In which Sabres Fans are Given to Philosophy

In honor of this season’s growing “WTF Sabres?!?” blog file:

Aut inveniam viam aut faciam.

As the Sabres fans continue to stupor over their team, which now languishes in last place in the Eastern Conference, rants have been typed, spoken, argued over, recanted, re-delivered, and ended without any answers to the team’s dilemma of failure, left only with that same numbness of stupor that begins and ends all current themes.

Does the fault lie within the general management of the team? Have the acquisitions and acquiescences of Darcy Regier doomed this brood of players, not only within the last 12 months, but over the course of his long tenure?

empedocles In which Sabres Fans are Given to 150w" sizes="(max-width: 220px) 100vw, 220px" />As Empedocles once mused over the gestation of a child – our backbones were once solid in the womb, but through the rigors and movements of birth our backs are snapped and snapped again until, finally, we emerge with a serviceable backbone. Did Regier exert enough in the creation of this thing, that it was broken enough times so that it could stand upright? Or is it that he preferred to let it slide out from his watch smooth and unbroken, rigidly structured but flawed to the Core?

Or is it by the hands of his trusted champion, who too has been with this thing since its questioned inception, he who had coached it with fatherliness, and then with barks and punishments of frustration, when the feeble thing failed to function properly among its peers? Is it up to this man to make right of this impudence, or is it by his means and methods that the impudence even exists?

Or is this impudent child of this strange marriage of business simply a mutation, something that walks, speaks, and would appear to be normal as any other, but somewhere among its parts and pieces is simply self destructive, or inevitably prone to fits of mental feebleness?

Or is it now the new caretaker of this thing, who has lavished upon it feasts and nourishment, this owner who has propped up what might be a handsome but spineless giant on a mattress of reward before any reward is due – thus coaxing the giant thing to uninspiring fullness and vexing complacency?

Or is it by fate, or dumb luck, that we choose to cast aspersions on – that this thing is already perfectly right on its own, but ceases to work properly under the forces of the undulating planets and stars?

All the while throughout our stupor, this wonderous thing continues to languish like some doomed, overgrown monster, poisoned by none or all of these things, heaving what sounds like its last breaths, compelling the world around it to fascination – each day a contest, each day without the rattle of death, only the expectation.

Be it removed from the custody of its manager or coach, or its pieces carefully incised and strewn about the league to try to jog the thing back into a healthy course, we cannot say.

But revel in the sight of it, this monster. What spiked pits might unfold next in its path to further bruise and bleed it keep all eyes fixed.

It is unto the fascination of ruination that all of us are left to.

Unless there remains some miracle yet to behold. Aut inveniam viam aut faciam – when there is no path left, invent one anew – but only if there are any paths left to invent before this invention finally lies as a breathless carcass, to spite all arguments.

Go Sabres.

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