Each Saturday during the ongoing apocalypse, I’ll revisit an older column that ran on this site, accompanied by a handful of current observations about it at the bottom.
This one ran May 25, 2017:
This puck, this time, wasn't going to be stopped.
It wasn't going to lounge in the blue paint for two eternal seconds before finally being swept away.
It wasn't going to ping off the crossbar, then dance a two-step across the upper netting.
And for once, it wasn't going to get swallowed up by the cross-eyed Senator adorning Craig Anderson's chest.