Many thought this to be a typo. It was not.
Brad Marchand is, in fact, a well accomplished poet who performs under the stage name Bard Marchand. Many do not know this, so we've uncovered some of his work to share with the Chowder community.
The following is an excerpt from a Bard Marchand play written about the 2013 playoffs.
May/maynot be best read while referencing this
[scene is in locker room, directly after 2013 Stanley Cup Finals. Enter Marchand and Seguin]
To shoot, or not to shoot- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous missed passes
Or to take arms against a sea of glove saves,
And by opposing end them. To shoot- to score-
No more; and by a goal to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shots
That goalie is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To shoot- to score.
To score- perchance to win: ay, there's the celly!
For in that goal of OT what wins may come
When we have shuffled off this wining streak,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a game.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of the Habs,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd rivals, the refs's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy penalties,
When he himself might his goal make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary game,
But that the dread of something after game-
The undiscover'd western Canadian team, from whose back to back
No road team returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make passers of us all,
And thus the native hue of shooting
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of instinct,
And enterprises of great sawft and moment
With this shot their momentum turn awry
And lose the name of victory.- Soft you now!
The fair Seguin!- Center, in thy passing
Be all my missed goals rememb'red.
Good my winger,
How does your playing for this many a day?
I humbly finish for you. Well, well, well.
My lord, I have passes to you
That I have longèd long for you to finish.
I pray you now receive them.
No, not I. I never received you aught.
My honored wing, you know right well you did,
And with them, taps of so loud sticks composed
As made the things more rich. Their sweetness lost,
Take these again, for to the noble goalie
Good passes finish poor when wingers prove unkind.
There, my winger.
Ha, ha, are you good?
Are you talented?
What means your finisher?
That if you be good and talented, your goodness should admit no discourse to your talent.
Could talent, my lord, have better commerce than with production?
Ay, truly, for the power of talent will sooner transform goodness from what it is to a bust than the force of Bergeron can translate talent into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did play with you once.
Indeed, my lord, you made me score so.
You should not have relied on me, for Bergeron cannot so inoculate our poor play but we shall relish of it. I scored because of you not.
I was the less sheltered.
Get thee to a juniors coach. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of bad goals against? I am myself indifferent talented, but yet I could accuse me of such bad d zone play that it were better Claude had not played me beside Bergeron.
I am very proud, vengeful, too ambitious, with more plays at my beck than I have goals to put them in, stick handling to give them shape, or shifts to act them in. What should such players as I do playing between Chara and Bergy? We are irresponsible defensively, all. Trust none of us. Go thy ways to a junior coach. Where’s Claude?
At the gahhhden, my winger.
Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may review the video no where but in ’s own house. Farewell.
O, trade me, you sweet Chia pet!
If thou dost trade, I’ll give thee this plague for thy package of picks and prospects. Be thou as productive as Gretzky, as reliable as Bergy, thou shalt not escape party boy and sawfty accusations. Get thee to a junior coach, go. Farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs trading, trade to a bottom feeder, for good teams know well enough what annual first round exits you make of them. To a junior coach, go, and quickly too. Farewell.
Chia pet, restore him!
I have heard of your shelters too, well enough. Claude has given you one useage and you make yourselves another. You deke and dangle, and you stick tap, you nickname Claude’s lines and make your loose game your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on ’t. It hath made me mad. I say, we will blend all the lines. Those that are paired already, all but one, shall stay. The rest shall keep as they are. To a junior coach, go.