I am not a man of religious convictions. Still, Tuesday in the second intermission seemed like a good time to see if God, or Buddah, or Satan, or Santa was taking requests.
I am speaking of course about Robyn fucking Regehr.
Putting it bluntly, he looked awful. Turnover after turnover. Blown coverage after blown coverage. Failed breakouts, missed crease clearings, and just simply getting burned over and over again. I was fuming. No, scratch that. I was fucking seething. Nothing and nobody was changing my mind in this regard. Fuck words poured from my mouth like liquor was poured into it. I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure I never had to see him play another game in a Kings' jersey again. I pined for Alec Martinez as I have so often done this season, yet I knew in deep down that was a futile dream.
So I asked for whoever was listening to make it stop. To put an end to Robyn Regehr. So that I could stop screaming fuck every five fuck-worthy seconds he was on the ice. And sure enough...
What had I done?
Blood pooled instantly around him, and he was at least not hauled off on a stretcher, but left on his own accord. Whoever I asked to put Regehr down was not fucking around. My first emotions were shock, followed by horror at what I had just seen. I don't usually ask for things like this. My faith in God was shattered in the summer of 2007. He sure wasn't listening now, to injure some lousy defenseman simply because he was enraging a jagofff in southern California who was taking a hockey game too seriously. But still, I wanted this to happen. I begged for this to happen. And then came the disgust with myself.
Hoping for some catastrophic event to put an end to Regehr, some Brazilian/Canadian weird looking fuckola. This had to be some sign. But instead the urge to ask for forgiveness subsided and something new took root. Giddiness. I had the power to pull shit like this off. I felt like Light Yagami in Death Note, not that anyone knows what that is, but a quick search on Google will have Rudy in here I'm sure to give me some deserved shit. In any case, I was eager to try out my new ability to beg for minor things and get my way. Why feel bad? I didn't actually like Regehr, and I doubted he was actually dead. I got what I wanted. It was like a really dark, slightly evil version of The Secret. I had to deal with repercussions, which I did, and now was time to focus on taking out Keaton Ellerby.
Except Fuckles Magee came back. Son. of. a. gun. I gave up with praying or wishing or bartering, and downed another tall whiskey.
Jonathan Quick rightfully got a lot of heat for his game costing gaffe. It happens though. I had that play happen to me a number of times in high school, except the difference was I took the penalty by either covering the puck behind the net or just turning around and punching the guy. But the real fact of the matter is Quick played the hand of the universe in that one stupid fuck up. He kept the Kings in the game when they had no business even having a chance. They looked like garbage. To take that game into overtime was a crime against man. Quick just gave the Blues what they deserved. Next game, if the Kings decide to play more than just the last minute of each period, things may be different. Admittedly, I was plenty pissed at the time. One drunken blackout later, and I felt alright with life. Except that Regehr is probably suited up for game two.
More importantly, this marked the third straight road game where the Kings looked terrible, and the fourth out of five going back to the 5-1 road loss in Dallas (the San Jose game being the outlier oddly). The possession numbers were ugly. The scoring chance numbers were ugly. The very basic shots on goal were completely lopsided. In brief, if the Kings repeat that performance, they will be fighting an uphill battle, and you probably didn't need me to tell you that, so I'll stop here.
Prediction: Quick plays lousy while the rest of the team wakes up. 5-4 loss.