There has hardly been a coach sadder or beefier than Bruce Boudreau. He has come so close to being a success. But at every big turn, and there have been many because he has been just successful enough to get to those big moments, he falls on his big puffy pink ass.
To be fair, I have loved every second of it. He was able to make stars out of dweeby shit stains like Andrew Cogliano, and inspires just enough confidence to give his team's fans hope. Then the inevitable happens, and it all comes caving in like his poor worn out sides of his heart, blowing up with the sudden severity of a truck tire shredding on a freeway. You can't mention "game seven" around a Ducks fan without having them have their eyes roll back in their head and coughing up bits of bile. The Washington Capitals and Anaheim then got Stockholm Syndrome and brought in Boudreau knockoffs, with the evil doppelgänger Barry Trotz, and Boudreau with a over-sized nut sack in his brain Randy Carlyle.
As for Bruce himself? Purged from the State of Hockey. Purged to the forgotten hell hole in the midwest, where NHL hockey struggles for attention. To a team that has no success, whose fans can't even get excited for an outdoor game, and where countless players have gone to fall into oblivion. The Minnesota Wild are the glue factory of the NHL and Bruce is now overseeing the sad slaughter.
He gets to see two expensive bags of future dog food with Zach Parise and Ryan Suter. He has to try and remember it's Mikko Koivu and not the beloved Saku. He has to tell Eric Staal life is still worth living, and try and mean it despite the circumstances.
God speed, Bruce. You can go down in history eradicating the Wild through incompetence, provided you are ever able to get to a big enough stage to puke all over yourself like George H.W. Bush at a Japanese banquet.
Prediction: The Wild win 5-2 because the Kings suck and it's the regular season.