Sometimes, quite literally as scrums would break out hither and yon.  Surprisingly enough, the one person who wouldn't lose his cool would be Eddie, who after a rough first period, would go on to shut out the Stanley Cup champions the rest of the night.

Sydor slams spare

Louder and louder still. Each minute that passes causes more and more Red Army desperation -- on the ice and off. The Detroit remix of white trash behind me realize that it's my name on the back of my Stars jersey, and now they're ragging me rather than watch their team's discipline crumble.

"Hey, PIKE... when's your team gonna win a big game?"

Tonight, Sparky. Tonight.

Things would not be so easy for Osgood.  He would fall prey to whatever insanity that afflicted the Eagle during the playoffs last year.

He would also be afflicted by the Golden Brett again as he would one-time the game winner in on a blind feed from Modano.

Quit crying Ozzie. This is a man's sport.

Brett Hull put two big hunks of vulcanized rubber in the mouth of his naysayers with two goals that night. The first goal was a shot in the arm of an offense that too closely resembled the pod team from Friday night's Anaheim fiasco.

The second goal was pure destiny. Osgood was so far out of his position I thought Kevin Smith had strapped on goalie gear.

And just like the end to any good movie, the home team wins and everybody celebrates . . . even if this game means nothing come April.

Old time hockey, coach?

Of course, referee Don Van Massenhoven Jingleheimer Schmidt was about to revoke that goal as well, but Scotty Bowman's Visa was maxed out.

Best crowd jeer overheard -- "Kill a commie for Tommy!" Think about it. Runners up -- "Strap on the foil, Marshall!" and "What's wrong, Federov? Did Anna get grounded for missing curfew again?"

For now, we eat and drink and make merry because we were treated to perhaps the best hockey game this town has seen and that we were on the winning end.

Maybe later we'll be able to look back on it and point to this as the moment we knew  . . . that this would be the shape of things to come.

More wings

Look. I know it's only nine games into the season of 82. I know the road ahead is long and arduous. I know that all of this sturm und drang means approximately dick in April.

But, dammit, I'm all about instant gratification. And right now, this is pure fun. It's the shape of things to come.

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