Le Retour

Y a quelqu'un à New York qui m'a entendu réfléchir tout haut et qui a décidé de s'excuser de la plus belle façon possible; en écrivant une autre perle, et en la faisant lire par ce génie de la narration qu'est Liev Schreiber.

Ce qui m'a manqué le plus pendant le lock out, c'est pas une game, non, m'en calisse des games avant Noël. Non, me suis vraiment ennuyé d'entendre Schreiber pendant les épisodes de 24/7, the road to the winter classic...
Et juste comme ça, drette de même, je leur pardonne leur avarice, à ces milliardaires qui tenait en otage mon sport.
Notre sport.

People follow a sport like hockey, and they look for symbolism. They want the game to mean something: they want the game to matter.

So to them, a fresh sheet of ice just after the Zambonis laid its final spray of water presents the purest vision of possibility they could imagine.

Skates being sharpened over and over and over again are a meditation on perfection, and the routines and rituals that surround the rink are a language of dedication in need of no translation.

To them, games aren’t meant to be seen; they’re meant to be felt.

Blood points a path directly to the heart; sweat, a trail to the soul; and tears, a connection to a conviction that people search for their entire lives.

The ones who look for something more, who believe for something more, are the ones who turn close games into unforgettable nights; who transform great players into heroes for all time; and who no matter what, maintain unwavering faith in the incredible.

There are people out there who look at something like hockey, and they want the game to matter.

So it does.