to the latest EA Sports title. I loved their machinelike work ethic and the way they sublimated their own impressive individual resumes and played like a true team … but again, aside from some guys that I’d always loved, they weren’t really my team.

This time …

This time, I’m older. This time, I’ve watched most of these players grow up, instead of growing up while watching them.

Instead of reading profiles about the team’s stars, I remember watching Pavel Datsyuk, as a rookie in 2002, feeding the puck to a hockey legend. I remember wondering how good that little Russian bugger could be.

I watched Henrik Zetterberg come over from Sweden and turn into a truly complete hockey player. I spent four seasons hoping that Niklas Kronwall could avoid injury, knowing how devastating he would be if only he could stay healthy. I watched Darren Helm play for the Canadian World Junior Championship team and salivated over his speed. I watched Darren McCarty go from champion to train wreck back to champion. I remember Kris Draper, acquired from the now-defunct Winnipeg Jets for a single dollar, coming into his own in Detroit as a four-time cup-winner. I know how high Chris Osgood has been, and how low, and how good it must feel for him to prove the haters wrong again. I watched Brett Lebda sign out of Notre Dame as an undrafted free agent, and force the Red Wings to offer him a contract when he immediately took over the blueline for the Grand Rapids Griffins. I suffered through the Andreas Lilja era … every last shift of it.

I’ve now watched Nicklas Lidstrom play hockey for 15 years, and I fully understand — after seeing 15 years of error-free defense played against the best forwards in the world — exactly how rare and special he is.

Nobody has to tell me about this team. There are no backstories I don’t know and no legendary performances I missed out on. For the first time, I saw it all.

In short, this one means the most to me as a fan. Because while the other championships were won with more stars, with more legends and while the finals were won in more convincing fashion … this one was won by a team that felt like mine.

So yes, sports marks time. And this time, I understand how hard it is for a hockey team to achieve consistent success and how quickly sporting glory fades when that yearly calender moves on to its next event. I know how quickly the newspaper stories will peter out, how soon hockey fans will turn their attention to the Maple Leafs new coach, the various free agents who will find new teams this summer and how fast we will all move on.

And I’m good with that. Because I’m older; because my interest in these games and this team is less of the loyal fanatacism of youth, and more of an appreciative recognition of excellence. That’s not to say that I wasn’t pulling for them all the way, or that I wasn’t screaming at the refs, or that I didn’t have a sickening feeling in my stomach when Petr Sykora scored in triple-overtime of Game 5. It just means that I have the perspective to appreciate this team for what it is — a group of good people who put the collective ahead of the individual and gave a real boost to a city that was badly in need of some self-confidence.

I understand now, how many things are more important than sports, I understand how quickly we grow up; how fast bodies give out and promising careers end and how, eventually, both players and fans alike trade in their dreams and try to find peace and happiness where and when they can.

I understand now how players age at least as fast as I do, how teams can change in the blink of an eye and how few chances I’ll actually have to watch a group like this in my lifetime … so yeah, I’m good with that.

And one day, I’ll be telling my grandkids about Nicklas Lidstrom and Henrik Zetterberg, and how good they were and how they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore … and they won’t understand, and they probably won’t believe me … but I’ll know.

I’ve watched the Detroit Red Wings win three Stanley Cups. This is the sweetest. These guys are an incredible team. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen in Wings uniforms. And that, people, is saying something.

Words sort of fail right now … but this Cup … this Cup is …

for Dan Cleary, a proud Newfoundlander, who turned his career and life around.

for Brian Rafalski … who knew where he wanted to be. Welcome home, Brian.

for Brad Stuart, who finally found a niche that fits.

for Dallas Drake, who also came home, and gets to retire as a champion.

for Johan Franzen, who took an ugly nickname given to him by the ultimate captain in sports and made it his own.

for Niklas Kronwall, who realized that it’s much more fun to hurt other people than hurt himself. And who will be putting fear into the heart of opposing forwards for years to come.

for Pavel Datsyuk, who doesn’t need to speak proper English with hands like that.

for Darren McCarty, who represents the best and worst of all of us, and got the second chance we all deserve when we need it.

for Kris Draper, who gave that second chance to his old friend, and trusted when he could easily have turned his back.

for Kirk Maltby, who has now been pissing people off (and winning hockey games) for 15 years as a Red Wing.

for Jiri Hudler, Brett Lebda and Valtteri Filppula, three kids who are now men. Damn fine men at that.

for Chris Chelios … a true motherfucking warrior.

for Andreas Lilja, who (God willing) won the last game he’ll ever play as a Red Wing.

for Darren Helm, who can skate faster than I feel comfortable driving on city streets.

for Dominik Hasek, who acted like a real professional for the first time in a long while, and will get a very expensive ring for doing so.

for Mike Ilitch, Scotty Bowman, Jim Nill and Jimmy Devallano, who form a brain trust that supports the best front office in professional sports.

for Tomas Holmstrom, who truly broke the mold of Swedish hockey players and helped to shut Don Cherry’s quasi-racist mouth.

for Hakan Andersson, who hands out top-flight prospects like Santa Claus on Christmas Day.

for Kenny Holland, who long ago learned a lesson we should all take to heart — loyalty matters, even in professional sports, and it pays off in spades sometimes.

for Steve Yzerman, who stayed upstairs and let the players celebrate. He never needs to don a uniform, but will always wear the Winged Wheel.

for Nicklas Lidstrom, who is European, and a captain, and a champion, and the best defenceman hockey has seen since Bobby Orr.

for Chris Osgood, a man who never listened to haters. Nor should he.

and for Henrik Zetterberg, the most complete hockey player in the world right now.

What else can you say?

I’m sure I’ll find something else to add tomorrow.

First, I would like to sum up the Colorado Avalanche-Detroit Red Wings series with one picture, before I proceed to waste 1,000 words on it:

Now … to business. Aside from the schadenfreude of watching the Toronto Maple Leafs and their false playoff hopes, I can’t think of the last time I enjoyed a full-on belly laugh while watching a hockey game.

But when this happened, I straight busted a gut, y’all:

That’s quite possibly the most ridiculous goal scored in a deciding game of an NHL playoff series ever. And I can’t stop smiling today.

Henrik Zetterberg put that puck in the top right corner of the net, from his backhand, while falling down, while facing in the opposite direction. You are not supposed to be able to do that.

I’ve been very guarded with my assessment of this Red Wings team thus far in the playoffs, both because of the quality of their opponents and because I don’t like to get my hopes up in the first two rounds when 16 wins is the ultimate goal.

But if they play the way that they did in this last series in the next two rounds, there is no hockey team on the planet capable of stopping them.

Yes, the Colorado Avalanche were a team missing several of their best players. No doubt that helped. But the level at which the Red Wings’ Swedish contingent is operating right now hasn’t been seen since … well, since 2002.

For an Avalanche fan, and for some of the players no doubt, this must have been like a nightmare. One can only imagine what was running through poor Peter Forsberg’s head. Once again unable to play thanks to a lingering groin problem (which he says happens because he has to overcompensate for his wonky right ankle by pushing harder off his left foot and pulling the groin) he was forced to watch the team to which he gave his heart and soul over the last 15 years get absolutely crushed by his own countrymen.

Every single goal in the Red Wings 8-2 dismantling of the Avalanche was scored by a Swede. Every Swede that netted one was younger and healthier than Forsberg has been these past two years. Another Swede, Fabian Brunnstrom (who some say is the best player not currently in the NHL) was in the stands, watching the Wings as he tries to decide where he will sign:

“Oh yeah, we planned it that way just for him,” winked general manager Ken Holland.

But if Holland’s sales pitch is the Wings’ history of developing stars, then it’s probably only a matter of time before Brunnstrom signs with the team.

“It was exciting watching how they play with such chemistry and enthusiasm,” said Brunnstrom, sitting outside the Wings’ dressing room afterwards. “When I watched the Red Wings tonight, it made me proud to be Swedish.”

N kidding! Hell, after that display, I want to go and buy a Volvo.

Not only are they winning, they are blowing away every single preconception the media and opposing coaches had of this team.

I’m pulling out the checklist here:

1. The Red Wings are too old: Well, the leading goal scorers for the Wings in these playoffs are, in order: Johan Franzen (28 years old), Zetterberg (27), Pavel Datsyuk (29) and Jiri Hudler (24). Their leading scorer on defence is not Niklas Lidstrom or Brian Rafalski but Niklas Kronwall (27), who leads all NHL defencemen in playoff scoring. Their leaders in +/- are Zetterberg and Franzen.
2. The Red Wings are too small and soft: They are not a huge team, but they have a few big players and a few smaller players that love to hit. Any old hockey announcer will tell you — it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog. And this is a team of little fucking bulldogs. It’s not a matter of one or two guys lining people up — it’s the entire team taking the body every time they get a chance, as though every check they deliver is another reminder that these aren’t your Daddy’s Red Wings. The team leader in hits right now is Pavel-freaking-Datsyuk — the Avs and Predators attempted several times to run the diminutive Russian. Several times they missed, other times they ended up on their ass. Niklas Kronwall, meanwhile, is doing his best to remind everyone what it was like having Vladimir Konstantinov patrolling the blueline. He wants to hurt people, which is a refreshing change of pace for a Red Wing: Brad Stuart, by the way, is a perfect deadline acquisition. He seems to take great pleasure in laying guys out as well:
3. They’ll fold under pressure: Really? Pressure like letting the eighth seed come back and tie the series 2-2? Pressure like going into OT of Game 5 of that series on home ice tied 2-2 and facing a trip back to Nashville facing elimination? Pressure like letting the hated Colorado Avalanche score first in each one of the first three games of the series they just swept? Next.
4. They don’t have secondary scoring: The man breaking Gordie Howe’s records would like a word with you. You’ll have to wait a few minutes though, he’s working on another Hat Trick. Oh. Okay … he’s done now.
5. Their goalie is Chris-fucking-Osgood: To which I say, so fucking what? He hasn’t needed to be sublime, but there were times in this series where the game was on the line — the last minute of Game 1, the third period of Game 3, the first period of Game 4 before the Wings took the lead. Osgood was equal to the task every time. And he even threw in a few truly stellar saves, just to show the haters how he’s feeling these days. Nobody’s asking Chris Osgood to steal games for the Red Wings — he’s just winning them, that’s all.

I don’t know. I can’t think of any more. The Dallas Stars (or San Jose Sharks, I suppose) will be a tougher test, for certain, but I can’t think of a time that I’ve seen a hockey team more in sync with one another than the last few games of this series.

It’s going to be a treat to watch the swarming defence of the Stars try to cope with this attack, which right now moves the puck up ice faster than the camera can keep up with it. It’s tough to gauge how much of these last four games was due to the Avalanche not playing well, and how much was simply a result of a team stacked with skill putting it all together at the most important time of the year.

It seriously looked like me playing video hockey against the computer. I can hand out no higher compliment than that.

And the key to all this, the man who has been barely mentioned in all the accolades being handed out this morning: Nick Lidstrom. The Red Wings might not need as much of an offensive contribution from him as they usually get, but as the Captain and Chief Swede, he rallies the troops, keeps everybody on the same page and lets his incredible knowledge of the game trickle down to everyone who shares the ice with him. The announcers mentioned at one point in Game 3 that Lidstrom hadn’t recorded a single hit in the playoffs, and they were doing it to make a point about how good he is.

To borrow a phrase from the Wu-Tang Clan: “He’s the backbone of this shit. It’s self explanatory. He the head, let’s put it that way. We form like Voltron and [Lidstrom] happen to be the head. You know what I’m saying?”