Maybe only Sigmund Freud could come close to finding an answer to why the Habs, as they were last night and so many times in recent years, can come out to an exciting atmosphere and play like it’s past their bedtime. So uninspired, so freaking lousy.
Freud might have known what the problem is, but he’s dead. So it’s left up to us to understand.
Here’s some of my suggestions:
Whichever restaurants the players eat at, fire the cooks.
Send the wives to Powell River and the kids to an uncle’s so the guys can focus better.
Arrange for an exorcism performed on the dressing room.
Build a new dressing room and start over.
Build a new rink and move.
Have the players look up to the sky and say sorry to dead Habs.
Go back to wood sticks and sweaters with tie-up necks.
Do what many dads do – give a buck for every goal scored.
Decline power plays.
Forget the free hot dogs, chips, and pop at inter-squad games and morning skates. After last night, fans deserve steaks, beer, and morphine.
Start playing Brendan Gallagher while he’s still enthusiastic, and before he starts playing like everybody else.
Issue strong laxatives to players so they can rid themselves of their obvious constipation.
Ask Dr. Recchi if it’s a health issue with the guys and how would he fix it.
If you see PK Subban drive by, throw snowballs at his car.
Wear those striped retro sweaters so the opposition goes cross-eyed.
Set up Walter and Jesse, from Breaking Bad, in the Bell Centre basement and have them start making meth for the players.
Pay the players by the mile, like truck drivers.