A couple of weeks back, as I sat in the dressing room post-game still in full gear, I lamented out loud the previous hour’s blunders. A give-away here, a botched pass there, the habitual whiffed shot from the slot.

I recalled my dad joking with me way back one night when I was really young that sometimes even if you play well, say maybe scoring a pair, there can be a tendency to remember the one you missed that would have got you the hatty on the night.

A commiserating teammate chimed in in full support, agreeing with the torture that a sharp memory can provide even under generally good circumstances. He was all in. It was very Freudian.

Without missing a beat, one of the other lads looked up, and in mock disgust said “You guys sound like you were raised by Tortorella!” Ouch.