Goodness

GUESSWHOSBIRTHDAYGUESSWHOSBIRTHDAYGUESSWHOSBIRTHDAY IT IS TODAY!!!

I'll tell you. Jordan Eberle. Feel free to completely bask in the glory of this moment. It's 21. NBD

The 9 Things I Hate About You (part 1)

The Sens game versus Edmonton last night was some sort of universal gathering of aquaintances of Al. I think I saw like seventeen people I knew. Crazy shit. You know what else? Jesse Winchester got like seven million penalties. And there were some suuuuuper annoying bitches sitting next to me who kept using the Senators' first names and taking crappy pics, and every time they'd come into our zone, they'd be like, "Oh, hello you." and snap a shot. I wanted to flick that girl in the face, and not only because of her annoying-ass voice, but because she legit had botox-injected lips. Not even kidding. I know.

But in spite of that, I managed to get some sweeettt shots of Taylor and Jordan and Magnus on my phone. Her distraction was nothing compared to my epic photography skillage. I will figure out how to upload them from the cell to the computer soon enough, do not fret my dearies. Laugh out loud. Hello you.

Webster's Dictionary defines AL as nothing less than a complete and utter hyprocrite.

Who Does This Kid Think He Is?

You're perfectly allowd to flip out.

Jordan Eberle - Who does this rookie think he is?

And then you're perfectly allowd to say: "wait..."
And then you're perfectly allowd to laugh your ass off.

Things Are Finally Looking Up

This is gonna be a good year. I can feel it. It didn't start out too well, but its gonna work out. Hell, its getting better already. Why? The Oilers=undefeated in the pre-season. The reason?



The one on the right is Magnus Paajarvi-Svensen. Remember I told you about him? He's awesome. I like how I discovered him all on my own, just like I discovered Kevin Bieksa. I wonder where he is right now. I still haven't seen Jordan Eberle play with Taylor Hall yet!! But I know what'll make it better. Because look what I found.

Why yes, those are pictures of Taylor Hall and Tyler Seguin at the Draft training assessment thing. Why don't we dive deeper, hmm?

Hockey players' arms aren't supposed to look like that. Those are like, body builders' arms. They don't really match. This is why we're Team Taylor here at Loonie Engraved. And I don't mean Team Werewolf. I mean Team Freakin Hall.

Let's see them all together again.

Aha. Look at Jordan. You know Paajarvi (I don't feel comfortable calling him Magnus, we aren't on a first-name basis yet) just told a joke, and Hallsy's laughing his ass off, and Ebz is just like "Hahaha...I don't get it."

Ahh. Canada hasn't won the cup in a while. This is our time. It's a Canada year.

Exhibition

You know how sometimes you get like a rush of firsts in a really condensed period of time? Like your first drink, and then your first passing out, and then the next morning you get your first hangover and you learn about your first criminal offense the night before. I had that. Not the alcohol thing. It's more of a hockey-related thing, obvi.

Over the past 24 hours, I've experienced two firsts. Numero uno, Taylor Hall's first game in an NHL uniform as witnessed by me. Included in that was Taylor Hall's first goal in an NHL uniform as witnessed by me. Also included in that is my discovery of Magnus Paajarvi (Pajaarvi?). The final point of that extensive list of Taylor Hall related firsts is feeling the disappointment of not witnessing my first ever T-Hall/J-Ebz matchup in an NHL uniform. This happens to be the first time I have felt this particular tinge of disappointment.

The second first that I discovered earlier this evening is that seeing Sergei Gonchar in an Ottawa Senators jersey MAKES ME WANT TO VOMIT.

Bastardo!

Jordan Eberle turned 20 yesterday. Whoopteedo. I would put up a super montage of Messiah pics for you, but to tell you the truth, I'm just too goddamn depressed about the Habs. They just lost 6-0 to Philedelphia. Philedelphia! My theory is, Philly is simply riding a high from winning 4 straight over Boston. It'll pass, and so will Montreal's current need to do everything on their own. There's a reason that there's five other people out there on the ice with you, Camelleri, Gomez. Maybe you should consider taking advantage of them. You did it against Washington and Pittsburgh, why not the Flyers? They suck. They were singing the Olay Olay Olay Olay Olay song tonight. That's Montreal's song! We invented that song! You can't just steal it from us and then use it against us in your own arena. That's bullshit. It's a little early for goodbye songs if you ask me, anyway. There are still six games left in this series, and we intend on using every last minute of them. And then we'll be the ones singing goodbye. Bloody fucking bastards.


Geez. I just got pretty angry there. It's gotta be Philedelphia. It's their fans. They're just so...mean. Geno said it best: "I think Philedelphia fans its...its not good fans because its...its...when sit bench its popcorn, its...my head, its...not good."
He always did say it best, though, didn't he.

The Mystery of Mr. Clutch

I'm feeling constant revulsion and love to one particular individual at the moment. I hear one thing, it makes me love him. I hear something else, it makes me hate him. I'm trying to write or even think about anything else but his face is the only thing that comes into my mind. So, undoubtebly, I have to write about him. There is nothing else for me to do.



Jordan Eberle. Mr. Clutch. Before, to me he was simply an overgrown 6-year-old with some miraculous skills in making us crap our pants in the final seconds of Baby Canada games. He was a simple person, a simple guy, as simple as plain bread or an empty arena. But then came the game against the USA. He scored the goals, just like we knew he would, but this time it was different. This time, his valiant efforts were somehow unprecedented and went unrewarded. We then felt bad for Jordan Eberle. We loved him even more. We knew of his remarkable talent, it was no longer merely a consequent of good luck. Facebook began to overflow with groups dedicated to him, NHL GMs went immediately on alert. All of Edmonton beamed with pride; their unfathomable losing streak seemed to have finally stiked a finish.

But, is that all there is to our young Canadian hero? Is he simply a talented hockey player, an over-exageration of our arrogant, self-absorbed minds? Does he have the nerve, the passion, the bravery, the cheek, the spirit, the bravado to be able to stick it in the big leagues?

He has won our hearts, has claimed his name as a Clutch God. He has proved himself as more than capable of handling the foreign talents of the Junior leagues. But will his talents suffice once he takes the next step? Will he be able to handle the weariness and exhaustion of the upper level? Will he crumble under the pressure of all the hopes and expectations that have been suddenly thrust upon him?



Jordan Eberle was not known before the World Junior tournament of 2009. He was not one of the best players on team Canada, he was not a star. He was simply a fragment of the group, a tiny, insignificant piece of the puzzle. But, no matter how small the piece, if it is missing, the puzzle is incomplete, no?

It turned out he was a larger piece than any of us had ever expected. If it weren't for him, scoring that final goal against the Russians in the semi-finals with less than 6 seconds remaining on the clock, Canada would never have made it to five in a row. We would never have become legendary, if it weren't for him. He was Canada's saviour, so to speak. He gave us hope, he gave our country light again.

Or was he simply in the right place at the right time?

How can we be sure that if it hadn't been him playing on that line, if the coach had subsituted him in the final minute for someone different, we wouldn't have gotten the same result? If, say, Stephan Della Rovere had jumped off that bench for the final shift of the game instead of Jordan Eberle, would he be the one who had recieved all the glory? Was Eberle's miraculous last second goal simply luck of the draw?

No, you say, since this year he proved himself. This year, he confirmed the thoughts that were raging the nation, by scoring two goals against the US in the finals minutes of the game to tie it up when we thought all hope was lost. He confirmed himself as a master in clutch. He demonstrated that his game improved to about double his standard whenever it was absolutely needed. He proved to us that under pressure, he could do anything. Under pressure, he could be the greatest hockey player in the world.

Or did he? Again, was he simply situated in the right part of the ice when he got the pass? Was his perfect shot just...lucky? Maybe it was just a fluky coincidence that he happened to score both of the goals that tied up the game. I mean, any one player on that team could have scored those goals. It didn't take a particular amount of skill. Anyone in that tournament could've done it. Maybe it wasn't him at all. Maybe it was the opposition. Maybe both USA and Russia in those games became too cocky, maybe they thought they had already won. Maybe they figured there was no way to come back from the loss that was already eminent in the faces of all those Canadians. Maybe they dropped their game. Maybe, just maybe, they lowered their intensity just a tad, just enough to let one shot through. Just enough to give one goal, and give the Canadians an incredible boost of energy and adrenaline. Maybe that energy is what won them their fifth gold medal in 2009. That adrenaline, perhaps, is what also gave them the strengh and power to catch up from a two-goal deficit in 2010 and bring the game into over-time.

Maybe it was never Jordan Eberle at all.




Even if it wasn't him who had scored all those clutch goals, I have a feeling that we, all North America, would still love him somehow. So, what is it about him that makes us adore him? He isn't the most attractive man in the world. If it were based on that, we would all be swooning over Nikita Filatov right now. So then what? His personality? The fact that he gets overly excited about every little thing, that he has the heart of an over-grown child? His humour? If it were about that, we would be laughing at Adam Burish, not him. So what is it? What is it about Jordan Eberle that makes us holler until our throats are dry, that makes us giggle until our sides hurt, that makes our eyes well up with unexpected tears?

Could it be a mix? Perhaps all of his features, inside and out, add up to a perfect combination of a male. The perfect combination of lovelyness, that make us throw our pillows at the TV. Maybe Jordan Eberle, Captain Clutch, is simply...perfect.


We'll never know. We'll never truly know what makes him tick. Never know how he stays so calm under immense pressure, or how he manages to keep that unfathoming charm on constant reflex. I can't help but wonder if we've over-estimated him. They say love is blind. They say that if you're looking for something in someone, chances are, you'll find it. Maybe we were just looking for someone new, someone exciting. Maybe we were just trying to find someone to fill the void of hockey Canada that has been continuously gowing and growing over the past few years. Maybe we were looking for it, and, just maybe, since we were so carefully and constantly looking, we found it.

Is Jordan Eberle really as great as we've put him up to be? Or is he simply no more than an extended hope of our overactive imaginations?

That is the question.

Karma's a bitch

The first day of my new blog and the only thing on my mind to write about is the heart-breaking event that was game five. Lord Stanley would be ashamed.

Five zip. How often do you get to hear that mid-finals of the Stanley Cup Playoffs? Flower, I mean really, three on your glove-side? And one in the 5 hole? I understand the blocker goal, but I blame Dan Bylsma for not benching you earlier. I love you man, but you were awful last night.

Maxime Talbot makes my life. If it weren't for him, I would have turned off the t.v right after the second. Pavel Datsyuk's first game back after a broken foot, and what does Maxy do? Skates right on over to him and gives him a big whack right on the foot. Ouch. Unfourtunately, it didn't do much for us, giving the Wings a two-man advantage with Crosby already in the box, and causing another goal on Fleury, but what the hell? Might as well give the media something to talk about. Datsyuk doesn't deserve to be on that ice, after missing the entire series. His hesitation looked to be house-league worthy.

Still, Pens, seriously, you've gotta step it up. Geno, stick to the puck. It's your spaghetti. Breakfast, lunch and dinner, bud. Don't let the cripple scare you. Pretend every single person in that crowd is Mama Malkin. Make her proud.

Also, Crosby, Zetterberg is supposed to be shadowing you, not the other way around. I know I have absolutely no right at all the judge you, because I have nothing but respect for you, but you're their captain. Their leader. If you were to jump of a bridge into a mile-deep pile of shit, the rest of the Pens would follow your sorry golden ass into that shithole. No joke. If you lose your momentum, there's no way we're gonna make it all the way.

Do it for Mario and the kids. They've housed you, man. They took you in when no one else would and you needed love and care. Do it for Colby Armstrong. Even though he's long gone now, he still believes in you, and was your roomate and told the press all of your embarrassing secrets. Do it for Geno. The only three syllable words he knows how to say are 'spaghetti' and 'atmosphere'. He's been working so hard to learn this alien language will Sergei Gonchar's little girl, and we're all so proud of him. If you were to look up the definition of 'perserverence' in the Russian-English dictionnary, you would find Geno. Do it for Jordan Eberle. He saved Canada in the very last seconds of our remaining dignity, when the most dedicated of canadian fans had lost all hope and were beginning to turn off the television or radio. Do it for all of Canada. We believe in you, Sid. Represent.

By the way, Max, your beard makes you look like a hobo.