GAME 3: OTTAWA 4 at PITTSBURGH 2
Senators lead series 2-1

PREGAME
Us -- "choking dogs." Are we done choking yet? Are we starting to choke? When will the choking end? Tied 1-1. Lost a game we shouldn't have a lost. It's over. The momentum is theirs. Team of Destiny. Take it, Sidney. Take the reins, make Mario proud and make America fall in love with you ...

GAME
Soft, whistling boos rain down on the Canadian anthem. I have no idea why. Crosby is Canadian. They love Crosby, don't they? Is he offended? Does he hear it? What does Crosby think about during the pregame ceremonies, anyhow? The complexity of his genius overwhelms us mere mortals. All we can do is stare at his face. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. The camera finally pans away.

Alfredsson stares tersely ahead. His eyes are glazed over. He is not here with us right now. I could scream in his ear and he wouldn't hear me. Chris Kelly sniffs, struggling to breathe, it seems, with a huge gash on his nose. No great loss -- there's a reason why we call him Horse-Face. Strangely, there is a patch of blonde on Emery's hair. A peroxide adventure?

I am cursing Emery as the Penguins score 53 seconds into the game. The almighty Gary Roberts grins as he bats in the goal in front of the Ottawa net. Ugh. I'm glad, weirdly, that I can feel so terrified and hysterical with no effect on the Senators -- whatever anxiety I have does not affect them.

McAmmond charges into the net, late in the first period, with a vengeance and is rewarded with a goal before Preissing is pushed into the net. It's dirty, it's filthy, it's what we need.

The Senators dominate play for much of the game. The puck is still sloppy as it moves from player to player -- not as crisp and clean as a discerning fan would like, but at least it's in our hands. The Penguins struggle for control of the puck, but don't put up much of a fight. A few dangerous rushes are contained. Comrie, with all of his midget fighting and buzzing around, tucks home the puck behind a sprawled Fleury. 2-1.

This isn't the type of series that allows you to relax with a one-goal lead. I consider it as good as a tie. The Penguins will rebound, I tell myself. They are resilient. They will get it back. Play as if we are tied. We do. The game starts to get a lot more violent , a precursor of events to come -- as Spezza tussles with (ex-?)mentor Gary Roberts, drawing a crowd, the ambitious Sidney Crosby scores on a terrible angle when the referees aren't looking. This would be hilarious if I weren't so terrified of the goal counting. Haha. Look at Crosby complain. What the fuck do you mean it doesn't count?

As in game 2, the Senators take full control in the second period. A power-play goal by Alfredsson nearly brings me to tears. He cares. I know he does. 3-1.

Then -- then, Eaves, bright blue eyes and an eager body, is crushed by Colby Armstrong around the net. He is sandwiched between two Penguins players and crumples to the ice, face-down and lifeless. The hit is clean. Although Eaves was pinned physically, he had his head down and Armstrong simply nailed him. It is borderline and clean in the same way that Neil nailed Chris Drury. Eaves is carried off on a stretcher, and I catch a glimpse of him stretching his fingers. Thank god.

Dean McAmmond, who I always thought of as the grandfather on the team, drops the gloves with Maxime Talbot as revenge. The playoffs has brought out the fearless enforcer in everywhere. Although Talbot gets a few good shots in at first, McAmmond is patient and out waits, outhits Talbot.

Colby Armstrong's face, meanwhile, is that of a fish. His mouth is open as he gulps air furiously, confused, straining to look at Eaves. I marvel at how young and boyish looking he is -- even Sidney Crosby, at 19, has the faint outlines of a moustache. Armstrong is still smooth. How can a kid like that manage to force Eaves to the ice like that? Don Cherry would say that he looks scared, but I think he's simply confused. You don't open your mouth that wide in fear.

Chris Neil chirps at the boys. It's obvious what is said. He is the enforcer. Play hockey. Let Neiler worry about retribution. He whispers something in Colby's ear on a later shift. Nothing arises.

Surely we can avenge Eaves, if not physically on Armstrong, on the scoreboard. Gather the troops. Forge a mentality. Avenge a fallen comrade! I've heard it bitterly said that the Penguins are a power-play unit. They finally get a chance towards the end of the period to use it and Cole warns the Pens sternly that to have any chance, they must score. Instead, it is Alfredsson who pops the puck past Fleury. He brings me to tears. 4-1.

Neiler, in between intermissions, tells us that he wants to catch the Penguins with their head down.

I'm not expecting the Senators to fall apart in the third period, I swear to gawd. Eaves is gone and the boys must keep this in mind. Alfredsson finally nails Roberts along the boards, sending the man with the greying beard to the ice. The Senators don't fall apart, not really, despite allowing one more goal. It is the result of Crosby simply overpowering Volchenkov, gaining one step ahead, and forcing the puck in on pure will. It is admirable. Malkin's sentiments are admirable as he attacks Phillips for, erm, doing a nice defensive job on Crosby, but what a kid like that thinks he's doing against a man like Phillips is fuzzy. It is also admirable how quickly the arena empties out after the Penguins waddle their way in their dressing room, as the Senators let out a sigh of relief and hug.

The Good
Daniel Alfredsson. This is the playoffs of his life. He dreamed about playing this way in '03, '04, '06. This is the way he should be and this is the way we like him. Hitting, scoring, killing power-plays, back-checking, disrupting the Penguins' sloppy pays. O Captain, my Captain.

Joe Corvo. He hasn't let up so far. Gaining the zone by himself, taking charge of our break-out. He's picked up the slack that Redden has let out, and shown himself to be an absolute force.

Dean McAmmond. He gets a Gordie Howe hat-trick: a goal, an assist and a fight. He wins all three.

Emery. He's not as good as the others on this list, but better than he was last time. After a terrible opening goal, he settled down and made some key saves. Beyond that, his numbers are still terrible and he has much to work on. Like stopping the first scoring chance. Learning how to do that tends to help your team.

The Bad
Christoph Schubert. The boarding was totally unnecessary.

Dany Heatley. He's either injured or overweight, because he's skating like Derian Hatcher out there. No hands, no feet. I'm still waiting for him to show up.

POSTGAME
The latest update on Eaves is that he has a concussion. Oleg "Paprika" Saprykin probably will get his chance to play.

I'm afraid to give the Senators too much credit. I'm afraid of going too high and then crashing down next game. So, for now, I imagine the Pittsburgh Penguins winning game 4 and what an awful feeling it evokes. Gary Roberts' grinning face, Sidney Crosby's wide lips.

We need game 4. We need that 3-1 lead. We need this series.

I am, however, incredibly interested to see what the reporters have to say about all this. Elliot Friedman sardonically called us "hysterical," describing us as jumping bridges and in mass hysteria in his interview with Chris Phillips. I was not hysterical. I did not jump any bridge. Even if I was hysterical, it wasn't for long. I feel his comments were in reaction to some of the Ottawa media, not actual fans. I'd love to see how the media feels about this tomorrow, and whether Alfie's heroics will warrant many words.

Labels: christoph schubert, colby armstrong, daniel alfredsson, dany heatley, dean mcammond, joe corvo, march of the penguins, patrick eaves, pittsburgh penguins, playoffs, ray emery, round one, sidney crosby