The World Junior Tournament
The US bowed out early in the tournament, losing to Finland, the Czech Republic, and Canada before restoring its collective pride in a shellacking of Latvia. The important thing to take from our nation's effort is that we will remain in the top tournament next year. And also, that no one South of the border, that is the Canadian-US border, really cares. The latter fact is a sad truth, because the tournament provides some of the most exciting, intense games in hockey at any level. Mix national pride with youthful exuberance and you get the most compelling of competitions. No match up epitomized this sentiment more than the Canada-Russia semi-final. If you don't know the history of this, the most intriguing and unique of hockey rivalries, here's a primer. In 1972 Canada and the Soviet Union scheduled an eight game "Summit Series" where the two hockey powers played four games in each respective nation. Long story short, watch "Cold War on Ice," the excellent documentary aired on
Flash-forward to January 3 and the Canadians had their chance at redemption. There's home-ice advantage, and then there's the Scotiabank Saddledome when Team Canada is playing. The building transformed into an amorphous blob of red. A very, very, very loud and patriotic amorphous blob. Then for fifty minutes the previously dormant Russians (they needed overtime to beat the Czechs in the quarters while Canada blitzed their through their group) proceeded to erupt, scoring six goals to Canada's one. The sixth goal said it all for the host hockey nation: Their defenseman took a penalty then figuratively and literally laid down his arms, sulking with his head down while the Russians breached the Canadian goaltender once again. With a little more than ten minutes left, disbelief stood hand in hand with silence again. The "Sea of red" suddenly calm, the slew of flags once waving in pride draped over the sullen spectators; fallen soldiers of sorts.
That goal changed the game like no goal I've ever seen. The Russians prematurely swindling the vodka on the bench: surely a five goal lead would prove insurmountable with ten minutes left. The Canadians oddly inspired: they might lose, but they wouldn't be embarrassed. They scored less than two minutes later. 6-2. They scored twenty some seconds after that. 6-3. Two minutes later they scored again. 6-4. The Russians resembled a confused young boy in a game of rock, paper, scissors who keeps throwing out paper against rock... and loses. The Canadians had seen the game and decided to take it into their own hands, grinding the Russians down more and more, proving that they indeed had the power in the match-up. 6-5 with almost six minutes remaining. The Russians were rattled like no team before them. They forgot how to play the game essentially, throwing pucks aimlessly off the glass, touching the Canadians without checking them, wilting in the fox hole immediately following a bayonet charge of their own. This was the equivalent of a football team going three and out on one play, punting on first down, taking the full drive from the opposing offense, and then punting again.
And the crowd rose from the dead. The resurrection of the Canadian team turned the gentle sea into a wintry gale. The flags flew again before the eulogies ended. There was no one watching present or at home (myself included) who thought Russia would hold on.
Then in a bit of brilliant insanity the Russian coach, utterly, palpably, visibly restless at this point, changed his goalie, who despite the five goals against had been nothing short of tremendous. Andrei Makarov walked into Game 7 of the ALCS against the Yankees, bases loaded with no outs in the ninth with a one run lead.
Then in an ironic twist of sorts, with time suddenly an ally, the Canadians seemed to grow more complacent. Not entirely complacent, but enough to allow the Russians to breathe a little bit: the proverbial heel on their throat eased to let a few gulps of air in. Near death, not dead.
Makarov proved to be Russia's savior. A genius in the like of "Stonewall" Jackson, Makarov stood strong in net, perhaps too naive to grasp the situation, as his teammates played desperate often reckless hockey in front of him. With help from two of his best friends, Makarov held on as Canada launched a final two minute fury of an attack, throwing everything at the net. The rage built to a deafening roar inside the arena until it finally burst into deafening silence. Fifty-six to twenty-four shots on goal in favor of Canada, forty-three to sixteen in the final two periods, twenty-one to six in the third period (I wanna know who was keeping track by the way. It felt like more. Not less). 6-5 final to Russia. The Russians did it again, and one wonders how they even mustered the energy to celebrate as they mauled their hero in goal.
Canada took their frustrations out on the upstart Finns, trouncing them 4-0 in the perennially anti-climactic third place game. The bronze decidedly not gold.
The Russians on the other hand sputtered into the final against Sweden, who needed a shootout to best Finland in the first semifinal, on E. Emotionally spent and physically drained and vice versa, the Russians skated in water as the opportunistic Swedes flew by them on the ice. In the game between the Ovs and the Ssons, the Ssons were blowing the Ovs away. The score board as it so often does hid the story. 0-0. Amidst the blur of yellow and blue of the Swedes, and the stagnant red and blue of the Russians stood the one Russian who was supposed to be standing: Makarov. He turned away every puck the Swedes through at him, nothing spectacular, but consistent to the point of brilliance. To his credit the Swedish goaltender stood his equal some one hundred ninety feet away, quelling the rare Russian attack that came his way with a flash of the pads.
The Russians had been extending their last breath for nearly four periods of hockey, and welcomed overtime the same way they entered the game: at 0-0. The Swedes, desperate for their country's first gold medal in thirty-one years, pushed on admirably. Their stoic nature showing no signs of caving to frustration despite a fifty to sixteen shots on goal advantage. The Russians bunkered in their defensive zone with nothing left but an unspoken will to get to the shootout. Makarov stayed strong, stopping seven more shots in ten minutes as his exhausted teammates managed a mere one.
It had to be Mika Zibanejad for Sweden. The forward of Iranian descent played the role of unlikely hero if only in greater context. The thought of an Iranian dominating a game of hockey between two powerhouses reads more like an Adam Sandler movie pitch than an historical event. Zibanejad had indeed been unstoppable (sans Makarov) for his mother's nation as he moved by Russian d-men like they were practice cones. After a near miss in overtime, or rather a near goal, Zibanejad skated back to the bench visibly spent. He had given the Russians everything he had, every dangle, wrist shot, and snapper, the tangibles and the intangibles. In a word, he was tired. Previously double-shifted, he took a few off, watching his teammates fight a familiarly unrewarding battle. Two minutes later, he was back, the forward turned d-men, waiting patiently on the blue line as his more energized teammates mucked it up in the corners with the defiant Russians. His legs resting, his eyes watching, seeking that opportunity that he knew would come. And then it did. A Russian player at his own blue line, with Swedish forecheckers nowhere to be found, tragically relaxed as he tried to harmlessly chip the puck through the neutral zone. Zibanejad pounced and in a blink he was in on Makarov, a clash between the two best players as fate should have it. With a quick deke to the backhand it was over. Ray Ferraro called Makarov's effort "A heroic performance," but still a performance in loss. The Russians sat dejected on the bench. The Swedes threw sticks, helmets, and gloves in celebration on the ice. A just result, the epitome of this great tournament.
Russia Canada highlights
Sweden vs Russia final
NHL Midseason
Enough about the kids. On to the adults and to some midseason awards, which are treated like off-season awards or preseason awards. That is, they don't matter.
Hart Trophy (MVP) Evgeni Malkin. As much as I'd love to give more love to Pavel Datsyuk, and he absolutely is the best player in the Crosby-less hockey world imho, the award is Malkin's to lose. While Claude Giroux, Jonathon Toews, and Henrik Lundqvist certainly have claims, Malkin has done more for his team. With a slew of injuries to key players, the Penguins essentially presented the big Russian with a perfect MVP opportunity: Amidst adversity, succeed. He has been unstoppable of late. One can pencil his name on the scoresheet multiple times for every game he plays. Malkins unflappable determination has been very, ahem, un-Russian (see Kovalev, Alex, Yashin, Alexei, etc.). He's routinely taken on one on fours... and scored or set up goals. As of this writing his 58 points leads the league as does his Crosby-like 1.41 points per game average.
Dark Horses: Zdeno Chara, Lundqvist
Vezina Trophy (Best Goalie) Henrik Lundqvist. His stats are there: 21-10-4 record, 1.93 gaa, and .936 Save percentage, 4 shutouts. His team is in first place. He does not give up bad goals. Simple as that. Thomas's sprawling, spectacular saves take the air out of teams' forwards. Lundqvist's consistency, on the other end of the spectrum, does the same. He cannot be phased in net. Claude Giroux perhaps spoke for all NHL forwards when he asked Lundqvist during the Winter Classic, "Can I have one tonight? Just one?" Most nights that's all you will get.
Dark Horses: Pekka Rinne, Marc-Andre Fleury, Jonathan Quick
Norris Trophy (Best Defenseman) Tough call. Hard not to like Nicklas Lidstrom here (he has won the award a few times before), but I think Zdeno Chara is the most important defenseman in the game. Chara's sheer size is a force, but now he's contributing more on the offensive end. His 27 points are good for ninth in the league among d-men, while his +28 number is superb given his toi/g of 24:59.
Dark Horses: Shea Weber, Kimmo Timonen
Calder Trophy (Rookie of the Year) Ryan Nugent-Hopkins was running away with this award until injury halted his campaign. He should return soon, and he does still lead the league in rookie scoring, but the Devils' Adam Henrique has assumed the role of front-runner. His 34 points trail RNH by one, and he's just getting going. Playing with Parise and Kovalchuk down the stretch should help the center's plight as the Devils attempt to return to prominence in the East.
Dark Horse: Matt Read, Jhonas Enroth, Sean Couturier
Lot to look forward to this semester/season and I look forward to mindlessly providing my opinion every week. O, and if you haven't already, watch 24/7 in its entirety.
Friday (Unassisted)
