He’s been pilloried by the press, massively maligned by the Blueshirt masses at the 12-minute mark of each period, dissected and demonized by virtually every prominent voice in our game. But the captain last night not only came up clutch when his team most needed him to, he did so as only he can: He authored sixty five feet of sickness with his wrists, a seeming smart-missile that eluded a maze of mass humanity and ultimately the world’s greatest goaltender, who never saw it coming. It was a pulverizer, a howitzer, a Russian cruise missile. And oh but how it shut up the Big Apple’s belligerent. And occurring when and how it did, it changed the tenor of this Eastern conference semifinals.