I will never forget the wicked something-or-other that sat in front of us at my first playoff series. A Boston fan of the worst guise in the Montreal arena, he was so aggressively cocksure, as if a bit unsure of the whole charade. All game he went on and on about how he wished our captain had succumbed to cancer. We dismissed him as the imbecile he was and attended to the game we had paid to see. When the MacLaren hit on Zednik brought things flying from the bleachers, the little envoy from Boston upped his taunts. Nothing like a man in red unconcious on the Montreal ice to bring out the best behaviour of the spoked B (looking at Vancouver night scene's favourite hard-done by). Finally, it was too much for those around, the invitation for him to fill his big words was given. To no one's surprise, at that point, he shrunk into the small man without the complex, the beer soaking down his back as if he was somewhere else. He sat in his soggy shirt and shut up. Oh we got a story, but it might have been nice to hear our own conversation without having to abide the little attention-starved lout for hours.
We won the series of course, and I'm sure he enjoyed the clubs he came to visit.
It's only one example that still riles me. Lately, I care less for those who have paid to live out their big man fantasies in hostile arenas. But I have found a new distaste for the utter hogwash that gets spewed in advance of every critical game by Boston's media in order to set the mood.
The storyline they spin each and every time these teams play now is one where innocent, hardworking Bruins must face dastardly, fiendish Frenchmen who will steal your kidneys while you help them up from the fall/dive.
This link here.ends with the notion that the hockey gods will give the Bruins the win because the Canadiens are by definition divers. The title: "With Bruins-Canadiens, it’s fighters vs. floppers" is clear in its propaganda attempt.
Enough, enough, enough. It's a total and utter nonsense. But the perception is made, the Bruin aggressors must only be victims of some Gallic theatre.
I'm not sure which leaves a worse taste the tired hollow story being woven year after year or the endless parade of acolytes from Boston who propagate it.
But really, there is only ONE remedy you know. No, not pouring beer over their heads (though that feels good for a few seconds). To send this mythologized collection of victims to another summer of wound licking with only a President's trophy to look at.
So enough with the previews, let it begin. GHG