Gary Roberts, 41, has bones made of toilet paper. Ray Emery is mad he’s not the starting goalie. And Sergei Samsonov has just discovered that no one has ever mistook his Russian sang-froid for anything other than the soft pink truth: He actually couldn’t care less.
Though we’d shitheaped Roberts props for fighting, it was his undoing. He tussled with Tim Connolly and they went down in a heap. Bye-bye fibula. Two days before, Emery showed up for a practice open to the public just minutes before it began. His coach blew up and Emery went wee-wee-wee, all the way home. And Samsonov is about to clear waivers and head to the minors…after zero goals in 23 games. He’s been on his penthouse balcony, sipping a vodka martini (just with makings of twist, speciba) and waiving his cigarette holder at anyone who will listen, legs crossed like a bitch, ruing that he’s destined for Metallurg Magnitgorsk in the mafia league. Nothing rejuvenates the career quite like playing like your life depends on it, especially when it does.