The Meek May Inherit the Earth, But They Won't Win the Cup.

For weeks, my friends and I have spent way too much time attempting to figure out what exactly is wrong with the Washington Capitals.  We've studied the forecheck, broken down the power play, speculated on trades and otherwise engaged in the constant (but pointless) analysis only undertaken by  diehard  stupid fans.  Imagine if we'd spend our time and brainpower answering the important questions like "What is the solution in Syria?" or "What are the global ramifications of Snooki becoming a mother (shudder)?".

To prove how culturally out of touch I am, I submit for your consideration the list of rejected questions I thought of before the Snooki joke: "Who shot J.R.?", Where's the beef?", Whatchyu talkin' bout Willis?" and "Who really is the Boss?".  Sad, I know.

Unfortunately, our amateur hockey eyes have diagnosed many problems with the Caps-injuries, suspect coaching and the sad realization that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.
The number one problem, however, is that the Caps are, collectively, a bunch of wimps.  Of course, I don't mean wimps as far as the real world is concerned.  Even the wussiest Capital is a hundred times tougher than I am.  These guys block 100-mph slapshots, take sticks to the face, get stitched up and still take their next shift.  But I'm not talking real world tough; I'm talking NHL tough.  I'm talking stick-up-for-your-linemate tough.  I'm talking crush-an-opponent's-spirit tough.  I'm talking rising-in-the-face-of-adversity tough.  Call it what you will-passion, grit, heart, intestinal fortitude-this team rarely possesses it.

General Manager George McPhee must shoulder much of the blame for this glaring organizational deficiency.  Several years ago when McPhee did not re-sign enforcer Donald Brashear he justified the move by stating that the Caps' power play would provide enough deterent to keep other teams from taking liberties against the Caps' star players.  This is a suspect theory at best, but when your power play short-circuits to the point you should think about declining penalties, then the theory is exposed as completely flawed.  It is not simply about having a goon, however.
McPhee has acquired a roster of softies.  Jeff Schultz, a 6'6" creme puff, and alleged grinder Joel Ward symbolize a roster that is overpaid and not at all rugged.  Despite having a coach, Dale Hunter, who was "nails" as a player, this team has refused to forecheck, lacks agressiveness and shows no killer instinct.
 
The latest, most damning evidence was the postgame comment after last week's Caps/Canes contest.  A Caps' player, hiding behind an anonymous quote, accused Carolina's Jeff Skinner of committing a dirty slew foot on Dmitri Orlov.  Are  you kidding me?  Man up and stand behind your comments.  Do you think any Boston Bruin would have requested anonymity?  Hell, any Bruin that retaliated (And they probably would have had to take a number.) would have to go on record to explain exactly when he decided to rip off Jeff Skinner's head and drink the blood from his skull.  The B's are beasts in a way the Caps can only dream.  The Bruins players have each other's back, don't shy away from anyone and brutally crush opponents under the treads of a relentless forecheck.  Unless the Capitals find a way to adapt their game, the only thing they'll be getting their names inscribed on this summer is the starter's log at the country club.  At least, my buddies and I will have plenty to talk about all offseason.