As I sat there and watched the Flyers playoff hopes go up in smoke – as they are now five points behind Boston and the Bruins have two games in hand – I couldn’t help think about how this was all going to settle in the minds and emotions of the players, coaches, management, and yes, even the fans who truly believed that this team would figure out their issues and respond with the kind of play needed to be a playoff team.

For a few games it seemed they did figure it out, but they waited too long and left themselves no wiggle room. So, now it’s Spring and we will turn our attention toward other things for the next several months. But for one night, we had to let it all sink in. The Flyers 2020-21 season is now all but over. 

And I thought, the best way to express that was in an artistic form. So, here is how the Flyers season ended, in poetic fashion, a microcosm of their entirely frustrating season:

 

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Flyerville hockey team that day:
The score stood two to zero, with but two periods left to play,
And then when Hayesy hit a post, and TK did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, “If only the power play could but get a whack at that—
We’d put up even money now, with a man advantage to get us off the mat.”

But Laughton’s chances preceded the power play, as did also Ghost and Jake,
And the former was unlucky twice, while the latter oft made mistakes;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of the power play entering combat.

But Jake tapped one in, to the wonderment of all,
And Ghost, the recently waived, shot one through the wall;

And when the dust had lifted, and fans saw what had occurred,
There was a tie score in the second and a potential win coming in the third!

Then from three thousand throats, socially distanced, there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For in the third the power play, would get a chance to end this spat.

There was ease in the PP’s manner as it skated into place;
There was pride in Coots’ bearing and a smile lit JVR’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, Provy lightly tapped his stick on the ice,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas the power play full of spice.

Six thousand eyes were on them as they gripped their sticks so tight;
three thousand tongues applauded in anticipation the lamp would light;
Then while the squirming Boston goalie adjusted his glove into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Voracek’s eye, a sneer curled Giroux’s lip.

And now the frozen rubber puck was passed to the Captain with care,
And the referees stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by a Bruins’ veteran agitator nearly took off the Captain’s head —
“That ain’t our style,” said the referees in unison. “Turnover,” Jim Jackson said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
“Hey Ref, You suck” shouted someone on the stand;
And it’s likely they’d have killed him if there wasn’t more hate for Brad Marchand.

With a flailed attempt at the puck by Coots, the PP’s visage shone;
It stilled the rising tumult; it bade the game go on;
G still recovering from Marchand’s hit, looked up to see what he already knew;
The power play was caught up ice, leaving Ghost one-on-two!

“Fraud!” cried the maddened hundreds, and echo answered “Fraud!”
But one confident positioning from Carter Hart and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Carter wouldn’t let that puck go by again.

The sneer is gone from Carter’s lip, he is channeling his inner Carey Price,
He pounds with cruel violence his goalie stick upon the ice;
And now that rat Marchand has the puck, and now he lets it go with a stick wave,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Carter’s attempted save.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Flyerville — for the PP, Carter and the team’s playoff chances have struck out.

Inspired by “Casey at the Bat,” by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

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