Flip the script, if you will, and picture that the Penguins had somehow stolen this Eastern Conference final opener, which instead slipped away to the Senators, 2-1, in overtime Saturday night at PPG Paints Arena.
And make no mistake, this hypothetical involves thievery of the most onerous order.
Because, from my own count, exactly one -- count 'em, one! -- participant on the home side, Bryan Rust, skated for all 65 minutes as if this were something more significant than a late-night beer-league lap at Bladerunners.
Because exactly one among them, Carter Rowney, spent more than a millisecond within a mile of the opponents' crease.
Because, of all people, it took 36-year-old, home-confinement defenseman Ron Hainsey to generate their only significant offensive charge of the night to lead to their only goal:
And that's it. Those three guys. That's all I've got.
Well, I'll include Patric Hornqvist, too, if only because he's earned a lifetime exemption for any criticism regarding effort.
But that's really it.
The bulk of observers, I'm guessing, will rip apart Bobby Ryan's winner at 4:59 of OT:
I get that. It's human nature. Last bad thing we saw. But it takes no more than a casual remove-the-emotion look at the sequence to see that the puck took a very Ottawa bounce through the neutral zone and, from there, Ryan did something he's done dozens of times before because he's genuinely gifted with the puck on his blade.
Olli Maatta getting beaten?
Eh. He isn't as fast as Ryan, and Ryan had the jump-start.
Justin Schultz pinching?
Whatever. The puck ricocheted off a bunch of bodies before that mattered.
Marc-Andre Fleury giving up the beautiful top-shelf backhander?
Hey, it was a beautiful top-shelf backhander.
Being blunt here, this game wasn't lost in that moment. It was lost at the beginning when these Penguins, maybe even before faceoff, inexplicably came to grips with the concept that it didn't matter all that much. It was lost when these Penguins, fresh off a bruising month of bully hockey with the Blue Jackets and Capitals, looked out at the suddenly wide-open schoolyard and decided they'd take recess.
It was lost when they approached an Eastern Conference final like it was some flat February matinee with the Flames.
It was lost when they didn't put forth anything resembling a respectable effort, save for the four gentlemen cited above.
Mike Sullivan's principal target clearly was the Penguins getting the game's first four power plays, including a five-on-three for 45 seconds, and basically utilizing those as nebulous-perimeter-passing practice.
"Obviously our power play had an opportunity to be the difference in the first period, and we didn't execute," the coach said, never once fingering an individual but, at the same time, being completely clear who was at fault. "I just think we didn't execute. We didn't ... you know, the movement wasn't there. The passes weren't crisp. Those guys, for most of the playoffs here, have been really good and locked in, and they've done a commendable job for us for most of the playoffs. And for whatever reason tonight, we just didn't seem to execute."
My goodness, can you imagine what Sullivan was holding back from that assessment?
Well, I've got no such restriction, so, as a great man employed in this building likes to say, buckle up, baby.
Evgeni Malkin was abysmal, and I'm citing him first only because his tying goal with 5:35 left in regulation will undoubtedly absolve him in most eyes. It shouldn't. He glided through egregious wide circles for the better part of 30 minutes, often taking himself so far out of the play he couldn't have contributed had he changed his mind and opted to try.
This was what he had to offer about general effort afterward:
