From Covered in Oil (extra-awesomeness in bold):

Goals were generally scored with all the ease of delivering the one true ring to the molten hellscape in which it was forged, and when opposing teams answered back—it was almost always Joe Sakic, floating into the slot on a fucking cloud and sifting in a shot that looked so natural you would swear to god he’s actually the last living descendant of an ancient tribe of people who communicated solely in wrist shots—more or less all hope was lost, unless we could bounce one in off Ryan Smyth’s face or something.

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