Imagine a world where Brad Marchand is the kid who just got an ice cream cone at the shop on the corner, and before he can take one lick, a group of kids ambush him and steal the treat.
This spring, the St. Louis Blues were those kids, jumping the poor little bastard and stealing his dream. After all, that’s what Marchand told the media after the brutal Game 7 loss at the TC Garden on Wednesday: the Blues “took our dream.” Boo hoo, brosive. You lost, plain and simple.
Pardon me if I appear a tad hostile this morning. Out of all the Boston Bruins who rub up against my soul like sandpaper, Marchand takes the fucking cake. He’s the #1 pest in the NHL. Go ahead and ask around. He’s on everyone’s shit list, and there’s a reason. He’s a smarmy little shit on the ice, disturbing shit and taking cheap shots.
While Bruce Cassidy was whining about St. Louis going after his players, there was the Marchand Rat going after Alex Pietrangelo and Vladimir Tarasenko’s lower bodies on a hit. Come on, dude. If you are going to even veer towards dirty, be like your similarly short friend, Krug, and go up high. Going after a player’s knees is bush league and that is why I feel zero pity for the little guy with the biggest nose in the land.
Look, he may be mad that he can’t grow hair on his cheeks to perfect a playoff beard, or he may just be a sore loser. Some things hurt more than others, and losing a Game 7 ranks high on the list. Marchand tallied five points in the series, scoring goals in Games 1 and 6, but he may be remembered for letting Pietrangelo sneak in on the back-breaking goal in Game 7. Marchand was going for a line change at the wrong time, got caught in front of a streaking Jaden Schwartz, and couldn’t do shit yet resemble a traffic cone.
It was so beautiful, I got a little aroused watching the replay.
Look, he’s a great player. The man can spin tops when he hits the brakes on the ice, twisting around players and freezing a goaltender. He put up 100 points this past season and tied Ryan O’Reilly for 23 points in the postseason. He’s no scrub, so I’ll hand him some respect as he goes down the escalator into golf trips, late nights, and a lot of Boston cream pies. But I will not feel sorrow or shame in blasting him or taking part in all the Marchand slam parades.
There should be a special sandwich made for him at Gioia’s Deli on the Hill. Double the salami, or shall we do gray corned beef instead. Place extra cheese, spices, and melt all of it together. Call it “The Rat.” Sell it for the long nights after a bender that didn’t end well.
Earlier in the series, Marchand made a crying gesture towards Pat Maroon after a period, and it went viral. Boston fans ate it up like that heavy, thick chowder they sell over there. Look at the little guy keeping a safe distance while taunting the Big Rig. I watched it and thought about my former best friend who always waited until the bigger guys were far enough away in order to start talking shit. What an asshole.
After the series ended, it was Marchand crying on the bench while Maroon hoisted the Stanley Cup before drinking the first of 70 beers the next 24 hours. Maybe he sent the Bruin a picture of Stanley. Probably not.
Excuse my lack of eloquence in this post, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to add Marchand to my “please hand my violin” writing series that started with Joe Maddon.
Some people need the smallest violin in the world playing just for them during a time of sadness, and right now according to news reports, that guy is Marchand.
He also told the media he’ll never forget this loss. That’s right, pal. Take it to the end of your days.
And stop going for player’s knees. Sleep tight.