Today's good omen: The following story is 100% true.

As I'm sure was the case with many Senators fans after Monday night's game, I was left rather disappointed. The team didn't have their best effort, the captain was supremely frustrated, the coach was downright fuming about the game, and 20,500 people--myself included--streamed out of the game much less happy than they would have been had the results been reversed. Not all was lost, as the team still had one more shot at moving on (and had already greatly surpassed expectations), but pretty much everyone in the stands brought their A-game hoping to see handshakes after 60 minutes.

With that slight disappointment in mind, I went to bed shortly after I got home. The TV in my bedroom is on my side of the bed, so I typically tune into whatever late game is on, set the sleep timer to turn the set off in a half hour or so, and doze off watching whatever game is on. On Monday night, I jealously watched the Phoenix Coyotes eliminate the Chicago Blackhawks in their six games.

The last thing I remember from that game was seeing the handshakes on the TV, and I think after that moment I dozed off into a deep sleep. In the night, I had one of my recurring dreams: I'm at a childhood birthday party in the Kanata Leisure Centre's wave pool, splashing around with my friends. Over time, my friends--and everyone else--disappears from the pool, and I'm left alone there when suddenly a whirlpool forms and drags me to the bottom of the pool. It's not that I'm drowning; I don't feel myself gasping for breath, I'm simply casually dragged along underwater. A current takes me through a maze of tile-lined waterways when, normally, I come face-to-face with the skeleton of a plesiosaur that says inane meaningless words.

This dream, however, was different. It began the same, but instead of coming face-to-face with the skeleton of a plesiosaur, there before me at the bottom of the wave pool was Daniel Alfredsson himself, in full equipment, and he appeared completely dry. Alfredsson proceeded to discuss the circumstances about his apparent flip-out from Monday evening, in which he terrified Colin Greening by repeatedly smashing his stick against the boards.

"It wasn't frustration. It was necessary. That stick needed to snap in half in order to reveal something to one chosen fan. That chosen fan, Peter, is you."

Alfredsson then directed me to get up, get in my car, and drive to the loading docks at Scotiabank Place. When I arrived, Alfredsson said, I would quickly and easily find what I was looking for.

So I did. I got up, put on some black garments, drove to the 'Bank, and pulled around to the loading dock. When I got there, I looked around, and didn't immediately see anything--but then, noticed what seemed to be some seemingly bioluminescent aura emanating from a the trash compactor just inside the still-open loading dock door.

I sneaked in, narrowly avoiding some of the operations staff still milling about getting things in order, and went into the garbage room where I was amazed to see Alfredsson's Easton Stealth stick, with a crack in the shaft and a busted blade, just sitting right there. I peered over my shoulder, saw the coast was clear, and grabbed it and ducked back outside. I knew then what to do: Apply a bit of pressure, snap the shaft in two, and something would happen.

Something happened.

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Today's good omen: Let's write the ultimate pump up speech

Let's not kid ourselves that there is no potential danger in this--in writing off the Rangers before the game has been played.

But they used to say if man could fly, he'd have wings. Except... he did fly. He discovered he had to. Do you wish that the first Apollo mission hadn't reached the moon, or that we hadn't explored beyond the edges of our maps? That's like saying that you wished that you still operated without anesthetics and sewed your patients up with catgut like your ancestors used to. We are right to acknowledge the enormous dangerous potential in assuming we're simply going to win this game. But I must point out that the possibilities, the potential for success is equally great. There's risk in every opportunity. Risk ... risk is our business. That's what this game is all about. That's why we watch.

Great moments are born from great opportunity. And that's what the Ottawa Senators have here tonight. That's what they've earned here, tonight. One game. If they played the Rangers ten times, they might win nine. But not this game. Not tonight. Tonight, Ottawa skates with 'em. Tonight, Ottawa stays with 'em, and shuts them down because they can! Tonight, Ottawa is the greatest hockey team in the world. The Senators were meant to be here tonight. This is their time. New York's time? It's done. It's over. I'm sick and tired of hearing about what a great hockey team the Rangers have. Fuck 'em! This is Ottawa's time!

I don’t know what to else say, really. There's two choices: They can get the shit kicked out of them, or they can fight their way into the second round. Now, we can’t do it for them. We're just fans. Look at the team. You'll see these young faces, and think -- I mean -- what's there to say? What are your expectations?

You know, when you get old in life things get taken from you. I mean, that's...part of life. But you only learn that when you start losing stuff. You find out life’s this game of inches. So is hockey. Because in either game, life or hockey, the margin for error is so small -- I mean one-half a stride too late or too early, and you don’t quite make it. One-half second too slow, too fast, you don’t quite hit it.

The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team, they fight for that inch. On this team, they tear themselves and everyone else around them to pieces for that inch. They claw with their fingernails for that inch, because they know when they add up all those inches that’s gonna make the fuckin' difference between winning and losing! Between living and dying!

I’ll tell you this: In any fight, it’s the guy who’s willing to die who’s gonna win that inch. And I know if this team is gonna have any life tonight, it’s because they were willing to fight and die for that inch. Because that’s what living is! The six inches in front of your face!

Now, we can’t make them do it. They have to look at the guy next to them. Look into his eyes! Now, I think they'll see a guy who will go that inch with them. They're gonna see a guy who will sacrifice himself for his team because he knows, when it comes down to it, they're gonna do the same for him! That’s a team. That’s hockey, guys. That's all it is. And, either we cheer the shit out of this team and give them every ounce of energy we have as fans tonight, no matter the score, or we sit on our hands finding reasons to blame guys when they're fighting for inches out there. Now, what are you gonna do?

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Today's good omen: The following story is 100% true

I had a pretty fun childhood. I've fallen out of trees, jumped out of cars, skied through forests, jumped off of roofs (into snowbanks, don't worry), almost burned down a school (twice), detonated several hundred dollars' worth of various explosives, knocked out at least two other people, was ranked the top Civilization II: Multiplayer Gold player in the world on Case's Ladder, hacked and rebuilt a whole bunch of electronics to my parents' dismay, and wrecked more than one car--all without ever breaking a bone. I've also been almost kidnapped twice.

The first time I don't generally talk about. I was young and it was extremely scary. The only thing that saved me was one of those PSAs from the end of G.I. Joe cartoons--telling you how to get away from someone if they're in a car and you're on a bike.

The second time, I was older, but still young enough to be stupid. My friends and I had discovered a "hidden" fort in the forest behind our neighborhood. We knew whose fort it was--older kids who played football with us sometimes had built it out of stolen plywood in between some trees. It was slightly hard to find, unless you knew where to look. I remember being in there the first time we discovered it--I was terrified and wanted to leave, because I was convinced we were going to die. This may have had something to do with the fact that the fort was covered in warnings that said, "We know you're here and we're going to kill you."

Once I realized they did not, in fact, know we were there, the fort had other interests, since it was where the older kids hid their Playboys, a huge stash of junk food, and weed. The drugs had no interest for me (Thanks, G.I. Joe) but the other two were a gold mine.

I was engrossed in an article (that's right) excerpting Jose Torres' Fire & Fear: The Inside Story of Mike Tyson when I heard a sound behind me. I was sure I was busted, but my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach when I recognized my fellow occupant's orange jumpsuit and unshaven face. I was a kid. He was an escaped convict. between me and the door. I was dead meat.

But he didn't kill me right away, to my surprise. He just asked me if this was my fort. I told him no, it wasn't. As we shared a bag of Cheetos, he told me he'd need me to come along with him because he had a device on his ankle and he'd need a hostage. I told him that I would help him if he'd promise to let me go. He told me he'd come kill me and my family in the night if I was lying to him.

A cursory inspection of the device told me if I cut it, the circuit would be interrupted. I had taken apart enough VCRs and alarm clocks to know what I needed to do. I quickly returned with some heavy-duty tin snips and some copper wire. A little magic and we had the device off with no problems. He thanked me and disappeared into the night.

I never saw him again. I don't know who he was, what his crime was, or whether or not he'd really have been able to come find me and kill me in the night. I do know that ever since then, I've gotten packages at random intervals. Usually they are just small trinkets of things that are useful in my life: course textbooks, gift cards, etc. Yesterday, this arrived on my doorstep:

I think you know what was inside. It was accompanied by a note: "Hope this lives up to your other stories."

I'm lucky to be alive. We all are... remember that. It's easy to forget sometimes.

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Today's good omen: The following story is 100% true

I live on the banks of the Chattahoochee River (ha, the South has funny names... get over it, jerk), which is pretty awesome however you try to slice it. As I was on my morning run today (in a thunderstorm because I watch too many Rocky movies), I caught a glimpse of something floating in the water out of the corner of my eye.

It was a covered basket. I've heard some pretty crazy stories about Georgia, so I wondered what was inside it. Unfortunately, the cover obscured my view, and the basket was facing out away from me. There was no way to tell its contents. It was caught on some rocks, so I did the thing any guy would do: I looked for a stick to poke it with.

Sticks are easy to come by in the forest, so this was not something that took me long. But try as I might, I couldn't reach the basket to poke it free. The banks of the river were muddy due to the storm and I couldn't risk getting closer without falling in. I had to find some other way. Looking around, I noticed a tree branch hanging over me. There was only one thing I could do, because I was gonna poke that basket free no matter what.

Jumping up, I grabbed the branch in my left hand while I extended the stick further. It was just enough to make contact with the basket, but not to dislodge it. I worked my way down the branch until it was bending at an untenable angle, and my shoes were covered in mud trying to hold my body on solid ground. I was almost horizontal above the fast-moving river, swollen with rain. I gave the basket a good poke. It jostled, but did not break free. I gave it another vigorous shove, and it was almost loose.

And that's when I heard it. A sound like a stalk of celery being broken off. A quick glance behind me told me that my energetic poking of the basket had put more weight on the branch than it could hold. It would only support me for a few seconds longer. I had to make a choice: free the basket and eat a face full of rocks, or turn back.

There was really no choice at all.

I turned back, because running in wet socks is squishy and unpleasant. Leveraging all my weight against the rapidly weakening branch, I was barely able to scramble up the banks before it broke off, crushing the basket against the rocks. I could only watch as the basket slowly flooded and sank into the depths of the Chattahoochee. From the wreckage bubbled up some debris, including some wicker and a fortune cookie, perfectly preserved in its plastic.

The cookie floated lazily to a bank on a curve, where I was able to retrieve it with no further incidents.

If that's not worth dry socks, I don't know what is.

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Today's good omen: The following story is 100% true

The bowels of ScotiaBank Place are not unlike the Control Center level of Doom, but with less toxic waste and slightly fewer demons trying to kill you. It was thus that I found myself wishing I had a shotgun as I realized I was impossibly lost.

The plan had been simple: Peter would head to the Team Chara locker room to see if he could get some good quotes while I would stick around the Team Alfie locker room to see if there was anyone else I wanted to talk to. Then we’d meet up and see if we could get anything from the bigger interviewees outside.

After getting a few funny answers from Henrik Lundqvist and Brian Elliott about their desire to stop a Zdeno Chara shot after watching him break the hardest shot record, I headed out to see if I could find Peter.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a well-dressed man with longish hair and the blonde stubble of a weekend without a razor.

It was Milan Michalek.

Realizing my opportunity for a dream interview had just walked by me, I decided to upgrade our original plan to something that would make me a comedy legend on Silver Seven, and quickly headed after Michalek, hoping to stop him.

But Michalek knew his way around, and I most certainly did not. After a few minutes of not being able to find him, I figured I would double back and try to catch some other player heading out and follow them—presumably to where Michalek had gone. Several tense minutes later, I was making a pact with myself not to get lost in the future without some kind of weapon.

The sound of footsteps approaching from around the corner snapped me from my daydream. I was saved! If it was Michalek, I’d still get my interview. If it was some jerk from the staff, I’d just play it cool like Arnold and find my way back to the locker rooms.

And then I saw him.

It was a man in an impeccable grey suit. His dirty blond hair was mussed in a way that only a European would consider stylish, and his skin was so pale that girls from Team Edward would have swooned if they even got a glimpse it. But it was his sunken, red-rimmed eyes that transfixed me.

Those eyes! They burned with a pale orange fire that was inhuman. I could feel my legs weaken and I suddenly felt as if I was held up by an unseen force. I wanted nothing more than to look away and run in fear, but I was compelled to continue staring. The man laughed, and the temperature of my blood dropped several degrees. Then he spoke.

"Is okay to fear," he said. "Not everyone is man. Respect."

He reached out and put an object in my shirt pocket. I was still powerless to move my limbs. I could not have stopped him if I wanted to.

"Take," he told me. "Open when time is right."

I wanted to ask him how I would know, but I was unable to speak. He walked away, and when he was out of earshot, control of my body returned to me. I reached into my pocket to pull out a fortune cookie. A fortune cookie, which, until yesterday, I was physically unable to open. Believe me, my head wanted to--but every time I tried, my hands stopped working.

In desperation, I used my moderator powers to look up an email address. Having no other recourse, I needed to get in touch with him (click the images to expand):

To my surprise, he responded.

It said, "Many apologies, but cannot remember everyone. Can only tell you truth: Is always time if you want bad enough." Well, I wanted it bad. I opened the fortune cookie.

Believe.

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Today's good omen: The following story is 100% true

To say that Canada did not welcome me with open arms during my recent visit for the All-Star Game would be an understatement. Upon arriving at Customs in Toronto, I was immediately grilled with more questions than I have experienced anywhere else, even Texas.

Why was I there? To cover the All-Star Game. (The agent was unimpressed.)
How long was I staying? Just two days.
What was the name of my hotel? I wasn't staying at a hotel.
Where was I staying, then? With one of my friends, a fellow writer from our blog.
What was this "friend's" name? Peter Raaymakers. (Sorry, Peter.)
What's this "friend's" address? I don't know, somewhere in Ottawa.
Was that my final destination? Yes, that's where the All-Star game was.
Was I transporting any weapons or chemicals? No, just me. (MY HANDS AND FEET ARE LETHAL WEAPONS)
What's the duration of my stay? Still two days.
Have a great trip. Thanks, go Sens go.

It was then time to have my bags and all their contents opened and thoroughly inspected, and my hands swept for explosive chemicals. America doesn't want to destroy you, Canada. We just want to watch the game.

Later that night, as Peter and I were waiting for the bus to arrive to take us home, we had a discussion about what to do if I couldn't find my day pass: I would get on at the back, hoping the driver wouldn't check to see if I had one.

I never got the chance. As Peter climbed in the front, I went to get in the back. Two seconds is apparently the limit to get on the bus, a fact I learned as the doors closed in my face.

Soon, a text from Peter: "Did you get on?"

"No," I replied. "So, what now?"

No reply. I was stranded in Ottawa at midnight with no knowledge of the city and no idea when the next bus would come--or if it would take me home.

"What now, indeed?" I muttered to myself.

"Don't worry," came a voice from behind me.

It was a stunningly beautiful woman. Dressed all in white with jet black hair, she had apparently appeared from nowhere. I was so startled that I couldn't speak. She reached her hand out to me.

"Your friend will be right back," she told me. "In the meantime, take this."

It was not a bus pass. It was a fortune cookie, one of two I would collect that weekend.

I glanced away at the sound of Peter's voice. When I looked back, she was gone.

(read on for head-to-head and pump up...)

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Today's good omen: The following story is 100% true
When a woman asks you to tell her you love her, what she really means is that she wants you to show how much you love her. I have learned this the hard way. If you simply tell her, you're just doing what she said, and let's face it: "good enough" is no way to stoke the fires of interest. It's like Simone de Beauvoir wrote:

"The knight departing for new adventures offends his lady, yet she has nothing but contempt for him if he remains at her feet."

As men, we can't win. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. I contemplated this as I drove to her favorite Chinese restaurant--over an hour away--knowing full well that a gesture like leaving the seat down might be more appreciated than simply picking up one of her favorite meals. But it wouldn't be more romantic. So, I had decided to take my chances.

Arriving at the place, which must remain nameless because I don't share secrets, I placed my order and was told the wait would be quite long. When I testily asked why, the cashier simply gave a nod of her head toward a room in the back. Surrounding a table were the Ottawa Senators. Why they were there, I have no explanation for. I attempted to run over to talk with Z. Smith and maybe Alfie, but the owner of the restaurant, a large man with a large cleaver, gave me a subtle shake of his head, and I decided to heed his advice.

The team was just about finished with their meal, and as they filed out, it was clear that they enjoyed the anonymity afforded to them, so I did not let on that I recognized them. Once the last player, Jim O'Brien, was out of the place, I hurried to the room to see if anyone was a bad tipper before the staff cleaned the table. At the head of the table, where Alfie had been sitting, I found this:

As for my gesture? May the Senators enjoy the same level of success tonight.

(read on for head-to-head and pump up...)

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The Ottawa Senators have come a long way. The season started with a 5-3 loss in Detroit on 7 October 2011 (exactly six months ago) and the Senators would allow five goals or more in four of their first six games. Ottawa was 1-5-0 after the first six games and had just been torched 7-1 at home by Philadelphia. However, the Senators would go on to win the next six games and would stay in the playoff hunt for the remainder of the season.

The regular season will draw to an end today but the Senators season will not. Today's game doesn't mean too much but it will help decide their playoff opponents.

Scenario 1: Ottawa plays Boston in round one if:

• Ottawa picks up a point against New Jersey, OR...
• Washington loses to the New York Rangers, OR...
• Florida loses in regulation to Carolina.

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It's the penultimate game of the regular season (you are welcome Mark)(TOO LATE, ADNAN!) and the last one at home when the Ottawa Senators host the Providence Boston Bruins tonight. The Bruins are locked into the second seed while the Senators will finish in seventh unless they lose their last two games in regulation and the Capitals win their final two games.

The Bruins will be without Zdeno Chara, Patrice Bergeron and Tim Thomas. The Senators will ice a full lineup though with Sergei Gonchar returning. Rob Klinkhammer will also return in the place of Kaspars Daugavins. Ben Bishop will get the start so Alex Auld can concentrate on the puzzles from the press box.

Here are the lines from TSN.

Colin Greening - Jason Spezza - Milan Michalek
Nick Foligno - Kyle Turris - Daniel Alfredsson
Zack Smith - Jim O'Brien - Chris Neil
Rob Klinkhammer - Jesse Winchester - Erik Condra

Filip Kuba - Erik Karlsson
Chris Phillips - Matt Carkner
Jared Cowen - Sergei Gonchar

Ben Bishop (starter)
Craig Anderson (glaring at Brennan)

More after the jump.

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It's the second last home game of the season, a playoff spot has been clinched, but there are still some meaningful points on the line. Jason Spezza and Daniel Alfredsson will return to the lineup, but Sergei Gonchar will sit out with a minor injury. Here are the lines from TSN.

Colin Greening - Jason Spezza - Milan Michalek
Nick Foligno - Kyle Turris - Daniel Alfredsson
Erik Condra - Zack Smith - Chris Neil
Kaspars Daugavins - Jim O'Brien - Jesse Winchester

Filip Kuba - Erik Karlsson
Chris Phillips - Matt Gilroy
Jared Cowen - Matt Carkner

Craig Anderson (starter)
Alex Auld (sudoku)

More after the jump.

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