The Ice Sheet will take a look at the biggest stories in the league that happened on the ice and elsewhere the night before.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
-- Wallace Stevens
With apologies to the great Wallace Stevens and one of my very favorite poems in the English Language (not like I know any other, languages that is, not poems) I guess Marc Crawford allowed himself to become consumed with his own sense of self-importance to be the fatuous and disconnected Imperial presence that refused to accept responsibility for the violence he unleashed when he made it a point to demand that Steve Moore pay for his perceived crime. Thankfully they didn't have to spread a sweaty towel over his face that night.
In the NHL, I guess he's the Emperor of Hair Jelly.