speaks with his fist

10 minutes into a (crucial, much needed) nap, the phone rang. It was work.

So I had some work to do (news doesn't stop just because I need a nap and have a hockey game to get to) and ended up leaving an hour late for MSG. I missed the first 12 minutes of the first period (and also our first goal in seven periods — thank you Prucha, you handsome, wonderful man). I arrived just in time to see Nylander score the second goal of the game, so I bought a beer and went to my seat.

And then the party started. That motherfucking monster Donald Brashear — one of the very few people whom I'd surely spit in the face of, given the chance — was in (not-so) rare form, picking fights, haunting Jagr, asking for a total beating.

Our regular team thugs (and I say that with the utmost respect and affection. I love our team thugs.) did their best to keep him busy and put him in his place. And then he tangled with Brendan Shanahan. The entire Garden was on its feet screaming and cheering for every punch my man Shanny landed after he threw off his gloves and got the party started right on center ice. It was glorious. Then Brashear got thrown out, for attempting to do bodily harm, and I jumped up and down (seriously, I left the ground at least four times in pure joy) and pointed to the door, cheering. It was magic.

Oh yeah, plus we won. Seven-game losing streak? Snapped!