Here’s a scenario: We release more photos of our alleged abuse of prisoners. Those photos shoot to the Internet.
They are posted in hotbeds of Islamic extremism. Recruits are rallied. Revenge is demanded.
A group of U.S. troops in Iraq or Afghanistan is ambushed, and some are taken prisoner. They are filmed with bags over their heads, as terrorists threaten to slit their throats.
And then they do.
It’s a good thing the Red Wings have a game today. Otherwise, Dan Cleary’s skates might never touch the ground.
Several days after the toughest series many of the Wings can remember, Cleary still is flying from being the man who scored the final goal. Actually, he shoved, poked and jammed that puck under Anaheim goalie Jonas Hiller with 3 minutes left in Game 7. He didn’t even see it cross the line.
“I got pushed back and was falling,” he said. “But I knew it went in from the noise.”
When it comes to one funny bounce – and it has.
When it comes to one weird deflection – and it has.
When it comes to one ricochet, one shove, one screen, one stray skate blade, one well-positioned stick, one churning body, one annoying pest in front of the net – and it has.
When it comes to all of this – and with Game 7, it surely has – I’d look to Tomas Holmstrom.
If I could find him.
Long before the empty-net goal by Henrik Zetterberg, long before Darren Helm saw his espresso energy pay off with a red light, long before Pavel Datsyuk amazed everyone with a puck flip over the net as if he were tossing a pizza, long before Jiri Hudler bunted the puck over the goalie’s shoulder into the net – yes, bunted, in mid-air, I’m not getting my sports mixed up – long before all that drama and exhaustion and waiting and nail-biting and cheering and music and fireball explosions, long before all that Â
 there was Johan Franzen.
Since today is Mother’s Day, it seems a good time to take stock of the first thing a mom gives you when you come into the world, and sometimes even before you do.
Your name.
Oh, I know Dad may be involved in this. Sometimes. But based on an unscientific poll of specific individuals – in this case, me – one concludes that more often than not, Mom has the final vote on what to call the little angel.
And today it’s Emma.
And his hair was perfect. Every time I think about Chuck Daly, I think about that old song lyric. Chuck coming down the tunnel, nodding just before going out, and his hair was perfect. Chuck charging down the sidelines, screaming “GIMME A BREAK!” and his hair was perfect. Chuck speeding through a shopping mall, fingering the suits, Chuck grinning through a TV interview, Chuck wearing Armani or Hugo Boss, and his hair – wavy, thick, blown back like a Roman statesman’s – was perfect. It gave him the image of a man in control, always coiffed, always ready.
In the sixth period of a three-period sport, anything can happen. Players are dog tired. Eyes are blurring. Legs are as heavy as soaked trees. The body doesn’t want to bend. Going over the boards feels like someone raised the wall a few feet.
I went to a funeral this past week. My friend’s mom. She was a sweet woman who never came to your house empty-handed, who always had a smile and who couldn’t help but ask me, in private, if her son, my friend, was ever going to get married.
At the funeral service, and later, at the home, I saw photo albums of her when she was younger and her son was a boy, which meant I was a boy, too. And I got a little misty. I realized there are all these categories of people in our lives: parents and grandparents, uncles and aunts, cousins, friends, colleagues.
"Is it the nose?"
"No comment," Kris Draper says.
"The neck?"
"No comment."
"It’s above the waist, right?"
"Yeah."
"The elbow? The lower lip? The upper lip?"
"No comment," he says, laughing.
It’s nice to hear him laugh. He hasn’t laughed much lately. About three weeks ago, Draper suffered some freak injury that the Wings will only identify as "upper body." He hasn’t played since.
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