Some years from now (a lot of years, hopefully), as I am on my deathbed, I will look back at last night and wish, more than anything, for those 2 1/2 hours back.
What a colossal waste of time.
What happened to that much ballyhooed, knock ‘em down affair that Derek Boogaard hinted at prior to the return tilt between the Canucks and Minnesota?
I was jacked. Old-time hockey. A flagrant cheap shot. Flying fists. Game misconducts. Scores settled.
Instead, these guys act like they are long-lost girlfriends hooking up at a candle party.
One scrap, and Boogaard wasn't even chuckin' the knuckles.
Somewhere, Mattias Ohlund is smiling.
As Dave Pollard pointed out in his thesaurus-assisted tirade yesterday, there was nothing to this WWE-esque buildup.
I guess, in the end, breaking a bone in a teammates leg with a hack is considered fair game in the new NHL.
Boogaard, who earns a paycheck protecting his boys, allowed Vancouver to escape unscathed and, to add a little more insult, with two points.
Far be it for me to promote violence in the NHL, but Boogaard should have done a little less talking and a little more throwing.
A clean, toe-to-toe heavyweight scrap — no sticks, no attacks from behind — just so both teams can say "It's over. Let's move on."
Aaron Voros shouldn't have been the one to send that message. The Canucks didn't get it.
Instead, I wasted half a night.
Boogaard, in turn, missed an opportunity to make things right.