One of my college friends had a variety of ways of expressing disgust, typically involving creative uses of other people’s body parts. My favorite, after nearly three decades, is that he was so disgusted with something that he would “puke through his nose.” That searing, burning, horrendous, watching-garbage-trucks-collide with nothing you can do to stop it feeling? That’s it.
That’s what it’s like watching the Devils over the last two weeks. Five losses, a handful of goals, and seven in a row to the Rangers. Seven? The last time the Rangers beat a team seven times in one season “expansion” referred to leagues, not salary caps, and my nasal friend was vomiting in grade school. We entered March like a lion, thinking about a first seed in the playoffs, and we’re going out like a slaughtered lamb, hoping to hold on to a playoff spot or at least avoid Montreal or Pittsburgh in the first round. My only consoling thought is that I now know what my co-author, and long-time suffering Jets fan Evan Marcus feels like every Sunday from September through Christmas.
Like the Jets, the Devils are inventing ways to lose. Doesn’t Zajac know how to take a center out of the play without dumping him into his own goalie, particularly when the puck has deflected off of Brookbank’s skate? Didn’t someone tell the Devils to cover the center in the low slot on the power play? Help, please. How about picking some number of defensemen (out of NINE) that can play this game? How about picking up some talent this summer, and dropping the dead weights? It’s March, and I’m talking about the off-season. It’s stupid talk, it’s the talk of a deranged fan, it’s the language that precedes a vomit incident.