For some of us – OK, make that one of us – the outcome of Thursday afternoon’s Frozen Four opener was a no-brainer. Well before the Black Bears fell to North Dakota, Maine (and all Mainers) were doomed.

Now, I’ve got some friends who are into that paranormal mumbo-jumbo, and I’ve got others … well, maybe it’s the same ones … who believe in signs and karma and are convinced that I was a donkey in another life. (That’s an issue for another day).

Me? Never bought into that stuff. After Providence, I do. Sign me up for the Psychic Friends Network. That town oozes non-Maine vibes. The Black Bears never had a chance.

It all began on Tuesday, when I (as unofficial chief guinea pig and real Mainer) checked into our formerly luxury hotel in downtown Providence, otherwise known as The Car Theft Capital of The Universe.

To be honest, the trouble started before that – right on the outskirts of town – when I approached a stop light at the prescribed speed (55, believe it or not) and quickly found that my anti-lock brakes had no idea what anti-lock means.

After a short, terrifying skid toward the back of a stationary minivan, I did my best Ricky Craven (no, I didn’t back into anyone), and swerved around the danger, cutting off two car thieves and avoiding both death and a lawsuit.

Like the Zamboni breaking down before the big game, this was big-time bad karma. Mainers, beware.

It got worse at the hotel. The clerk laughed when I asked about a workout room. I don’t know if that’s because I’m round and lardish, or because the workout room (like the rest of the hotel) was under renovation.

Then she handed me a piece of paper that nearly said this: This building is condemned. Enter at your own risk.

Actually, it said something about masons, brickwork, and closing your window shades so some Peeping Pete doesn’t ogle you while you’re sleeping. And this: Yes, the hotel is being repaired. It’s ugly. Forgive us. Enjoy your pleasant stay.

Bad karma. Like coming up empty on a 5-on-3 power play.

Upstairs, things weren’t that bad. I think I’d seen the decor before … on that PBS show … This Old Crackhouse. Peeling walls. Funky smells.

Want more? My co-worker (and roomate) finally arrived at 3:30 in the morning. He snores. So do I. We had a Snore-Off. He won, and slept. I lost, stared at the wall and waited for the masons to show up.

Mainers beware. Like missing your best player because he butt-ended someone in the previous game, this was bad karma.

The next day? More of the same. Interviewed a little. Wrote a lot. The computer worked, my story showed up in Bangor, and The Boss was happy.

Finally, game day dawned. We’d survived Snore-Off II (with the help of an open window facing I-95 and an air-conditioner we put on full-blast.

Snoozing. Comfortable. Happy.

And then the masons showed up. On a scaffold. Right outside our window. Grumpy, dumpy and feeling mean, I trudged to the window.

“Mind if I close this?” I asked, pulling the curtains aside.

Nearly scared Peeping Pete and his pal off the scaffold with that one. That’s the highlight of my trip. Harharhar.

Hours later, we headed to the arena. Others predicted the outcome. I sat, silently, already knowing the score.

Bad karma in a shutout.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter.