Commentary : Catching Capitals’ Fever Is Depressing

How many replays are we going to have to see? How many times are we going to have to watch Ron Hextall flip the bloody puck into the air and follow it sliding down the ice into the Capitals’ empty net? How many times are we going to have to listen to some bonehead gleefully exclaim that in the whole history of the NHL playoffs -- all 10,000 games’ worth -- this was THE FIRST GOAL EVER BY A GOALIE!!

I got up early Wednesday morning, turned on the TV and, no matter where I went, I couldn’t get away from the replay. I saw it on 4, 5, 7, 9, 20, 50, CNN, TNT and ESPN. I saw it on the Weather Channel, superimposed on a precipitation chart. On MTV, they interrupted (thankfully) a Metallica video to show it. On “Bravo”, there were narrations in Swedish and Spanish. On “Nickelodeon”, they went straight from the replay into a shot of Mr. Ed laughing. If they could show it on all-news radio, we’d get it every half hour.

Enough already.

(What the hell was Hextall doing with such a curved stick, anyway? Shouldn’t they have measured that curve? What’s that, the Kim Basinger model? That should have been a penalty.)

I’m depressed.

It’s beyond anger. I feel a dark, damp, gloomy sadness hanging over me -- sort of like being in Seattle. Or being Scott Hoch’s caddie.

What’s red, white and blue and plays golf in April?

The Washington Capitals.

They do it to me every spring; they never fail. First, the forsythia blast out, then the tulips, then the Capitals. I feel like Charlie Brown just as Lucy yanks the football away. Why do I continually fall for this?

Hextall!

Of all people, why did it have to be Hextall?

Did you see him exulting after the goal? Tell me you didn’t want to pop him in the labonza. Bang, zoom, Hextall!

Three different people telephoned me in the third period, between the time Pelle Eklund scored to give Philly a 6-5 lead, and it ended.

“Are you watching this? Are you watching?”

Of course I was watching. At least I watched until Hextall scored. Then, I stuck my head in the oven.

It’s a disease. It has to be a disease. It doesn’t matter who they bring in here. You can be the greatest player in the world, you could be Gretzky, but as soon as you put on the Capitals’ uniform, you lose in the playoffs. Caps Fever: Catch It, and Gag.

I moped all day Wednesday. Even the things that normally cheer me up, like wondering how many doughnuts Don Koharski ate for dinner, didn’t help.

How could they lose that game? One thing I definitely don’t want to hear is how Hextall “came up large in the goal.” I’ve heard this same phrase applied to Billy Smith, John Vanbiesbrouck, Kelly Hrudey and Sean Burke. (I visualize Gump Worsley coming back the size of a Thanksgiving Day float and shutting out the Capitals 18 straight times.) With them, it was true. But the Capitals got five goals off Hextall. Five should be enough to win. This is hockey; five’ll win baseball games, for gosh sake. Hextall came up small. Peeters, however, came up leaky.

I was all set for the Penguins. I was primed to see Mario Lemieux and Paul Coffey. I’d learned how spell Ubriaco, which until last week I thought was the second word in the German anthem. (They’re not saying, “Boo,” they’re chanting, “Igloo.”) Not that I’d bought nonrefundable plane tickets to Pittsburgh, mind you. I wasn’t stupid, I realized these were the Capitals I was planning around, the accidental tourists of the NHL.

I suppose if the Capitals lose Thursday night in Philadelphia, it’ll be the end of the Bryan Murray Era. That’s too bad, because I like Murray. Everyone seems to. Maybe they could hire a coach like Murray. Maybe his brother, Terry. At least a coach named Murray:

Eddie.

Bill.

Brian Doyle.

Ann. (Spread your tiny wings and blah-blah-blah. She should actually be the front-runner; she’s Canadian.)

Arthur.

Walter. Nah, he’d hold out; the Capitals would have to trade him.

Fred MacMurray. Murray, the cop from “The Odd Couple.” Murry from Murry’s Steaks. F. Murray Abraham. Murray Slaughter.

Not one of those young, screaming maniacs, though. Why does everyone think that all the Capitals need is an ornery mule who’ll kick their behinds? Fine, get Francis. (Not Emile, hosehead, the one who worked with Donald O’Connor.)

I don’t know what more to say to my friends on the Capitals. I’ve done my best. I’ve tried every trick in the book to motivate you. The first time I called you choking dogs, it worked; you won. But the next time, you lost -- choking like dogs, I might add. When I reversed that and called your opponents choking dogs, you still lost. Why do you always lose in the playoffs? Why can’t you ever get out of your division? What is it, a visa deal? The last person who was as tied down was Gulliver.

But you can’t hurt me anymore, not after this Hextall Fiasco. I’m washing my hands of you. You’re on your own.