Seeing Stars

 

The Tampa Bay Lightning fulfilled their purpose and eliminated the Islanders in six games to win the eastern conference final. YES!!!! Despite my earlier intention to support them through the Stanley Cup final, however, I have changed my mind. It seems I’ve adopted the Dallas Stars as my championship team for the COVID-19 Cup.

But, Ru, what the ... ?

You may well ask. I didn’t mean to cheer for Dallas, but I accidentally watched the last couple of games in their series against the dishonourable Knights. Ter gets the blame for that – she’s the one who flipped the channel to prove if there’s a game on, we’ll watch it. The captain of the Stars (Jamie Benn) grew up in Brentwood Bay, the same community where Ter and I lived as teenagers before we met. It’s a small thing, but enough to pick a team for the duration of a game. That, and I was still mad at Vegas for the second empty net goal against Vancouver.

At the end of game five, Ter announced her support for Dallas to win the Cup. Not only could she not raise any enthusiasm for Tampa, she liked the idea of backing “Brentwood” Benn. I kind of agreed, but I’ve disliked Dallas in the past and, compared to my general indifference to the Lightning, that weighs more.

I waffled some when game six (the elimination game for Vegas) ended with the Stars’ overtime victory. It happened on the dumbest penalty call ever invented by the NHL: the infamous “delay of game”. By accident or design, when a player sends the puck goes over the glass in the defensive zone, it’s an automatic two-minute minor. I have no problem calling it when by design, but the puck glancing off the shaft of a stick engaged in a battle for said puck, I don’t see that being deliberate. Honestly, they delay the game by calling delay of game when they could treat it like icing or offside calls: just get another puck and have a faceoff. Anyway, it’s what happened to the Knights. Dallas scored on the power play and that was it: series over. On a dumb delay of game call that was clearly an accident. I was outraged at the injustice.

Then I remembered the snotty second empty net goal against Vancouver. Suddenly the hockey gods were repaying karma and I was good with the Dallas win. I was also a toe closer to going the distance with them, but not there yet.

At the start of Game One of the final round, Cardigan asked me which team I was hoping would win. I replied that I wouldn’t know until the first goal was scored. If I cheered, that was my team. If I swore, it wasn’t.

Dallas scored first. I cheered. Decision made.

Go, Stars.

Lightning Up

 

Sometime during the night following the Flyers’ elimination from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I decided to root full bore for the Tampa Bay Lightning. Originally, I only supported the Bolts until they served their purpose by punting the Bruins in their second round series, but I had also hoped Philly would do in the Islanders and proceed to face Tampa in the eastern conference final.

Dreamer! Silly little dreamer!

Without getting into it (because it still makes me furious), the Flyers pushed their series against New York to a seventh game, but it was only by the grace of Carter Hart that they got that far. We had no offense unless you count lucky bounces, though the defense was solid (Ivan Provorov’s got a great future), and we had a fairly effective penalty kill—but an utterly piss poor power play. The PP was so pp, in fact, that I groaned aloud whenever we drew a penalty. It got worse when, hoping to break the NYI shutout, Alain Vigneault pulled Hart with six minutes to go in the third period. “What are you doing, you fool?” I screamed. “The goalie’s the best man on our power play!”

So, the boys are off to the golf course and Basher is off to post-playoff therapy. Of course I’m a Bolts fan for the eastern final—I can’t abide the Islanders in any way shape or form. And in the west, I’d have chosen Vegas over Dallas, but now I don’t care. My Plan B preference had been for Vegas to go all the way, until I witnessed a cheap-o WTF? move by the Knights when they put out Vancouver in game seven of their series.

Give the Canucks credit—they went further than any other Canadian team and I’d have been delighted to cheer them to the Cup, if only. They had to call on their backup goalie when Markstrom was hurt in game four, and darned if Thatcher Demko didn’t stop all but one of something like a hundred and twenty shots over two games. You start to believe anything is possible when a team comes back from a three game deficit to force a seventh. But Vegas came to play, and they play rough. Not good rough, either. Not only did they out-bang the Canucks, they got away with some sneaky shots and won by a score of 3 – 0. They only beat Demko once, though. The insurance goal was into the empty net after Vancouver pulled him to get the extra man on in the last few minutes of regulation time. With eighty-some seconds left in the game, Vegas potted a second empty-netter and celebrated like they’d come from behind in the nick of time.

Really? A second empty net goal? Talk about rubbing it in—and while I may be a fan of the old Broad Street Bullies, I vehemently disagree with such poor sportsmanship. In my mind, what the Knights did in that last minute was naught but a poke in the collective eye of Canuck players and fans alike. Boo, hiss!

But, Ru, you ask, what happens if the Islanders beat the Bolts?

Don’t ask.

The bears console Basher after the Flyers are eliminated

Blue for Who?

 

Poor grammar in the title, I know, but bigger than that, there’s been poor language around our house of late. This past week saw our TV flipping between two channels: CBC (Hockey Night in Canada) and CNN (the Democratic National Convention). Granted, the poorest language occurred during HNIC as the Flyers tangled with the Canadiens and ultimately—by the skin of their collective teeth, by the way—won the first round. Round Two, against the hated New York Islanders, starts on Monday. This is where “poor language” will morph into full on “swears”, as Cardigan reproachfully puts it, and you just know he’s aiming the frown at me. The only time Ter uses poor language is when the goalie deserts his post in favour of playing the puck. She’s a Flyer fan by association anyway; her true heart lies in the west, with either Edmonton or Vancouver, and while she didn’t watch the Canucks’ first round, she’s happy that they’ve made it to the second. Against the defending champions, no less.

Meanwhile, over on CNN, the DNC provided an interesting diversion from hockey. I actually preferred the virtual format to the “live” conventions of yore; sure, it was a little odd seeing candidates and their advocates speaking to empty rooms but, for me, the speeches packed more punch without the distraction of a cheering, applauding, stomping, sycophantic crowd. (Let’s face it; no one at these things has come to be convinced. They’re already diehard supporters.) The Republicans get their airtime next week ... and I can’t imagine how on earth they will find enough to convince anyone in eight hours that the present incumbent deserves another term at the White House. In toe-curling fairness, they should be given equal time despite the fear of how high my BP may climb as a result. Coupled with the playoffs, the reading may spike halfway to Mars. I’m an avid orange supporter in one arena, but definitely not in the other.

Ter declared the other day that she’s keeping the blue polish on her toenails until November. With my head stuck in the bubble, I immediately commended her loyalty. “Good for you! Hoping the Canucks will go the distance, eh?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m hoping the Democrats get in!”

Priorities.

The Sum of Our Parts

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few (or the one).

All for one and one for all.

It’s not the name on the back of the jersey that matters, it’s the crest on the front.

Call me a socialist and you likely won’t be wrong. I am all for sharing the wealth in support of the whole. Everyone has resources. Everyone has a talent. Everyone can—and should—contribute. I’d not presume to dictate comfort zones, but the best thing about humanity is the way we rally to support a person, a family, a community, or a country in need.

There is something to the attitude of putting the good of the group ahead of stardom for one. Take the International Ice Hockey Federation’s 2019 World Cup Junior Champion Team Finland, for instance. Consistently outmanned, outgunned and short-handed in the final against team USA, they stuck together and ground it out to win the gold medal. There were no superstars and no obvious egos in their game. They were just a bunch of young guys doing their best to help each other.

And win a trophy, of course.

Hm. Competitive sports might not be the best example—though sport is supposed to teach kids the value of teamwork. Too often I see pro players either trying to draw a penalty or whining when they get caught themselves. Participant ribbons for all was maybe not a good idea.

I laughed out loud at a commentator remarking on Canuck wonder-rookie Elias Petterson’s understated celebration when he scores a goal. The kid is Swedish. Modesty becomes them. In fact, it’s taught to children in many cultures around the globe. The “modesty lie” is encouraged in some countries—commit a random act of kindness, but don’t take credit for it. I agree with that in part; when asked point blank if I put cookies on the office snack station, I confess because I’m busted. There’s no point in lying when I’ve been naughty, either. (And some would suggest that’s the case when I put cookies on the office snack station.)

But in this magical world of contrast and the human experience, superstars are inevitable. Everyone wants to be special, even in societies where they’re taught to be ordinary—or at least not to be extraordinary. That’s hard for an ego to endure. I get that. I also know that everyone is born special. The best thing anyone can do is be themselves. That’s why we’re all here. Be yourself and be the best at it. As Martin Luther King once said, even if you’re a shrub, be the best darned shrub you can be.

The whole garden will look better.

With love,

Adjö

I remember when a pair of bobble-headed brothers were drafted second and third by the Vancouver Canucks. It was 1999. The wheeling and dealing done overnight by then-GM Brian Burke that enabled the team to nab both Daniel and Henrik Sedin in the first round was Herculean in hockey scope, and for the first few years appeared to have not been worth the effort. The wonder twins of the Swedish junior league took some time to find their rhythm in the NHL, but once they found it, stardom—if not the Stanley Cup—was inevitable.

Living on the west coast makes me a Vancouver fan by proximity. My feelings for the team have waxed and waned over the years. I really disliked them when Markus Naslund, Todd Bertuzzi and Brendan Morrison made up the top line, back when the Twedes, as Ter has called them, were still growing into their potential. The adulation press and populace showered on Roberto Luongo drove me nuts because whatever they saw in him completely eluded me. Yet while I made jokes about many of the players at any given time, I had personal favourites. I loved Ryan Kesler, for instance. And Kevin Bieksa. Alex Burrows was fun to watch, Mason Raymond was yummy, I adored Jarkko Ruutu, and none dares dispute St Trevor of Linden’s greatness. I can honestly say there have been stretches when I’ve wanted the team to do well (except against Philadelphia, of course) and times when I have been equally hostile toward them.

During those amusing and bemusing years, the Sedins quietly matured into superstars. They did it so quietly, in fact, that I can’t say precisely when they became notable. They were simply, suddenly, there. And they were doing magical things on the ice, things so magical that the term “Sedinery” was coined by one of the announcers. Despite their Swedishness and her Finnishness, Ter liked them early on, favouring Henrik over his younger brother, though how someone can prefer one identical twin over the other is a mystery.

They’ve traded scoring titles back and forth for years. Each has played 1000 games and racked up over 1000 points apiece. Between them, only a handful of games were missed due to injury, otherwise, they were present and accounted for on a stunningly regular basis. They made scoring stars out of so-so players. “Just stand by the net with your stick on the ice and wait for the pass,” was how one wit put it. The Hockey Hall of Fame awaits for sure. But:

Superior stats are one thing. Being a class act off the ice is more impressive, and these young men are classy in the truest sense of the word. They have grown into fine upstanding citizens, loyal to the team and the city they have made their home, to the families they started and the legacy they will leave behind—for they have played their final game in the NHL. Yup, the Sedins retired last night.

I might not have written this post, but their final home game was worth writing about for a number (pun intended—keep reading) of reasons. The Arizona Coyotes were in town. Neither team made it to the playoffs this year, so the game was worthless before last Monday. After the twins announced their retirement at the end of this season, ticket prices soared. On game night, the Rog was jammed to the rafters with fans determined to thank the Sedins for seventeen years of dedicated service to the team, to the game, and to the community. I imagine almost every TV in BC was tuned to Sportsnet Pacific. Ours certainly was.

And Arizona scored the first goal. Geez Louise. Their goalie looked to be on a mission from God. He made some dandy saves before Vancouver got on the board.

And how they got there is wild. Get this: Daniel Sedin wears number 22. Henrik wears 33. Half a minute into the second period, Henrik’s pass is tipped by Alex Edler onto Daniel’s stick and Daniel scores his 22^nd goal of the season. 22 at :33. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t have written it and hoped to have anyone believe it. The crowd goes wild—

—and Arizona scores again. And again. At the end of the second, the Coyotes are up 3 to 1.

Then the young ’Nucks go to work. Two more goals are scored and the game is tied going into overtime. Five minutes of 4 on 4. Arizona takes a penalty a minute in and on the power play, Daniel takes a pass from Henrik and scores the winner ... at 2:33. Honestly. The numerology was numbing. I suppose you could claim it was coincidental or of imagined significance, but I choose to believe that the energy of so many people wishing the Twedes so much goodwill created a weird synergy that resulted in those oddball occurrences. It was astonishing and uplifting and just plain fun.

And now it’s over ... for now. I’m sure their careers will continue in other forms. Their influence will continue in coaching or management or scouting or something hockey-related, so last night’s game in Edmonton was not good-bye to the Sedins. It was simply adjö.

* * *

On a sombre note, it was extremely saddening to learn that the final night of the Sedins on-ice careers was overshadowed by the tragedy of a crash involving a semi-truck and a bus transporting a junior B team to a game in Saskatchewan. Fifteen members of the Humboldt Broncos hockey organization were killed outright and fourteen remain in hospital, some in critical condition. At the time of this writing, the most poignant image from the national league games happened in Winnipeg, when the players on both teams—Jets and Chicago Black Hawks—stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle, alternating jerseys, at centre ice for a moment of silence on behalf of the victims and their families. Similar scenes were played in arenas throughout the league.

The hockey world is smaller, and the people involved in it are bigger, than you think.

With love,

Bright Lights, Big City

Location, location, location. Is that why Vancouver is listed among the three most expensive Canadian cities in which to live? Maybe. You can’t beat the ocean on one side and mountains on the other. On a sunny day, the glittering tangle of glass and steel soaring into the cloud against the North Shore is a truly majestic sight. Awe-inspiring, even. I always feel blessed to know such a beautiful city so well, though my visits have dwindled from one or two per year to one or two per decade.

Ter and I were over for a hockey game a few weeks ago. Neither of us realized it has been almost five years since we last ventured across the strait. Normally, we stay in the west end, the oldest part of the city where the beach runs alongside the street and trendy cafes are perched on every corner. This time, however, because of my compromised compostable container, we chose a hotel within hobbling distance of the arena, which landed us pretty well in the depths of the urban jungle. We arrived late in the afternoon, close to sundown on game day.

There are pockets of the city where no matter what time of year it is, the sun will never pierce the shadow. In February, you’re guaranteed that the only sun you’ll see is on the postcards for sale at the 7-Eleven. For us, a west coast winter was in full swing. The copious and unseasonable snow had melted away, but the persistent drizzle was chilly, the wind was raw ... and everywhere I looked, I was dwarfed by skyscrapers I didn’t remember seeing before. The last time we stayed in the downtown core, Library Square was the most imposing structure in the neighbourhood. This time, it was part of the view from our hotel window, but it dominated nothing. It had been surrounded and absorbed, just like our hotel, by condo and office towers. Our room was on the fifth floor, practically spitting distance from the street, and our view was almost exclusively into the softly lit windows of the building that housed the aforementioned 7-Eleven. The suite wasn’t dark at night, given the glow of all those residential lights, but it was sure dark in the daytime.

Our visits to Vancouver used to feel homey and familiar. That sense of being welcome was sadly missing from our trip last month. The city’s sense of individuality, of unique and original personality, seemed to have been swallowed by the same indifferent towers that loom above the library. The jewel of Canada’s west coast could have been any big city that night: an anonymous and impassive host to the frenzied little parasites (us) that feed off its bounty.

Until the next morning. I stood at the window once more, gazing at the darkened glass panes across the way and over at the intersection where the morning commute was in progress. The street was in shadow, of course ... but along to the north, between the man-made monoliths posted like sentries along a parade route, was a glimpse of the mountains. A single, snow-dusted, sun-kissed peak, a National Geographic image cradled between stone and steel, identified my location far better than a Google satellite. I knew then that I was indeed in beautiful Vancouver, the jewel of Canada’s west coast.

I should have taken a picture, but I’m still not quite used to having a camera in my phone.

Oh—and the hockey game? PHI 3 – VAN 2. Power pose!!

Loui, Loui

well, shoot - he played for Boston once

I don’t mind the Vancouver Canucks. I’m not a raving fan, but I’m not violently opposed to the team, either. “St Trevor of Linden” and all that. I’m not crazy about their general manager, but that’s because he was a) with the Bruins organization before coming to Vancouver and b) he brought over Brandon Sutter from Pittsburgh, who might actually be an okay guy, but, let’s face it, he’s a Sutter.

My hockey pool policy is no secret: I won’t pick players from a team I dislike. I tend to pick former Flyers as well as member of the current roster, for all the good it’s done. This year, I decided to take a chance with Loui Eriksson, who joined Vancouver in the off season. Earmarked to play on the top line with the Twedes, Daniel and Henrik, Loui seems likely to score a whack of points off the twins’ combined genius, thus garnering a whack of points for Ruthie’s Rebels.

Besides, he’s kind of cute.

The Canucks’ home opener was against Calgary. In my list of “go, teams”, Canucks trump Flames, and I wanted to see how Loui would do in a match that really counted. (He got points in a preseason game, but they don’t count in the pool.) First period, a delayed penalty is called against Calgary. The Vancouver goalie streaks for the bench to get the extra man on to stretch the advantage. Loui has the puck. He also has three Flames buzzing him, so he sends a blind pass behind him, hoping his defenceman catches it.

Only the defenceman misses. He flings himself forward in a heroic attempt to knock the rubber disc off course, misses again, and the puck sails merrily into the empty net.

“Dear God,” I blurt, sickened. “Oh, dear God.”

Calgary 1 – Vancouver 0.

They gave credit to the last Flame who touched the puck. I might have been upset that it didn’t count in my pool total, but I was ill for Loui. The new guy, acquired to score goals, and in his first real game, he puts it into his own net. I’ve seen it before, many times. I’ve seen bad bounces beat a goalie from 200 feet and I’ve seen “deflections off their own man” galore, but none of them are easy to take—not even when my team benefits.

Which mine didn’t, this time.

Oh, Loui.

&%^#$*

Let’s get the excuses over with, first:

The time change.

Jet lag.

The time zone change.

The post-Halloween sugar down.

A new coach with a strategy no one understands.

The still pitifully thin blue line.

But, come on. The Canucks are rebuilding and, despite all of the above, the Flyers should have won last night’s game. My guy Giroux scored a beauty goal to tie it at one apiece in the second period; they looked like they were coming on, and then … the wheels fell off.

^&%$#

I am always grateful to watch my team, even if half of the faces are different from last year. And I’m kind of glad that Voracek isn’t racking up the points he had last season, since my nemesis, the wire-and-fake-fur-Flyer-fan, nabbed him in the pool, but after Bo Horvat put the ’Nucks back in the lead, I didn’t care which Flyer scored so long as one of them did.

Turned out none of them did. We lost 4 to 1, and while it appeared for a brief moment as if Vancouver’s third goal would look to the uninitiated observer like an empty-netter, Mason was actually pulled before their fourth. The third goal was a gift for rookie Jake Virtanen—it warms my black-and-orange heart that Philadelphia, once the scariest team in the league, now breaks the other team’s losing streak and gives candy to the kiddies.

Have I said, *%#$&^?

On the bright side, the Vancouver broadcaster mentioned that the Philly broadcaster called last night’s game the best the team has played so far, so perhaps the boys are getting it together. I remain unconvinced that firing Craig Berube was a smart move (though I had no problem with ejecting, I mean, promoting Paul Holmgren from the GM’s seat); however, maybe the new guy is starting to get his message across. I wish they would quit playing defence when they’re obvious strength is in offense, but I’m just a lowly fan who is beginning to sympathize with Leaf fans everywhere.

Tonight’s stop: Edmonton. The Oilers are currently twenty-fifth in the standings. I wonder what treats the Flyers will hand to their little ones?

Season Finale

3 cups in 6 years - one more and they'll have a quart

The Chicago Blackhawks have won their third Stanley Cup in six years. Good for them! It’s hard to win one in this age of salary caps and unrestricted free agents, but team management was able to keep the core group together, led by the truly indomitable Jonathan Toews. That kid (kid?? He’s twenty-seven years old!) is the James T. Kirk of the NHL. I’ve seen him carry that team on his back when they’re slumping, and in a duel of captains in the final series, he showed will and grit that Steve Stamkos only dreams of having.

I should probably dislike the Hawks the way I dislike the Islanders; after all, that twerp Patrick Kane scored the OT winner in Game 7 against the Flyers in 2011 and it took me all summer to get over it. Meh. It’s enough for me to not like Patrick Kane. I do like that the whole team gave Roberto Luongo conniptions in various playoff series over the Vancouver years, again led by their Valyrian steel captain.

I paid off my playoff pool debt and collected my regular season pool winnings, yesterday. When the math was finally done, the whole enchilada cost me $5 and gave me the dubious distinction of being one half of the first-ever tie for a money spot.

So hockey mania is over for another year.

Well, three and a half months.

Puckin’ Around

In all the excitement of my working holiday, I forgot to mention the results of the regular season hockey pool. Ever the groundbreaker, I was part of the first-ever tie for second place, which entitles me to half of the runner-up prize money. In all fairness, I tried to get the pool administrator to list my fellow second placer ahead of me in the archival list, since his team had more goals than mine, but the response surprised me. My team won as many points in fewer games, so my name precedes Craig’s for all posterity, and I get half the cash. I’m amazed to have got that far; between January and March, I seemed doomed to stay in fifth place, but in true “gotta make the playoffs” fashion, my guys made a mad dash to the finish and suddenly I owned the second spot by one point. It literally took the last game of the season to determine the final pool placements. The office pool was a wilder ride than the league standings this year.

I doubt I’ll do so well in the playoff pool.

I became a temporary Canuck fan for the first round of post-season. They pushed their series to six games and lost in Calgary on the weekend—I hope no one loses their job over it, since they exceeded all expectation after last year’s atomic coaching failure. The players themselves seemed surprised to have made the playoffs.

Which may have been their undoing.

It was acutely evident to me that the primary difference between the Flames and Canucks was their attitude. The Flames played like they were thinking, “We made it here; we can do this!” and the Canucks were, “We made it here? Can we do this?” In the end, they couldn’t. They blew a three goal lead and lost 7-4 in game six. But I, a proud Canadian, am rooting for Anaheim in the conference semi-final, and here’s why:

Calgary was in the lead, 5-4. The Canucks pulled their goalie with a minute left. With thirty seconds left, the Flames scored in the empty net. Vancouver was obviously done, gone, kaput, and the kids from Calgary were on their way to the next round. So they didn’t have to score a second empty-netter with nine seconds left. But they did. And they celebrated like it was a major coup. It wasn’t. It was just rude. No class at all. Shame, shame, shame, little boys.

They’ll have their hands full with the Ducks, though. Anaheim grounded the Jets in four, and with Ryan Kesler heating up, the Flames may be the ones who get roasted.

Colourful Metaphors

Basher and Ru ready for a win ... and still waiting

“Hey, Ter, you know how I said I was a little sad that we didn’t go to the game after all?”

“Yes …?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

It’s a statement when the tribute before the game is better than the game itself. Not that it was a bad game; it was just a losing effort. The Flyers got on the board first, the Canucks answered, and then it was over—in seventeen seconds, to be exact, after Alex Burrows broke loose and scored twice in the third period. An empty-netter finished them off, so the final score was 4-1 in Vancouver’s favour. Now we’re 23^rd in the league, eleventh in our conference and fifth in our division. 73 points over 72 games with 10 left in the season.

$#*^%*

After Burrows’ second goal – the knife to my heart – the colour commentator remarked that the Flyers’ playoff hopes were getting slimmer. I snorted and snapped, “What playoff hopes? Did we have playoff hopes?”

Ter patiently replied, “He’s being nice.”

 

Augh. What have we come to, when the opposing broadcast crew shows us mercy?

All right, so I’m a bad loser.

The night was special because the Canucks honoured the late great Pat Quinn, who had also coached the Flyers to their 35 game win streak in 1979/80 (losing game 7 of the Cup final to the heinous misbegotten Islanders), but was mostly responsible, so they say, for making something respectable of the Vancouver franchise. St. Trevor of Linden brought in the very best of the Canucks’ alumni, and my hero was among those from other teams where Quinn left his mark. Bob Clarke was captain of the Flyers when Quinn coached in Philadelphia, and when I heard him announced, I briefly regretted the decision to skip the trip and see the game live. I had to remind myself that he would have been there anyway, just up in the visitors’ royal box, not on the ice and wearing a Flyer jersey.

Ter and I would have been there, but for the mutual decision to spare ourselves the expense of an overnight and two days’ work at a critical time of year. I gave the tickets to a colleague who lives on the mainland, and who took his son as a belated birthday present. They sent me a selfie taken during the first intermission. The birthday boy was beaming in a signed Canucks jersey—clearly a fan of the home team. That made the decision not to go even more worthwhile.

Well, 4 -1 is better than the result of the January matchup, when Vancouver visited the Flyers and won 4-0. Letting the opposition score four unanswered goals was … exactly what happened last night.

 

*&$^%#

Still Out of It …

 … but at least we’re no further behind. With nineteen more games in the regular season, a miracle will have to occur for the Flyers to make the playoffs. I, however, believe in miracles so am doggedly refusing to write off the team at this late date.

Last night’s win against the Rangers was sweet only because New York took the first three games this season, twice shutting Philly out without King Henrik between the pipes. (^&%$#*) Winning this one at home took some doing, but the boys managed to eke out a victory. Checking the stats this morning, I see that “We’re #20!” and are on a current streak of … one win!

It was also hopeful to see Sean Couturier stepping up, as I lost Tyler Seguin to a knee injury a while ago and have called upon Couts to replace him on my pool team. Statistically, it’s a bit like replacing Hercules with Pee Wee Herman, but the kid earned me two points last night and I’m taking them. For a few days I was actually in danger of eclipsing my executive director in the office standings, so perhaps it was fortuitous that my heavy horse went down – now the big boss has a stranglehold on fourth place and my job is secure for the nonce.

Seriously, I doubt that Philadelphia will make the playoffs. If they surprise me, the hope is that they’ll be in “kill or be killed” mode when they get there and will slice through the competition like a hot knife through butter. The alternative is to become a temporary Canucks fan, as the kids called up to fill in for Vancouver’s injured vets are playing their hearts out and dragging the oldies toward the post-season by youthful enthusiasm alone.

Clearly, I’m expecting that miracle.

Birthday Gift

VAN 4 - PHI 0

My younger older brother received two gifts for his birthday, yesterday: the Canucks snapped their four-game losing streak, and the Flyers let them do it in Philadelphia.

I could have done without it being a shutout, though, to be perfectly relevant to my brother’s age, the final score should have been 6-0.

Now the Flyers are on a streak of being shut out for two games in a row. Shutouts are normally measured by periods or minutes or whatever is the most humiliating, but this time out, I’m happily appalled at straight games.

On the other hand, no less than three Flyer games have been on TV this week – they won the first one 7-3, then quit scoring for the rest of the streak. Guess they used up their weekly goals-for allotment against Tampa Bay on Monday.

Funny that right after I promise to quit ragging on Rogers, the universe sees fit to reward me with a tripleheader. That my brother’s team happened to play against mine on his birthday was a bonus. That his team won is … well, I’d like to say that I engineered it just for him, but the reality is I’d rather have had the score reversed in Philly’s favour. However, I’m sure he was happy and that’s all that matters. I may be grateful to see my hockey team, but I am far more grateful to have him.

Happy belated, bro.

We’re 26th!

We won! And we’re still 26^th in the league!

I missed much of yesterday’s game. With a road record of 2-9-2 (3-9-2 now), and having already lost to the other two-thirds of the Californian axis of evil, the Flyers’ visit to LA seemed doomed, especially considering that their former captain and his wing man are now Kings and might have a bit of an ax to grind. So, with it being a 1:00 start, I chose lunch out with Ter, followed by a leisurely stroll along the main street of Gracepoint (locally known as Oak Bay Avenue) and laundry when we got home. I even debated the need for buttered rum tea, and Basher gave me a look of Do I have to? when I fetched him for the third period.

“We’re ahead 2-0 after the second,” I told him, hardly believing it myself.

He acquiesced and I shot some Captain Morgan into my tea. An ex-Flyer scored on them in the third—Justin Williams, who left Philadelphia many years ago—but the boys hung on to win in regulation. They had also nabbed a point in Anaheim, losing in a shootout. “How can you score five goals in a game and still lose?” used to be a question for Toronto fans alone, but these days anything goes. And the Sharks edged them 2-1 in San Jose. Close; so close, and still … we’re 26, we’re 26!

And over in office hockey pool, Ruthie’s Rebels are settling in to 7^th spot despite me drafting high-powered point-grabbers in Jake Voracek, Tyler Seguin and Jamie Benn. I declined the mid-season (already?) re-draft on the excuse that I’d just had the team photo taken and am hopeful that my guys can hoist me a little closer to the top five before the trade deadline in March.

I’m still having issues with the Rogers takeover of broadcast rights, too. HNIC under Strombo is just annoying, so Ter and I are hardly watching Saturday night hockey anymore. Thank the hockey gods that most Canuck games are called by the two Johns, but even then we’re not paying as close attention as we’ve done in prior years. It’s enough to get the highlights from Global TV in Vancouver.

I miss TSN. I miss Ron MacLean and PJ Stock on the panel at HNIC. I miss being a diehard viewer on Saturday night. Mostly, I miss the Flyers being a top 10 team. A miracle will be required to haul them out of the basement … but miracles are what  Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

Farewell to Kes

He’s the reason why I was a borderline Canucks fan for the past few years. Now I am free to disdain them with impunity. Ryan Kesler, now with Anaheim, did not deserve the raspberries he got from the crowd on his return to Vancouver Thursday night.

The man is a horse. He logs big ice time and never slacks off. So he wanted to get out of town after the disastrous 13/14 season. Who doesn’t think of changing jobs after a decade at the same place? Maybe he didn’t like the then-coach who the then-GM hired after firing Alain Vigneault. Neither did anyone else. Maybe he got on some of his teammate’s nerves. Alpha males will do that. Or maybe he got discouraged after the Game 7 loss in 2011/12, when fans in jerseys bearing his name and number were setting fire to police cars. Vancouver is a hard city in which to play any sport, but hockey is particularly dicey. Philadelphia fans are ugly, but they’ve never rioted in the streets after losing a Stanley Cup final. Vancouver fans have done it twice. They’re brutal, especially to ex-pats who depart under unfortunate circumstances.

I don’t know why Kesler wanted to leave the team, but I certainly don’t fault him for it. He was a force in the most recent glory days, playing injured in the playoffs and threatening to eclipse Henrik Sedin for conduct becoming a team captain. He scored goals. He helped others score goals. He took lumps for the team and gave as good as he got in a scrap. He was a star for them … and the fans boo when he stands on the opposite side of the red line. There’s gratitude for you.

I wish him well in Anaheim. No regrets here, boy. Well, maybe I have one.

He’d have been a dandy Flyer.

N H ell

ah, for the good old days ...

It’s finally happened. I’ve become one of the duffers. One of the crusties who remembers the good old days when one referee was just as incompetent as two, overtime was restricted to the playoffs, and the shootout was a cheap way to win an international hockey game. When the stars played with goons watching their backs and the boys thought twice before hitting a guy in the numbers.

When Ron MacLean hosted Hockey Night in Canada instead of a Sunday night mercy slot.

The game has changed, the league has changed, nothing is sacred and precious little makes sense.

The Flyers lost two in a row over the weekend. In the old days, I’d have gone, Guys, smarten up. Now I’m looking at the schedule and thinking, with 82 games in a season, who gets five days off then has to play back to back, one at home and one on the road? Who set that schedule in stone? I didn’t see the Columbus game, but the boys arrived in Montreal at 1:00 a.m. on game day against the Canadiens and tried to claw their way back from a 2 goal deficit only to fold like a cheap tent in the third period. They were tired! Heck, I get dopey after a long weekend and these guys are expected to hit the ice running after twice that long? Yeah, yeah, yeah, they’re professional athletes, they’re millionaires, they have nothing else to do but stay in shape for a brutally long season, but come on.

And that’s just the players. The fans are suffering mightily too, since the wedding news broke last spring: Rogers had bought broadcast rights to all NHL games and everyone else could go fish. Which is pretty much what TSN has had to do.

Not that TSN trumped CBC for hockey broadcasts, because for most of my life, CBC was where hockey lived. But there were also Canuck games on Wednesday nights, on the CTV affiliate out of Vancouver. Then cable TV expanded and sports channels were born. The Sports Network, for one. I was miffed when the CBC let the Hockey Night in Canada theme go to TSN, but got over it because, hey, TSN ran NHL double headers on Wednesday nights. Better yet, Tuesday night Flyer games were picked up by TSN2—a joy I discovered right before the apocalypse happened.

Most Canuck games were cast on Sportsnet Pacific, called by John and John—Shorthouse on play-by-play and Garrett on colour commentary. A pair of goofballs to be sure, but I enjoyed their banter as much as (and often more than) the game, and it was good to know that, if Ter and I were at loose ends on a winter’s night, there was probably a game somewhere on Shaw’s basic cable.

And, like Old Faithful, on Saturday nights, the CBC reigned supreme.

Not anymore.

HNIC still exists, but I no longer recognize it. Ron MacLean could be cloying, but I liked him better than George Snufflufagus. At least MacLean has sports broadcasting cred. Strombo is a glamour boy trying to be hip and falling embarrassingly short. The broadcast teams are all haywire. Gone from the booth are Rick Ball and Kelly Hrudey, replaced by no-name whozits dredged from the Sportsnet vault. And the panel between periods? I avoided Sportsnet to steer clear of Nick Kypreos and now he’s sitting in PJ Stock’s place with the sad remains of the HNIC talking heads.

Gone almost entirely are TSN broadcasts. Oh, there are games on the new TSN3, TSN4, TSN5 cable stations, when there’s no blackout in effect. Most are part of a new “sports channel” package requiring extra payment for the privilege of viewing. Which might be okay if there were no commercials, but who are we kidding?

Sportsnet channels … now there are a thousand of them, only three of which remain attached to the basic cable package (demanding no extra funding from the viewer) and none of which seem to carry Canuck games on a regular basis. Or any games, for that matter. When we do catch a Vancouver game, the Johns aren’t always calling it. As for the games included in our already exorbitant cable fee, the screen is often so busy with tickertape news items, irrelevant stats and those truly irritating banner ads for cars, restaurants and upcoming broadcast events, that the game is as disrespected as the viewer.

I hate this. I loathe the change, resent the suits responsible, and am powerless to do anything about it. I would stop watching hockey, but I’ve been robbed of that form of protest because I will not pay for games that were once “free” on basic cable.

Only on the Rogers network, you say?

Pity.

Hockey All the Time

Such excitement! Under the new deal between Rogers and the NHL, Hockey Night in Canada now features more televised games on Saturday than at any other time in my history! Last night, we had the perennial CBC option, plus four others via various Sportsnet and CITY channels. For the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long, the Flyers were my first game of the Saturday night season.

And the buggers lost. Not only did they lose, they blew a 3-0 lead to do it. At home, no less. That takes talent. Montreal beat them 4-3 in a shootout, so they got a point, but no win. No matter how you spin it, that means they lost. For the third game in a row. Just like last year.

Is Craig Berube in trouble? Peter Laviolette lost his job after losing the first three games in 2013/14, but I suspect that Berube is okay for the nonce. Philly is notoriously slow out of the gate, but will pick up momentum as the season progresses. As hard as it is on Basher and me, the 82 game season is a blessing. If this was back the old days, we’d already be out of the playoffs.

Like Toronto, perchance?

And, boy, did Don Cherry go on a rant about the Leafs continually ignoring Canadian prospects and selecting Europeans in the draft. He was so bent out of shape that he got his mords wixed and called two of the Leafs’ picks “a Swinn and a Fede”—which is in no way the players’ fault; they just want to play in the big league. But so do the thousands of kids in the Ontario Hockey League (OHL), and according to Grapes, none of them will ever make it to Toronto. He’s a bit of a doofus in other matters, but the man is a patriot and he knows hockey. I must admit, I prefer the Canadian kids myself—they play a sturdier game and seem to be better team players than the flashier Europeans. I think that’s why Russia blew the Olympics. They were badly coached, yes, but all those NHL “stars” jostling for puck possession to be the hero … You really do have to leave your ego on the bench, ’cause the game is as much about opportunity as it is about skill, and if your third line winger is still on the ice but hovering off the radar, get him the frigging puck and settle for the assist. You’ll still get a point in the fantasy pool.

Is this enough ranting, Ru? Not quite …

Game Two of HNIC: the Vancouver home opener, where the visiting Oilers also blew a fast lead. It was a better game than MTL/PHI because the Canucks are trying to resurrect themselves after the Tortorella debacle and they came from behind a couple of times to win last night’s game in a shootout. I hate hate hate that their #17 isn’t Ryan Kesler anymore—they should have “retired” the number for a year to get me over the trade—but it was fun to see the Twedes working their cyclical magic again, and now that Roberto is Luongone, the net is in good solid hands with Ryan Miller. No goalkeeping controversy this year (one hopes).

Let’s save that one for Philadelphia.

Pulling Out the Stops

Hockey season starts today. The Flyers’ preseason record ended at 3-3-2, so I’m a little concerned. Not as much as if the record had been 3-5-0, but still.

Ter and I are going to see the team when they visit Vancouver on March 17. My contact at the office offered me the chance and I said, Puck it, give me two tickets and I’ll figure out the logistics later. A Tuesday night two weeks from fiscal year end will be tricky to engineer, but my office contact is also the branch Director of Finance and if he says I can go to the game, I can go to the game. He’s such a good guy, he even sold me the tickets at face value—originally $250 for the pair but when they arrived, he happily informed me that Philly is no longer considered a premium team so the price was actually $80 each.

I was crushed.

Then I thought (savagely, I admit), wait a second, pal—the Canucks sucked worse than Philly last year. Could it be that Vancouver is no longer the premium team? I felt marginally better until my nephew bought tickets to see the Calgary Flames and they cost twenty bucks more apiece. WTF??? The Flames didn’t even make the playoffs last year!

%^$#*^&

I console myself with the notion that exhibition games mean nothing, which is true until the last few when the team rosters are pretty well set and the final game features the lineup to start the season. Effective October 8, I embark on fervent affirmations and yoga breathing practice. Basher the PHI Bear was way ahead of me. Last Sunday, he wanted to participate in the bedroom bears’ weekly sangha as extra insurance for a successful season, but I don’t know that his style had the desired effect.

He muscled his way into the circle. Not terribly Buddhist of him … but that’s hockey.

Zen and the Art of Playoff Hockey

That’s better, boys! Philly now has home ice advantage, having taken game 2 away from the Rangers. It was close—they won 3-2—but they played more like themselves than in game one. And it only cost me a dollar in poor language penalties! Game three is in Philadelphia on Tuesday. I’ll be leaving work early to catch the opening face off.

Ter observed that I was awfully quiet during the game. Aside from not wanting to incur further financial infractions, I was practicing mindfulness. No easy task when one’s heart is pumping panicked adrenalin: when NY went up 2-0 halfway through the first period, I blew my cool, tossed a loonie in the swear jar, and decided I’d better get control of myself. After all, there were still 50 minutes of game left to play. Too early to go off the rails in despair. Stupid penalties notwithstanding, our PK was way better and one of my favourites, Jakub Voracek, popped one past Henrik Lundqvist before the buzzer rang at the end of twenty minutes. That helped to steady my resolve. The third goal can make or break a game, depending on who pots it. I was immensely grateful that it belonged to the Flyers. Gratitude is a good place to start in the mindfulness department.

So, rather than leap ahead in terror that, if they’re down by 2 in the first, they could blow the game, go down 2-0 in the series and be punted in the first round, I breathed in (calm), breathed out (smile), breathed in (present moment), breathed o—and screamed with glee as the puck sailed past the NY goalie. Once they were on the board, it became a matter of one more, just one more, hold them off, just one more, what the ^&%$, “chink” into the jar, reframe, one more boys, just one more … The officials were relatively fair—the Flyers will always be nabbed for trifles, but the Rangers took their share of penalty minutes, too. A couple of them were cited for embellishment, and while I disagree with the existence of the rule in principle, a) it stood the Flyers in good stead today, and b) it reminded me that the NY coach was too recently in charge of the Vancouver Canucks, who, while under his tutelage, doubled as a dive team depending on the importance of the match.

For years I have heard hockey players say that you must play one shift at a time and focus on getting one goal at a time. I’ve never fully understood the message until lately. Athletes of any ilk must be present in the moment; if one is fully mindful, one can achieve flow and make magic happen. I know, I know—hockey is just a game, but I also wonder if the team that wins is also the team that’s fully “present”.

Of course, being bigger, stronger and meaner helps, too. Just ask the %$&$# Bruins.

*chink*