Damn you, Brad Marchand!
Facts are facts, and, so, eventually (or in six games, whichever arrives first), we all have to face the Brad Marchands in our lives. It is anathema for me to praise Florida Panthers winger Brad Marchand. I am an Edmonton Oilers fan, and have been since the days of the World Hockey Association. I am an old-enough Oilers fan to have seen, with my own eyes, Jacques Plante play for Edmonton at the Coliseum against New England Whalers’ star Gordie Howe. I am a crazy-enough Oilers fan to have been arrested for throwing firecrackers onto Jasper Avenue during a Stanley Cup victory parade. (I was released because officers were more urgently needed up the block at a fur store break-in. When I say released, I mean from the neck.) I am a tradition-bound-enough Oilers fan to have passed on the identity to my sons. One of my grandsons walked around during the Cup playoffs with three stuffed toys: 1. Woody 2. Buzz Lightyear 3. Ryan Nuygent-Hopkins. No one should doubt my hometown team cre...