All sharp objects, boxes of Girl Scout Cookies, blunt instruments, and other possible inflictors of pain and suffering have been removed from my immediate vicinity.
Watching the Devils is painful. Not as painful as jamming a pencil into the roof of my mouth, G. Gordon Liddy style, but painful. It doesn’t help that Elias and Madden are in pain, suffering from groins pulled on the lame ice surface at the Meadowlands.
Am I the only one who hopes that entire building sinks into the swamp, to never be seen, heard, or endured again? It’s one thing that it is a nightmare to park there. It’s another thing that the concourse was designed for perhaps four people walking side by side (maybe the designers had prescience of the latter-days attendance numbers?) It’s not just that the food service is horrible, expensive and anti-customer (I’ve started taking the small containers of Heinz sauces, emptying them into the trash can, and then refilling them with ketchup because the food service employees refuse to give out adequate ketchup holders). It’s the complete package, from anti-fan to anti-visitor to anti-player, with the ice contributing to at least three team injuries this year.
Here’s an idea: why not have the ever-friendly lunch ladies stare down the ice sheet after the Zamboni is done, using their frosty glances and icy personalities for something useful?
But if the Devils don’t start scoring some goals, all of my whining is for naught. How can they let a Division lead slip away like this? For about twenty seconds I felt empathy for Rangers fans. And then I realized that life could always be worse.
