So, it's December. You know what that means right? It's time to shit our pants!
Wait. This isn't the Wild locker room?
I mean, I'm about as glass-half-full as you can get, but this annual ritual has got to end, and right fucking quick. Mike Yeo has to figure out which buttons to push, or I'm going straight to #fireyeo territory. I won't even make a stop in #freezucker land or #freehaula -stan.
The team started the season great, but once again, the wheels are falling off. His first year, I gave him a pass because the Wild suffered an amazing stretch of injury bad luck. Shit happens, you try again.
Last year there was no December letdown, because there was no December hockey, but there was a precipitous drop at the end of the season when everything fell apart and the Wild went from top in the division to fighting for the privilege of being Chicago's playoff tuneup.
But this is the third year in a row where the Wild have gone from controlling the play to not being able to control a fucking cell phone, much less the pace of the game. Once is an event. Twice a coincidence. Three times, incompetence.
Shape up, boys, or you'll get to meet a new boss, I hear a couple are available, and they already have clean big boy pants on.
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