That Puck Must Have Said Something About Tage Thompson’s Mother

Give me the biggest hockey man you have. No, even bigger than that. Make him huge. Make him tall, thick, and dense—a real slab. Give him a powerful slapshot, and a willingness to use it. Make it the fastest, hardest, heaviest shot in the sport. Make him eager to use it. Let him go weapons-free and really wallop the bejesus out of that puck as hard and as often as he can. Let's see how much that puck can take. Let it be punished for its crimes. He is large, like a beef, and it is small and hard, and all the laws of physics conspire to impart his magnified aggression upon it. Woe be unto those in its path! Let him clobber the puck again. And again and again. Torque and leverage and ill will are his compatriots, while its allies have deserted it. No goalie comes to its rescue to cover it. No whistle provides a temporary truce so that it may live to be abused another day. See: Again, he is rearing back. Again, he is preparing the lash. Beatings will continue until morale improves or possession is turned over. Neither come. The puck is funneled back to him. What did it do in its past life to deserve this? Why are they letting children watch this carnage? He is a disc of rubber and pain, now. In the world, there is only him and the huge man's stick. The huge man winds up again. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQPA1MXI-Nc