Angela’s family has 10 seasons tickets for the Hershey Bears. That’s but one of a couple of hundred novel facets signifying my lottery ticket number being called in meeting her. Some manner of family summit took place in early September to discuss how best to use an un-accounted for 10th ticket. It was determined that I would have it. Can’t say I’ve encountered family generosity quite like that before. Angela went to Giant Center during Bears’ training camp to retrieve her family’s tickets. That’s a very special evening for Hershey’s hockey fans, as they go down on the arena ice and are handed their tickets by individual Bears’ players, with photo-ops accompanying. Angela is a beauty one’s eye remembers long after an initial meeting, but Francois Bouchard saw her just as he had in previous Septembers and spoke up with concern: “If you don’t mind my saying, something doesn’t look quite right.” Angela briefly explained her new challenge. Bouchard then motioned over Graham Mink. Then more Bears players enveloped her in a circle of concern. Angela was very excited as she relayed this moment to me over the phone on the ride home.

Of course, the patronage of hockey games together this autumn is a far-fetched dream for Angela and me. Six days a week, alternating between chemo and radiation, she endures four-hour treatments at the Hershey Cancer Institute. Some days she can do no better than digesting a banana. I’m happiest this autumn when her text messages relate entire breakfasts consumed and kept down. What should be a spectacularly beautiful and fit frame of 130-plus pounds is today a spectacularly beautiful warrior’s frame of less than 100 pounds.

That life-altering August Friday the first person I reached out to in my frightened agony was my blessed puck chum goalie of a beauty queen, Tara Wheeler. When Tara was Miss Virginia and competing in the Miss America pageant a few years ago she seized a mission to immerse herself in the cancer wards for children at hospitals all over the state of Virginia. And I mean all over the state. I doubt there was one she didn’t visit. Most memorably, after her run at the pageant title, she shaved her head in a show of extraordinary solidarity with the brave children. She made national television appearances for it.

I remember not having the courage to call Tara initially, as my friend had never heard me sob. Silly notion. Our call lasted approximately 25 minutes, and the crying felt good, and I remember how there wasn’t more than a few seconds of commiseration before Tara issued me unmistakable marching orders. This wasn’t a moment to wallow in self pity, as sad as such news is, she delicately but forcefully explained. The partner against cancer plays an exceptional role, a durably taxing role, she explained. One of unwavering sustenance and optimism and encouragement. For the partner, it’s a bit of a poker table requiring all chips in, so right this moment, my friend told me, you have to decide if you’re all in. I hung up the phone with my pal, sobbed for about two minutes more, fell asleep deeply, and awoke Saturday morning calm and seemingly battle ready — knowing of course my engagement with this challenge was ludicrously limited relative to what Angela was confronting.

This autumn, instead of composing blog files, I compose love letters. I’d have done that anyway, but I seem to have energy and interest only for writing to Angela. A couple of weeks after my phone call with Tara, after I’d received a text from Angela that she was shopping for a wig with her mother, I wrote Angela and told her about the time I saw my friend Tara step onto the ice at Verizon Center and belt out the most beautiful rendition of our national anthem I’d ever heard, the arena ceiling lighting well illuminating the peach fuzz on Tara’s head. I looked down from the press box in that moment and tears streamed down my cheeks, because my friend, in her baldness, never looked more beautiful.

Another fortification for my fright-fight this fall: the return of Eric McErlain to my 18th St. office in Northwest. Long-time readers will recall my bragging about having Eric as a close-by colleague some four years ago. I met and befriended Eric in the Verizon Center press box. I learned about hockey blogging seated next to Eric. I became a hockey blogger in large part because of Eric. More importantly, I was blessed by his friendship. I once wrote a file here bragging about what it was like to come to the office every day and share the day’s first cup of coffee with one of the most accomplished hockey hearts and minds in new media. Eric left our office a few years ago for an exciting new challenge. Now he’s returned, and again he’s immediately next door to me.

Eric knows I can’t be in rinks this season as I’ve grown accustomed to being, thanks to the Capitals, and he knows precisely what I need with each and every coffee and lunch outing — my puck fix. I genuinely believe that God returned EMac to my office this autumn for a role well beyond managing our industry’s pressing need for deft stewardship of social media. I also don’t believe he’s leaving my office again any time soon. Thank God.

Rather impulsively one day this autumn I gave a reckoning of my anxiety to another great buddy in pucks, a fella named Killer. Week after week had passed with hardly an iota of complaint from Angela of what she was enduring; I was beyond inspired. I wanted the tough guy ex-Cap to know about the battle she was bravely waging. “You’re gonna love meeting her,” I wrote. “Send me Angela’s address,” one of the Capitals’ all-time great warriors texted me from his team’s bus. I knew what was coming next. In the package Killer shipped to Angela he penned an inscription on one of his warrior photos themed on how the biggest fights sometimes are waged by those in the smallest frames. Killer knows a thing or two about that. I regarded that outreach as a love letter in its own right.

A week or so ago I messaged Killer to give him an update on our region’s increasing concern with the struggling Caps. “Ok,” he replied. “Now tell me what really matters — how’s Angela doing?”

This fall I notice a lot my pacing in a path opposite that of the Red Army on game nights. It’s an odd experience, after marching with them all these years. None of them know it but they are all my friends, as this autumn has verified. I’m looking forward to rejoining them just as soon as I can.

Alumni game pride drives Killer in his daily training regimen

Probably about two  months ago, reading something on this blog, I first learned of the first-ever Capitals Alumni game. I fly into town this week to participate, and I’ve been looking forward to Friday night pretty much all summer. As soon as I learned about the game I knew that wanted to come right away, but I wasn’t sure of my schedule at the time. I’m coaching the Louisiana Ice Gators. I am so grateful it has worked so that I can come back and play and see all the old Caps fans. So thanx OFB for tipping me off! I’ll get in town Thursday night. I believe the Caps have some stuff going on for us old timers both before and after the game; am waiting on an email about that.

It’s actually going to be a very special weekend for Caps alumni. I will be at the Caps Convention all day Saturday to meet and greet all the fans, old and new. Whatever the Caps want me to do, I will do it.

You might wonder what we old timers do physically to get ready for a game like Friday’s. I know we’ll have hundreds, maybe thousands, packing Kettler-Capitals, and there’s a lot of pride at stake with a skate like this. Currently I skate three days a week here in Lafayette, Louisiana,  and get to the gym six out of seven days a week for spin class. But sure I’ll be winded. Hockey is always a competition for me.

I’m looking forward to seeing all of the guys — it’s been awhile since I’ve seen them. It’s always great to see former teammates . . . Bonzai, Locker, Langway, Cote — it’s going to be a blast to catch up with everyone, including the fans. I’m not sure who’s going to be on the bench as coaches. All I  know is the captains so far — Laughlin and Langway. There will be a lot of PRIDE at stake! I think it’s going to be a special night for the players but an equally special one for the fans in the stands.

I did skate with the Boston Bruins alumni back in Portland, Maine, last year (in Portland we won the Calder Cup as the Caps’ farm team), and that was COOL. But this one is SPECIAL cause this is where I played most of my NHL career and where I met so many great friends, and it’s is always special to come back to the city/organization that gave you that opportunity.

Last March I made my first visit back to Washington since I left the Caps, and I not only took in two Caps’ games that weekend but got a tour of the team’s training facility. So impressive. I’m sure it will be packed at that unbelievable facility. I’m just gonna go out there and play with the ‘Pride and Passion’ that has always been in me. I will make it exciting as always — a Gordie Howe hat trick would be the icing on the cake. I did that at a Bruins Alumni game not long ago, incidentally, LOL. It will be a BLAST.

I’m sure I’ll be full of “piss and vinegar” as always when I get a chance to play, but I’m hoping to stay out of the box . . . (maybe) : ) Problem is, Bill McCreary is officiating! Oh,well.

The OFB teams asked me about pranks from my Caps’ playing days that I might discuss. I was never a prankster, but there were some great ones . . .  but none I could share . . . Sorry! 

Even though I’m in Louisiana during the hockey season I do get to follow the Caps a decent bit on TV. It’s a huge year for the guys, obviously. Gabby wasn’t coach of the year for nothing. He’s a great players’ coach. He came in and gave that team confidence and let them play to their strengths a few years back. It was an amazing turnaround to watch. As a coach, I’ve tried to pay close attention to what Gabby’s been doing in D.C. They have been so close, and I believe the defense will be a great attribute. (As long as everyone is committed.) I was always told “offense wins you games and defense wins you championships.” Gabby has a great knowledge of the game and knows what to do and how to adjust to situations . . . Go Caps!

This weekend I’m looking forward to meeting fans who remember the good old days at Capital Centre but also the newest ones — especially the kids. When I meet the kids this weekend I’ll tell them I was a player who cared about the team. I was going to do whatever it took every night to sacrifice my body for my fellow teammates. To sum up: Heart, Passion, entertaining, physicality and Relentless work ethic. And I ENJOYED my job and I had FUN doing it.

The first time I spoke with OFB I told John about having a fight tape from my pro career, and I joked (maybe) that I’d pop it in the video player every time a guy came by the Killer house calling on one of my daughters. I have three beautiful daughters. I do have a 4-hour fight tape . . . perhaps fortunately I haven’t played it yet for a young fella. But it’s ready, they will have to come 4 hours early to watch the tape before any date . . . along with the double barrel shotgun that’ll be above the mantle or perhaps it will be getting cleaned that day on the kitchen coffee table . . .

Have fun on your date, fella.

I’ve been hearing a lot from Killer since he left town last month after his first visit back to D.C. since he ended his playing days with the Caps. He was thrilled by witnessing two dramatic Caps’ victories on his visit, and his engagements with local media and fans. He especially appreciated the video tribute the Caps put together for him during the Backhawks game. He returned home from his visit with some team swag for his girls, and they’re proudly wearing it to school as the playoffs near.

Turns out, Killer, who played with so much heart and passion and courage, wanted to try and impart some of that in younger hockey players. So he started coaching. Turns out, too, that not many folks in D.C. were asking about it.

I tracked him down as head coach of the Youngstown Steelhounds of the Central Hockey League. I found contact info for the team’s staff on the team’s web site, and I shipped off an email to the team’s PR guy, identifying myself by name and blog affiliation, seeking an interview with the head coach, figuring that would pretty much be the end of my pursuit. But about two hours after that email a secretary in my office interrupted a meeting I was in to inform me that “a Killer is on the phone for you.” That’s exactly what she said. I remember it like it was yesterday. Funny, too: in that novel and bizarre moment, I sorta sensed that my life was about to change, that blogging about hockey in Washington was gonna get fun, fast. I still love telling my friends this story.

For the next hour on the phone Killer and I strolled down Memory Lane of Landover, Maryland. He treated me as if I were a 25-year veteran of the Washington Post. It wasn’t so much that he answered every question of him I had, with warm reflection and inspiring passion for our game, it was that he was, frankly, elated to be engaged with someone in Washington who remembered him, in the city that was his hockey home away from home. And it was from this remarkable initial conversation that I learned a lasting and important lesson about the athletes of our sport: they play in our cities and as fans we tend to commoditize their residence — are they playing well?; are they overpaid?; what have they done for us lately? But for the athlete, the residence here is signature — the dream of being a big leaguer realized. And for a player like Killer especially, Washington was uniquely embedded in his hockey heart: no organization believed in him like the Caps did, and he literally surrendered his health while wearing Washington’s sweater.

I remember hanging up the telephone for my call with Killer that autumn afternoon in 2006 and feeling like a lottery winner. An ex-Cap who was a hero to me as a fan had just engaged me as what seemed rather like a friend. I wrote up my story and it did what I wanted it to: it occasioned powerfully warm reminiscence of Killer’s guts and blue collar glory among OFB’s elder readership. My blog in its infancy suddenly seemed to have a spirit — and precisely the one I was seeking.

I could tell, too, that Killer appreciated the coverage. He began ringing me on my cell phone from his interminably long minor hockey bus rides across the U.S. with his team, looking to kill some time and just chat pucks. You know how with address fields in cell phones you use shorthand or nicknames for family and chums, and how those monikers appear on your phone’s screen when they call? Even years later I never quite lost a sense of marvel every time “Killer” would appear there on my phone when he rang me.

A couple of years ago OFB banded together with a few other local hockey blogs, the Capitals, and the Hershey Bears and organized a fundraiser at Clyde’s in Chinatown for the Wilson High hockey team. Wilson was the District’s only public school with a hockey team, and a Washington Post feature brought word of the loss of their coach to pneumonia, and serious financial hard times. Things looked seriously grim for the team. As a D.C. native and puckhead, this story was a sucker punch to my gut. I couldn’t not try and help. I got great help from the other blogs, amazing support from both the Caps and Bears (Hershey’s entire team signed a goalie stick and donated it to our event), and just two days before the fundraiser, I got a call in my office from Killer.

I wanted him to know that times in Washington were changing when it came to hockey, that high school hockey here was fairly flourishing, and that in the instance of the District’s lone public school puck program, we were gonna fight to keep it going. ‘When’s the fundraiser?’ Killer asked me.

‘The day after after tomorrow,” I told him. ‘I’ll ring you to tell you how we fared.’

The very next morning a box sized for a large television arrived via FedEx in my office. It had come from Youngstown, Ohio. Inside was a treasure trove of signed memorabilia from Killer’s playing career in D.C. as well as fashion and other trinkets from the Steelhounds. Killer was still going hard at his adversaries, apparently. At the fundraiser, I was in a circle of bidders around large signed color glossies of Killer in his bloodied Capitals’ sweaters. Those photos fetched hundreds of dollars by themselves. Our event overall raised thousands for Wilson. They’re still skating.

(Speaking of charitable impulses by hockey blogs, please consider stopping by tomorrow’s night’s big shindig at the Front Page in Arlington hosted by Russian Machine Never Breaks. I think I’m gonna bring a Killer to it.)

At 4:00 today my friend Killer will touch down at Reagan National for his first visit to his hockey home since he left it as a player. He’s gonna take in a couple of Capitals’ games this weekend. He follows the team pretty closely. Tomorrow night we’ll drive over together to the WTOP studios and stroll down Memory Lane again on ‘Saturday Night Caps’ with Jonathon Warner and Ben Raby. I’m looking forward to driving around town a bit this weekend with a Killer in my car.

Before there was Matt Hendricks, Killer — all 170 pounds of him — jumped over the boards at old Capital Centre and made life miserable for Capitals’ opponents. Sized for a bowling league, he was a one-man wrecking crew, walloping foes with thundering body checks and perfectly playing the role of instigating pest. He dropped the gloves, Mike Vogel tabulated, 33 times in 132 games with the Capitals, and it wasn’t uncommon for him to yield half a foot and 50-plus pounds in the engagements. You’ll be surprised at the outcome of many of those seeming mismatches when you watch the video of Killer we’ve compiled.

You’ll also have a chance to get to know Killer better when he appears this Saturday on WTOP’s ‘Saturday Night Caps’ for the full hour at 6:00 with Jonathon Warner, Ben Raby, and me, and we’re expecting reminiscences over the phones from some A-lister Caps’ alumni who skated with Killer here. Killer will taking a tour of a lot of media here this weekend.

Archival footage of the Capitals’ first 25 years isn’t so easy to come by, but with Killer’s help we’ve been able to edit together some fun video that lavishly illustrates the impact he had on hockey while in Washington. We even found footage of him in a local bar opposite Melissa Stark, then of Home Team Sports! One word of advice as you watch the video below, and it’s the same advice Killer dispensed on virtually every shift he took with the Caps — Keep your head up!

It had been almost a year since I’d seen my puck chums, and so Monday evening, even in its pregame brevity, was going to be special for us. And what promised to be a warm reunion in Chinatown accrued a peculiar air of intriguing mystery, as Michael left me voicemail earlier in the day alluding to some “surprise gift” he was eager to present me that evening. There was a distinct tone of mischief in my friend’s voicemail voice.

I was barely seated in our Matchbox booth before Michael began weaving, wide-eyed, voice raised, his narrative, and placing a well-taped-up, small brown shipping box between us in the center of our table. The box, I quickly realized, contained  my gift. Michael had a story to tell about it before giving it to me.

It was a tale birthed just that morning. Early Monday morning, just a couple of hours before boarding his D.C.-bound plane, my friend Michael went to his neighborhood pharmacy in Portland to get a routine prescription filled. In their New England retirement Mike and Marleen are ever encountering neighbors, contractors, store clerks, and especially bartenders all bearing their own distinct and robust allegiance to hockey. They revel in learning of these strangers’ puck passions, and I revel in their sharing the accounts with me over the phone, usually between periods. Our great friendship was forged rather accidentally at Verizon Center more than 10 years ago, and so I think the three of us have a special radar for finding . . . others like us.

And so it should come as no surprise that at Portland, Maine’s, Apothecary by Design pharmacist Greg — pharmacist on duty Monday morning — would have his own proud puck allegiance. Michael ever showcases his allegiance: his uniform de rigueur for morning errands in all seasons about coastal Maine, a Capitals’ baseball cap, announces his commission. Greg, Michael quickly learned, was a Portland Pirates’ fan — of the vintage variety. The Pirates of course were affiliated with the Capitals not all that long ago; how couldn’t these two puckheads strike up a warm a.m. chat about the world’s coolest sport?

Michael, however, halted the banter in an instant, as his gaze fixed upon a bobbing figurine resting on a shelf within Greg’s pharmacy counter. Michael recognized the Pirates’ colors on the icon, and the nickname emblazoned on its base:  ‘Killer.’ Phramacist Greg was a big Kevin ‘Killer’ Kaminski fan, and remains one to this day. The Killer bobblehead was perhaps his way of forewarning irritable and impatient customers. The bobblehead was as well his token of allegiance for his customers to admire. It wasn’t for sale, of course.

Killer was among the very first subjects I interviewed in the formative days of this blog. At 17 I thought of him as a hockey hero; today I call him a friend.

My great friend from Maine knew what he had to do next.

“Name your price,” Michael said, wide-eyed, with vigor, pointing at the Pirate-sweatered bobblehead. “I’ve a friend in Washington who needs that. I am not leaving your store without it.”

In hindsight, it seems perfectly appropriate — happening upon a Kevin ‘Killer’ Kaminski bobblehead displayed as token of Old Time Hockey affection by a hockey-playing pharmacist in his Portland, Maine, apothecary. After all, no small number of New England pharmacists, you have to imagine, had their businesses bettered in the 1990s by Killer’s bruising style of play. Particularly with the Pirates.

I’m reasonably sure pharmacist Greg had never encountered Michael’s like. Michael is a mercenary in pursuit of his puck passion directed his friends’ way — he possesses his own Killer resolve in this regard. When he said name your price, he meant just that. He’d have happily forked over a C note Monday morning in this Portland apothecary just to walk out of it with what he believed would be viewed by his buddy back in D.C. as a keepsake treasure in his hockey home. I am positive that in that moment of resolve Michael — a barterer who would not be beaten — wanted nothing more in life than to board his noon flight with a Killer bobblehead as carry-on. And to present it to me at happy hour, at our reunion.

In his new home mini Killer is part of a nightly candle vigil honoring Old Time Hockey

This tale has a New England charm ending to it, as you might imagine. Pharmacist Greg would accept no money for the bobblehead.

“If it would bring that much joy to your buddy back home, just take it,” he told Michael.

I’ve written it before and I have fresh occasion to write it again: there are no friends in this world quite like hockey friends. The measure of an amazing friend, I think, can be verified in an instance of such gift-giving — when the giving joy for the giver outsizes the considerable delight of the recipient. This would also explain the elaborate protective packaging Michael shrouded the Killer bobblehead in. There was packing popcorn enough in this small shipping box to secure an egg for a flight to Saskatchewan and back. Matchbox may never have known a more dramatic gift exchange than on Monday, and Michael took much delight in deliberately plucking out all the popcorn to liberate the Killer within.

Finally Killer’s miniature head bobbed back and forth between us as Mike and Marleen and I sipped our reunion beer Monday night before my friends’ reunion with their favorite team (also Killer’s favorite team), and in that moment I had a powerfully fresh reminder of the ongoing, life-enriching associations brought about by blogging about hockey in my hometown.

I sent Killer a text from Matchbox to inform him of the good fun we were having with his likeness, and did he ever get a kick out of that. ‘Buy Mike a beer for me,’ he shot back. I’ll send him another text now that I think about it. There’s this big-hockey-hearted pharmacist in Maine who’s missing his hero’s memorabilia. I’m pretty confident Killer will fix that fast.

My father rang me in the office during the Americans’ 2-0 quarterfinal win over Switzerland this week. He was dismayed at the cheering and jeering he was hearing against the Americans, on the part of the large contingent of Canucks in the crowd. “It’s just . . . really bad,” Dad told me. I agree.

At their worst, a conspicuous vocal majority will sully the Star Spangled Banner before big international games featuring the U.S. Like Dad, I’ve been jarred by the anti-American sentiment too often exhibited by our cousins to the North. It hasn’t arrived with these Olympic Games, either; far from it.

As best as I can tell, the genesis of the souring in our hockey relations dates back to the onset of America’s military action in the Middle East in 2003. The incidents of disrespect have been most pernicious in Montreal over the years. There have been incidents with our anthem’s playing before 2003 up in Canada, and some of Canadian hockey’s leading personalities and commentators have attempted to tamp it down, but in terms of this ongoing and durable disdain, it seems premised on American foreign policy of the past decade.

What a shame. As if boorish behavior before and during a hockey game can effect change in American foreign policy. All it does is allow 10- or 12,000 really rude people to cast America’s best friend in a very dark light. It’s really, really poor form.

It needs to stop. And today would be the perfect day for a clean break from a bitter recent past. Today of course is the 50th anniversary of America’s first miracle in Olympic hockey. The moment should be acknowledged at today’s game. Respectfully and warmly. But today is also a celebration of a wonderfully renewed hockey rivalry, and it takes place in the ultimate competitive showdown of the Olympics. It is a great thing for hockey, I think, that the U.S. and Canada can meet in multiple international competitions and deliver great game after great game. Great hockey fans, of which there number at least 10 million in Canada, ought to savor this development.

Canadians are known for wanting the best possible hockey showdowns on hockey’s biggest stages. It’s a wonderful trait. Rooting for Norway or Switzerland, against the U.S., certainly runs counter to that.

There was no wretched rancor from Canadian hockey fans with either of America’s first two triumphs in the Olympics, and there should be none today if the Yanks triumph.

Our two nations are not just allies but the friendliest of neighbors, and in the warmest sense. Our daily commerce with one another traffics in the billions of dollars; we share a great deal of common cultural confluence; America has known no greater ally in its largest and most serious military entanglements. My favorite story about the greatness of Canada as a friend and neighbor is with its remarkable hospitality in the hours and days after the September 11th attacks. Tens of thousands of Americans were stranded in Canada from diverted flights then. Scores of Canadians then opened their homes to strangers from America, of course asking for nothing in return. I wasn’t surprised by the reception, but the scope of aid needed then was remarkable, and the Canadian response matched it.

Canada also played a pivotal role in the liberation of six American diplomats in Iran in 1979. America has no greater friend, and yet when billions of people around the world watch us compete in events like today’s, they’ll imagine us bitter foes.

We are lucky to be neighbors. Our differences are modest and idiosyncratic and endearing. And when it comes to high-stakes hockey and our two nations are vying for glory, the camaraderie between us should never be greater, the party never grander. Policy spats and trade quarrels of course will ever emerge, however at our games — especially at our biggest games against one another — we should put them aside and remember how well we have loved one another for about 200 years.

I’d have fans treat today’s gold medal game as I am. I want another heart-stopper, a classic, with both teams playing magnificently. And I want my guys to win. I have a friendly wager with one of my favorite Canucks, Kevin Kaminski. The loser will pick up a beer tab up in Portland, Maine, next summer when Killer runs his annual hockey camp for kids. One of us today will be greatly disappointed by the gold medal game outcome; both of us will be smiling widely when next we meet.

High up in Verizon Center Tuesday night I felt as if I had a guardian angel-devil on my shoulder, named Killer, monitoring with me the matchup with one of the Caps’ fiercest rivals. In big games against our most hated enemies, when the breaks aren’t going our way, often I think back to Capitals’ heroics of the somewhat distant past, wondering if they could somehow be replicated anew. Things looked bleak Tuesday when the Orange and Black earned the game’s first two tallies, while the Caps, striding rather than churning, misfiring on passes, making more of a mess with the power play, clung desperately to the heroics of their last line of defense, Jose Theodore.

Few NHLers who played in the 1990s I imagine would associate Killer with the notion of anything angelic; but a most prideful protector of the Capitals’ crest? Oh yes.

I didn’t tell my guardian angel-devil this, but I surely thought it: I’m glad you’re here tonight, to witness what’s got me concerned about our team these days. We lack a little sandpaper about the lineup, I fear. You of all people know what I’m talking about.

People of faith believe in guardian angels, and on this night for some reason I believed I had one for a hockey game. My guardian angel-devil was unwavering in his faith in the boys in red, the color he once wore. Instead of whispering in my ear he flashed messages of faith, devotion, courage, and conviction throughout the game across my laptop screen. ‘I have faith in my ole boy Gabby . . . the Caps are gonna win,’ he said. In this hockey press box within which irrefutable data is rapidly accumulated, crunched, and disseminated to the chroniclers, Tuesday night I felt as if I had an almost celestial advisor on the action.

I was channeling my guardian angel-devil Killer because he made a point of rallying his Capitals’ troops back in the day in games just like Tuesday’s: the enemy was taking it to us, in our building, draining all the life out of the big home crowd. What was desperately needed was an ignition source, to reverse the adverse momentum. That ignition source 15 years ago was of a thoroughly undersized frame and oversized heart, forged in the western frontier of Canada; today he’s chiseled like a linebacker, charismatic in the extreme, as skilled as any hockey player on the planet, also in possession of a special hockey heart, and forged in the faraway land of Russia.

To my guardian angel-devil, this early-game query: How do you teach your players to play with the intensity you always showed. Play the game hard and stick up for your teammates . . . I loved to watch you play.

‘I try and install the MENTAL toughness in them on and off the ice . . . DEMAND it from your vets, and make it contagious in the locker room and on the ice . . . when you have that you get success’ — this flashed across my computer screen.

Another inquiry amid the early-game agony — Who did you emulate?

‘Wendel Clark,’ Killer quickly replied, and for all-caps emphasis, ‘ALL HEART.’

‘The game has changed due to the new rules, speed speed and speed,’ Killer added. ‘But with no clutching and grabbing . . . I think there should be more hitting.’

There was a common refrain to Killer’s messaging Tuesday night: take a number. An Islander goes after Mike Green’s knee? Take a number. Capitals’ defenders allow Flyer forwards too many liberties in the crease? Take a number.

Killer had a hungry appetite for reminiscing Tuesday night, and as he regaled me in it I found myself easily distracted from the early drubbing taking place down below.

‘My body HURTS 24/7,   besides the 2 shoulder and lower back operations, and the 651 stitches, 2 plates 12 screws holding the right side of face together . . .  my health couldn’t be better . . .  but it was all worth it to play for the CAPS . . .  a dream come true.’

New-age ignition arrived at 16:08 of period two: Ovi, his 10th marker on the season. The building came alive. And two minutes later, the home team struck again, on the power play, leveling the affair at 2.

In the third, a tandem of Russian ignition, and more heroics between the pipes, secured a terrific come-from-behind victory for the home team.

In the post-game, when it was pointed out to them that hockey teams who squander nearly two full minutes of 5-on-3 power play time rarely go on to win, players like Nicklas Backstrom claimed that their failure only fueled anger and resolve on the bench. My guardian angel-devil would have liked to have heard that.

Earlier on Tuesday, at the morning skate, the Capitals’ head coach was asked for his thoughts about Killer, and his reply seemed to channel what I did 10 hours later in the arena.

“I have a lot of thoughts on [Killer], but none that I can say! I only played with him his first year and he played 40 games and had 450 minutes in penalties and he played another 18 playoff games and I think had another 150 minutes in penalties, so that year he had 600 minutes in penalties and he wasn’t even 160 lbs!  I garnished so much respect for him.   As a competitive teammate, there was none better.  As someone you went to war with, none better.  He played a very long time for the way he played.  He was a great, great teammate.”

I work in a medium that is miraculous. Fifteen years ago when I attended a Capitals’ game and in the tough going of tough nights at home, I held out hope for a hop over the boards by a warrior-hero whose self-maiming guts and courage could yet still reverse the bad momentum mojo. Killer left the playing of our game as they all do, and I never imagined it possible that he’d return to some role in presiding over a momentum reversal again for our boys. But on Tuesday night he was back, thanks to this miracle medium, his spirit most definitely involved in this affair, his loyalty and faith unwavering, unyielding. The boys in red got the job done on Tuesday night, vanquishing one of our most-hated foes, and my guardian angel-devil named Killer, savoring the victorious moment in real time just as I was, flashed a final message across my screen as 18,000 in the Chinatown Red Army exited in euphoria, one that did nothing to lessen my belief in guardian angels with a devil’s streak.

‘I told you the CAPS were gonna win . . . I’m 1 for 1 . . . they gotta have me back now . . . go Ovy . . . great job Gabby and Go Caps.’