Bottom line, you know the old adage: I was watching a prize-fight, and all of a sudden, a hockey game broke out. So you’ll have to let me know – in the comments section – whether or not you agree with my assessment of this as “sportswriting at it finest.” Because unless I hear otherwise, this will be the last hockey commentary you ever get from me. Or prize-fighting either, for that matter. Oh, and before I forget: Go Av’s!
The second-round series between the Boston Bruins and Florida Panthers is, to a neutral observer, a puzzle without any hope of a satisfying solution, the sort of matchup that leaves fans of every other team exhausted and slumped over with their eyes rolled so far back into their head they can see into the past — where the only outcome that would feel like a win would be for Gary Bettman to announce the series over, declare both teams the loser, suspend everyone involved and fold both franchises.
That’s intended as a compliment, by the way.
No really, it is. An NHL postseason needs a lot of things to be truly great — an underdog, a juggernaut, a few OGWACs and as much overtime as possible. But it also needs a great series between two teams you can’t stand because there’s nothing quite like a good old-fashioned hate-watch.
This year, the hockey gods have delivered. Because man, this series, right?
For the last few days, the hockey world has been debating Sam Bennett’s hit on Boston’s Brad Marchand, a head shot that’s at least temporarily taken the Bruins captain out of the series. Bruins fans are furious. They see a suspension-worthy cheap shot delivered by a player with a growing track record of dirty play. In their version of events, Bennett sees an opponent coming to deliver a hit, and instead of bracing for clean contact, he takes the opportunity to deliver a targeted punch to the head that causes a serious injury. And then somehow, mysteriously, the Department of Player Safety decides the play was fine without ever having seen the camera angle that makes it clear it was no such thing.
All of which is plausibly true enough. But also … I mean, these guys have met Brad Marchand, no?
When a guy has a historically long history of dirty hits of his own, it’s tough to feel much sympathy when the tables get turned. Does that mean Bennett’s play was clean or that we should defend it? It does not. Sometimes a controversy can feel like the sport is demanding that fans pick a side, and in this case, you can practically see the fans of 30 other teams waving their middle fingers at the sky as if to say, “We politely decline.” Sam Bennett or Brad Marchand? We would like a third option, please. Perhaps a meteor?
And that’s the beauty of this series. Bennett on Marchand was a lot of things, including just about a near-perfect symbol of the larger matchup. Which one of these teams are you going to root for? Neither, of course. Instead, you’re going to watch, and you’re going to get mad, and then you’re going to simmer in your indignation for as long as the series lasts.
I hope we get a Game 7 that goes to quadruple overtime.
I tried to warn you about the Panthers weeks ago. I tried to tell you that what had once been a fun collection of scrappy underdogs was morphing into the league’s best villains. Much like the wide-eyed child warning about the approaching hordes in a low-budget zombie movie, I was ignored. But now I’ve been vindicated. Now you all see. Now you all hate the Panthers, too, and want them to lose.
Except they’re playing the Bruins, so … yeah.
The Bruins have their likable pieces, including a star forward who sometimes dresses funny and two goalies who hug. But what are you going to do, root for a Boston sports team? Nope. Not an option. Not after this last generation of near-constant winning. Hey, do you know what they call a Boston sports fan who’s seen more championship parades in their life than you have? An 8-year-old. Screw Boston.
On paper, this was always going to be a great hate-watching matchup, but it’s one thing to have potential and another to realize it. And this series has leaned hard into being rage-inducing. Even putting aside Bennett versus Marchand being the Magic versus Bird of hockey rats, the whole series has played out as if it was designed in a lab to make hockey fans angry.
Hey, do you like goaltender interference discourse? You absolutely do not, but too bad because this series has been chock full of it. Nobody understands this rule and we all agree, which isn’t actually true but never let facts get in the way of a temper tantrum. So, we’ve had two crucial plays reviewed by the war room, which, I’m legally obligated to remind you, is located in Toronto. That means it’s populated entirely by diehard Toronto Maple Leafs fans with vendettas against both of these teams.
Did I mention the subplot about fighting and The Code? We had a whole subplot about fighting and The Code. David Pastrnak fought Matthew Tkachuk. As far as anyone can tell, David Pastrnak might still be fighting Matthew Tkachuk, with both guys taking turns throwing punches at a downed opponent while, somewhere, a single tear rolls down Shawn Thornton’s cheek.
And through it all, we’ve had the two breakout stars of the series: Paul Maurice and Jim Montgomery, the head coaches. Maurice has already been anointed as one of this year’s new faces of comedy, delighting reporters with postgame comments that aren’t quite jokes but are close enough. Sometimes he swears, and it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever seen. You can’t swear at a hockey game! This guy is out of control. But he can still be upstaged by Montgomery, who occasionally takes time out of his busy schedule of sending six guys onto the ice for every third shift to show off his physical comedy skills.
It’s awful. It’s beautiful. It’s exactly what you want when your team is out of the playoffs, the way most of them are by now. Why do you think I’m still watching — to appreciate the beauty and grace of this wonderful sport on the grandest stage? You fool. I’m watching so that I can point and laugh when one of these teams finally loses, filling the void inside of my empty heart with joy at somebody else’s sadness.
This is one of the great hate-watch series in recent memory. It won’t be the all-time greatest, because I’m not sure anything could ever top the 2011 Stanley Cup Final. But it’s been very good, and there’s room for it to get even better over the next game or two. What else could these two teams have in store for us? The mind boggles.
Through it all, the two fan bases have been at each other’s throats. That happens in every playoff series, sure, but this one is an especially strong clash. You have the Panthers, the much-maligned small-market team that’s finally moved past decades of little-brother syndrome and directly into a thick cloud of “How dare you question us?” smugness, which really infuriates Boston fans, because that’s their schtick. This series is rigged against us, I tell you. No seriously, I tell you, and I will not stop telling you, and everyone else, until your ears start to bleed.
And sure, let’s go ahead and answer the question that I’m guessing some Bruins and Panthers fans are shouting at me right now: Isn’t this all just jealousy? Isn’t this just the rant of pathetic little fans of loser teams who wish they could be us? And my answer is: Yes! Of course! That’s part of it, too. But don’t get too high and mighty about that because one of you two will get to join us in a few days. It’s fun, we’ll save you a seat.
So yes, I’ll ditch any pretense at objectivity and just say it: I hope the Bruins win Game 6. I hope they do it as controversially as possible. I hope the winning goal is scored by a returning Marchand while Jeremy Swayman is sitting on top of Sergei Bobrovsky. I hope Jack Edwards comes out of retirement to call the goal. I hope Pastrnak tries to fight Keith Tkachuk and fails. I hope Bennett tries to fight the Boston anthem guy and succeeds. I hope Montgomery performs all five acts of “Troilus and Cressida” using homemade puppets from behind the bench, and that Maurice’s postgame news conference is just a word-for-word recitation of the “Rant in E-Minor” album because ripping off Bill Hicks is apparently acceptable as long as you’re in Boston.
And then I hope Game 7 is even worse. Because this has all been infuriating, and also fun, because once your team is out of the playoffs, those two words pretty much mean the same thing. Bring it on, hockey gods. Do your absolute worst.
(I was kidding about bringing back Jack Edwards, though. Some of us can only take so much.)
