All year long, people kept whining that there was no hockey to watch. There was plenty of hockey to watch. It just wasn’t being played by overpaid thugs without poetry in their souls for overcompensated owners whose only connection to the game was through their wallets.
There was plenty of hockey. It was being played on college rinks by amateurs who hit like freight trains and forecheck like gophers and skate like wildfire and are rock solid between the pipes and there was nothing more lovely in the world to see. And it’s not over yet.