At Andre Beaumont’s dry tone, I crane my neck to stare up at the Garden’s ceiling, hundreds of feet above the ice. Cupping my helmet between my hands, I lift it to my chest like a hockey version of a rosary bead, and mock-pray, “God, give me strength to not take this man’s hockey stick and shove it so far up his ass, he’ll be waddling for weeks.” A minute pause. “Amen.”
