Deep into that darkness flying, went the puck, the fans were crying, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only work there spoken was the whispered words, 'He scored.' This was whispered, and a silence murmured back the words, 'He scored.' Merely this and nothing more. Back in my chamber churning, all my soul within me burning, now again I heard them tapping somewhat louder than before. Coffey stood in utter shock, his shoulders drooped, his head just dropped, then raised to look at the ceiling, this mystery to somehow explore -- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore. The Wings will still win this, and more. At that moment, I threw my arms up. If the refs had been calling the games according to the rule book preventing the abuse and gore that sometimes marks hockey games, these Colorado thugs could never hold their own against these Red Wings, but now this goal had tied the score. And in overtime finally, they would beat the weary Osgood at his door. The puck went in, and nothing more. Then that ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling as by his grave and stern decorum, Paul Coffey hit the net once more, three times in all that night. In regulation, the score was tied but in overtime, finally, they would beat the weary Osgood's door. If only that puck had not bounced wrong off Coffey's stick and scored. But that was game one; there were more. Much I marveled as the Red Wings lost the next game at the Joe and then out in Denver, the next night another one, before they finally beat Colorado -- this was a Red Wing team, I was sure, was back from its doldrums, risen from Coffey's errant score. No mortal has ever been cursed by such hapless of a score, by such hapless of a score. I can see the look on his face -- it was that one bounce that erased any chance the Wings had, for their soul then seemed outpoured. Nothing did he have to utter. He and the Wings fought back unfluttered, so that I could dare to mutter, 'Other teams have flown before -- on the morrow, they will win it, as my hope has flown before.' -- if not for that unfortuned score. They lost game six in Colorado and the season came to its end, but had it not been for that moment, the misfortune of that score, the Wings would have won the first game (and perhaps the second, too) and the series would have been different. At the very least, one more game would have been required back in Detroit; but now no more. A melancholy burden bore. On that unhappy misfortune, that unmerciful disastrous goal, the whole season turned. One bad bounce -- its ominous stock and store a dirge of hope, melancholy, as that one bounce meant the series, the cup was lost for this year. That one bad bounce slammed the door. Colorado beat the Panthers in the finals -- it took but four. Such was the fate the ebony bird bore. I have sat engaged in guessing, with no syllable expressing, as to how it might have altered the sixth game's final score had Scotty Bowman run the three lines that he did in the two games the Wings won, but he did not -- and the Wings just could not score. It certainly could have made a difference and tied the series. Nevermore. Such fate have the angels bore. Perhaps the moment best remembered among all the frozen embers of the play-offs was the moment against the Blues, Yzerman scored in overtime to claim the series, really. The game had ground on scoreless through two overtimes when Yzerman racked up the score. From just inside the blue line, the puck was sent upon its roar. Octopi upon the ice -- but no more. 'Prophet,' said I, ' thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! -- Whether tempest sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore; Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -- On this home by Horror haunted' -- that was Coffey's errant score. But for that bounce, the Cup the Wings would sure have bore. 'Is this justice?' I implore. 'Devil,' said I, 'thing of evil! Claude Lamieux is a devil. By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we all adore -- the NHL should expel him, ban him from the league for life for the cheap shots, and harm he casts upon the game for sure. Tell this soul with sorrow laden that justice will find his door. Justice be done, I implore.' Continue