AJC > Sports Thrashers > Blog > Archives > 2007 > March > 22
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Land Sharks deliver a Candygram
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
It was a long, hard walk up the stairs to write this blog.
“Is the game over, Daddy?” asked my half-asleep 5-year-old, rubbing her little eyes, her hair reminiscent of Nick Nolte’s mug shot.
“Yes, the game’s over.”
“Who won?”
“The Sharks. The team in white.”
“How many goals did they score?”
“Five.”
“How many goals did the Frashers score?”
“One.”
“How come they only scored one goal?”
“I don’t know, kid, I don’t know.”
And so we went our separate ways. Ice Man to the office, Ice Kid to her room, one of us weeping like a little girl.
I mean, here’s what we know about the Thrashers. We have one of the brightest young goal-scoring talents in the league. We have a big, tough top-line center. And we have a sensational young Finnish goalie.
Unfortunately, what we learned about the San Jose Sharks is that so do they. And then some. Every one of our strengths was countered and topped tonight by a very fine-looking hockey team, a team that played the night before in a different city and then blew into town and blew away team that had been off for three days and sleeping their own beds.
Unfortunately, too, what we’ve learned is that these Western Conference teams are playing at a whole different level. Think back a few weeks when we got run out of Alberta and British Columbia. They done us but good, treated us like we ordered Budweiser at a roadhouse in Porcupine Plains.
The only consolation being this: Somehow, teams from the Southeast Division have summoned up the strength to beat those rough and tough teams from the Northwest corner of the continent in the past two Stanley Cup finals. Their magic powers melt in the Southeastern sun in June.
It’s best not to dwell on a game like this. This team will just have to get back on the horse next time out and take care of business. Short memories, boys, are what win championships in this league. Take my kid, for example. She’s gonna wake up tomorrow morning and not remember a single thing about this game, not the score, not the hideous officiating, not the slack-jawed awe with which we watched Jonathon Cheechoo (bless you) rush the net. Hell, she won’t even remember she was watching a hockey game.
If only the rest of us could be so lucky.
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