I Stand Corrected

(I know I'm a day behind, but I was running all over yesterday, taking my brother to the airport and doing some post-holiday shopping, and didn't have time to get to my planned post about Friday's game. So pretend like it's still yesterday.)

So Vanek didn't have a big game against the Rangers, although he had a nice assist and was literally inches away from having a highlight-reel goal on a couple of occasions. He's been a little quiet lately from a goal-scoring standpoint, with just 3 in the last 12 games, one of which was on an empty net, but the intensity hasn't left his game. It shows in his assist tally, which reads 7 over the same 12 games, more than half of his season assist total of 12. (Look at how statbitty I just got, there! Thanks, hockey-reference.com, for making me look like a somewhat legitimate blogger!) Just watching him play, though, I can't help but think he's due to go on a goal-scoring tear any day now. He's been working, and he's due.

In other news of things pertaining to this game I was wrong about, Tim Connolly didn't get injured, and the Rangers didn't win. (But Drury does eat his boogers. Of this I am sure.)

Speaking of Drury, I had planned on spending a little time in this post talking about him, but then I read Heather B's post about him over on Top Shelf, and felt the need to comment. And, to quote Tobias Fünke, it looks like I've prematurely shot my wad on what was supposed to be a dry run, and now it seems like I've got a bit of a mess on my hands. So, uh, if you want to know what I think about Chris Drury, go check over there. (And don't forget to read Heather's great post!)

I don't really have much to say about the actual game, except that a) Miller was obviously the only reason we even had a chance at winning, b) that second period was so putrid that I was almost angry with Roy for scoring and taking away my excuse to boo the team going into intermission, which I had expected to be the only fun I was going to get out of the game, and c) that was the most consistent officiating I've seen all season, in that it consistently wasn't there. But, since I'm me, that being all I have to say about the hockey doesn't mean I don't still have shit to say.

For whatever reason, the crowd seemed much more into this game than the Penguins game I attended not too long ago. Maybe it was because the Sabres have actually looked alive of late, or maybe Buffalonians just can't help voicing their misery and delight, and this game provided opportunities for both. The loudest the crowd was all night, aside from the celebrations of the goal and the win, was in the booing of Drury right before his shootout attempt, followed closely by the sarcastic cheering of the first shot in that awful second period. I'd say that's as complete a reflection of the game as any.

As much as I don't agree with all the "Fire Lindy!" talk that's been circulating, I'd like to make a suggestion. If the Sabres find themselves in need of a new coach sometime soon, I think they should take a look in section 106. One guy behind me had a serious commitment to scoring, since he'd shout "Scooooooooooooore, Buffalooooooooooooo!" at pretty much any time, including when the other team had the puck. With those kinds of reminders from their bench, the Sabres could never forget what scoring is, right? For a different approach, see the guy sitting next to my mom, who had a similar obsession with hitting. To be fair, for the most part he was right that the Sabres could hit more, but it appeared to be his singular solution to every situation. Heading into a corner with someone? Hit him! Someone stole the puck from you? Hit him! Someone skates remotely close to you? Hit him! He's your goaltender? Hit him, anyway! I think these guys would make a great coaching team.

One of my favorite things about going to the arena is going on jersey watch. I love seeing who and which designs are represented, and I'm usually pleased with the variety. This time, though, I noticed something disturbing. There seems to be an acceptable threshold to how many Hecht sweaters I can comfortably see, and on Friday night, we passed that threshold. The first one I saw, it felt a little like finding a kindred spirit, but by the tenth (or what felt like the fiftieth), I was whining, "But he sucks! Why do people want his jersey?!" (I feel like that was a little harsh, Yo-Yo, I'm sorry. It's just that I like to feel special.) One interesting thing I noticed was that most of the Hecht jerseys were of the new third variety, which means they were purchased this season. I know you've not exactly been on your game, Yo-Yo, but apparently a lot of people think you can turn it around. Just remember, I believe in you the most!

So that's it, crazy cheerers heard and inane insecurities revealed: just another day at a Sabres game for me!

Home, Sweet Home

So, Ryan Miller extended his contract by five years yesterday, and, as usual, I'm a couple of steps behind everyone else on this. Luckily, there are other, more dedicated bloggers than I out there who have done a pretty excellent job of analyzing the deal from all angles, but I still feel like adding my thoughts.

Obviously, this is a very positive move for the organization, but the sweetest part isn't that the Sabres finally signed a big name, or held on to someone they needed to keep, but rather that Buffalo finally has a player they can concretely believe wants to be here. Someone who had other, more financially lucrative options open to him, and chose instead to stay. Sure, we've always had those players to some extent. Last off-season I cheered when Adam Mair declared that he wanted to stay in Buffalo, that he intended to stay in Buffalo, and then actually stayed. Then, when Vanek signed the offer sheet that the Sabres ultimately matched, I chose to believe him when he said he'd wanted to stay in Buffalo all along. Sure, I may have just been falling for the shallow pandering of a player who'd just committed to playing 7 more years in this city and knew how important it was to get the fans on his side. But, I argued, if he hadn't wanted to stay, why had he bought a house here even before he had a contract? Still, there was the nagging fact that he had almost become an Oiler, and the lingering question of whether or not it would have really mattered to him. We'll never know for sure. And there are those players who have that "always one of us" air about them--players like Biron and McKee--who were sent or pulled out of town, despite not really wanting to go. (Note to Bucky Gleason: If you're looking for examples of players who were "forced to jump ship," these are the names you should be mentioning.) But in the wake of Briere and, especially, Drury moving on to bigger and better things, the choruses of "No one wants to play here," "We'll never sign a big name," and "We'll never be able to hold onto our young talent once they get successful" became stifling. For the past couple of months the consensus among fans on this Miller deal was that it wasn't going to get done, that he was as good as Detroit's at this point. Well, it's nice to have them proven wrong.

But this isn't just about shutting up the whiners (after all, this is Buffalo, people will just find something else to whine about eventually); more than anything, it's about having confirmation that this is a worthwhile team, that this is a worthwhile city, that we are worthwhile fans. As pathetic as it may sound, last summer when Chris Drury took a look at the money the Rangers offered him, took a look at the equal money the Sabres offered him, and chose to turn his back on the fans who had done nothing but worship him since the moment he set skate on our ice three years previous, it was hard not to take it personally. Some people lashed out at management, convinced that Drury couldn't have actually wanted to leave us, and some people labeled him a Slag-Faced Whore, convinced that he'd wanted to leave us all along, and that no amount of negotiation could have possibly changed his mind. But I'm willing to bet all of us, on one level or another, reacted to his departure with a certain amount of "Did we do something wrong? Why doesn't he love us the way we love him?" All the rest--the anger, the blame, no matter toward whom it was directed--was just a coping mechanism. It's a dangerous business, hinging an identity on sports heroes (having recently read Friday Night Lights, I was able to draw more parallels between Odessa, Texas and Buffalo, New York than should be considered comfortable), but it's pretty much what makes us Buffalonians such a wonderful and dedicated fanbase. More often than not we get burned (McGahee, Hasek, and O.J. Simpson are names that come to mind), but sometimes it pays off, and by signing this contract, by returning the faith of the Buffalo faithful, Ryan Miller is on his way to becoming the Sabres' Thurman Thomas.

He likes us. He really likes us.

One thing that especially hit home for me in his comments following the contract signing, which Schopp and the Bulldog brought up a number of times on the radio yesterday, was that Miller really appreciates the sports atmosphere here, the fact that hockey matters. He specifically mentioned that he enjoys that he can go out to Wegmans (product placement!) and be approached by fans who recognize him, respect his space, and just want to say, "Hey." He pointed out it's not something you get in most NHL cities, and he's right. Even with such dynamic superstars as Sidney Crosby, and such perfectly-run teams as the 2007-08 Detroit Red Wings, hockey can't shed the cloak of insignificance on the national stage. Since the national audience can't seem to be bothered to give a damn, you would think playing for a community that cares would hold a certain cache for players in the NHL, but it's normally not considered one of the main factors in guys deciding where they want to play. And for some players craving more anonymity (like Drury), the fanaticism can even be considered a disadvantage to playing and living here. So the fact that Miller brought up this example was heartening (not least because he better get used to it, at least for the next six years), but it also spoke to me on a personal level, since, having returned from six months in Europe two weeks ago, I was appreciating the same thing about my home.

Of course, there were many things that I missed from Western New York while I was abroad (chicken wings!), but one of the biggest surprises was how much I had in fact missed being in the middle of a hockey-crazy town. My unwilling separation from hockey for essentially the entire second half of the season was made easier by the fact that the Sabres were more or less sucking it hard, so I didn't really feel like I was missing out on all that much, but I really missed being in an environment where I don't have to depend on the internet for my hockey-talk fix (not that I don't do the majority of my hockey-talking on the internet, anyway). So I get a rather strange, but very real sense of comfort out of coming home to see my mom's editorializing of the poster that's hung in our kitchen for more than a year:

My mom? She's just another classless Buffalo fan like the rest of us.

Or out of sitting down to play hours of NHL 08 with my brother and discussing the authenticity of the game (more on that later). Or out of going to my dad's company picnic and discovering that if you're willing to talk Sabres, you share common ground with pretty much everyone, strangers or no. Or out of having my dad turn to me and ask, "What do you have to say to that?" after someone's made the claim that Hecht wasn't one of the players who stepped up this season, and being able to carefully and reasonably refute that argument. Caring so much about sports may drive us crazy sometimes, Buffalo, and it may make us a joke, but I for one hope we never take it for granted.

Memory Monday

(Okay, okay, I know. It's not actually Monday anymore, but I got in late last night, so cut me a little slack and pretend.)

Part two of the co-captains mini-series:

Chris Drury - The 7.7 Second Goal

No contest. This is not only my favorite moment of Drury, but also of the entire season, and possibly of my hockey fan career. (Granted it only encompasses about a year, but still.)

Allow me to set the scene a little: It's May 4th, and I'm on my way home from Minnesota for the summer. I'm at the tail end of the most hellish week of finals imaginable, one that required I spend fourteen hours a day cramped in a tiny design studio, constructing miniature set pieces out of toothpicks and foam core. Over the course of three days I managed to grab a grand total of eight hours of sleep, and in any minute not spent sleeping, eating, or frantically hot-gluing, I could be found running around trying to pack and store all of my stuff in preparation for the trip back to Buffalo. Even once I get home, I still won't be done, since a Monday deadline gives me just under three days to research and write a ten-page paper. I am, in a word, exhausted. And even worse, I'm hockey-deprived. Due to my hectic schedule, I was only able to catch Game 2 of the Rangers series, and I unknowingly scheduled my flight on the night of Game 5.

I pass out on the plane ride, despite my playoffs-related stress, and find myself suddenly in Buffalo at around 9:00pm. As people switch on their cell phones, all they ask about is the game, and the score spreads through the cabin in a wave. Even as I speed-dial my sister to let her know I'm in, I overhear the guy next to me repeating, "Zero-zero going into the third?" to his phone, seemingly for my benefit. My sister, listening to the radio in the car, corroborates, and I find myself sharing anxious glances with people I don't know in the slightest as we all move toward baggage claim. Through the churning in my stomach--series tied, game scoreless, one period to go--I feel a thrill. This is precisely why I drove myself nuts by booking my flight days before I needed to: to share the playoffs with like-minded strangers, fans as crazy as I am to invest so much in a game.

I meet my sister at the curb, and after a warm but quick hug, she helps me with my bags and tells me it's still tied at zero. It's about a forty minute drive back to our house, and we have a go at catching up, but we're only half-listening to each other, our main focus on the radio. Halfway home, the Rangers score, and we shut up for good. We're stung; we weren't expecting this. As the precious few seconds of the remaining regulation tick down, we can feel our playoff hopes disappearing with them. The Rangers ice the puck with sixteen seconds left, and my sister whispers, "It's over." I want to say, "But Drury's on the ice," but instead I just lean forward into the dashboard, anxious and silent as they set up for the face-off. I'm thinking, this can't happen, it can't really end like this.

And, of course, it doesn't. I don't even bother trying to process the words of the play-by-play, because I know that if, when we score, Rick Jeanneret will lose his mind, and that's all I need to listen for. As the patented RJ wail of "SCOOOOOOOORES" fills the car, my sister and I turn to each other, mouths gaping in disbelief. We erupt into screams, connect a couple of frantic high fives, start pounding on the seats, windows, anything we can get our hands on. We quiet down just long enough to hear Jeanneret yell "CHRIS DRUUUUURY, who else? Who else?" and I feel vindicated, proud. That's my captain. My sister lays on the horn so hard the car in front of us pulls over onto the shoulder. They're obviously not listening to the game. We fly the rest of the way home, and I feel lighter than I've felt in the past month. There's still the overtime period to go, but I don't have any doubts. We're not going to lose this game. Not now. When we pull in the driveway, OT has already started, so I run in the house, give cursory greetings to my parents, and park myself in front of the TV. It's not long before I can celebrate properly the win I already knew was coming. Max Afinogenov belly flops at center ice, and my household shares hugs and high fives. It's the best welcome home present I could ever ask for.

The funny part is, it's not until the next morning when I hit up YouTube that I actually get to see the game-tying goal. It is a thing of beauty. It looks (even in retrospect) like destiny. From Drury's stick, the puck finds its way through Thomas Vanek's legs, around Henrik Lunqvist, and somehow, impossibly eluding two defenders, into a tiny sliver of open net. It's truly magical. And as I'm writing this, I'm discovering, to great delight, that my love for this goal goes above and beyond anything to do with the guy who scored it. Yes, it's quintessential Drury, the kind of moment he's famous for creating, and that's certainly part of the reason I loved it initially. But it's not his moment. Ultimately, no matter what sweater he wears now, that moment belongs to us, to Buffalo, to the people who jumped out of their seats in HSBC, or on top of each other in the plaza outside. It belongs to me, in desperate need of a pick-me-up, a reason to scream my way home from the airport. And that's good to know. It's good to know that, despite a tiny twinge of heartbreak, this video still plasters a smile on my face. Because this goal is about the pure, unadulterated elation, not the guy who caused it. Still, in that moment, I could not have loved Chris Drury more.

Okay, there. I got it off my chest. Briere, Drury, you will be remembered, you will be missed. Now get out of my life for a little while and let me heal.