Signs
I love the fan-participation element signs add to live hockey. Got something to say? Slap it on a piece of poster board and maybe someone will read it. Maybe it will even be on TV!
Signs come in all different types--from the colorful, kid-made "Let's Go Sabres" where the letters are all small and scunched up at the end because they ran out of room, to the professionally screen-printed sign directed at "OveCHICKEN" I saw at that game against the Caps. And they have all kinds of purposes: Some, like the now-defunct "My favorite Briere at the local Drury is Miller," just want to make you laugh. Others, like the ever-present "Dream and Believe," want to inspire you. (And yes, there are definite mis-steps, too. "Marry me Briere" sign-toters, I'm looking at you. Polygamists.) Then there are my favorites: The signs that line the back wall of the upper bowl--the Campbell's soup can, "Awinagainov," "Pominville Population X," "Goose's Roost," "Mair's Office"--which are permanent fixtures at games. There's just something so affectionate about players having a little section of the arena dedicated to them.
Even though most of them never see the light of day, I love trying to come up with good ideas for signs. I made two this season, though, and when Marty Biron revealed in the Buffalo News a while back that he likes to sit on the bench and read the signs people hold up, I was really miffed that my seats are behind the bench where he can't see me. (Although it's probably for the best that Yo-Yo doesn't know about my "Hecht! We're not Jochen!" sign, because he would just think I don't know how to pronounce his name. [Even though I do! Better than anyone, it seems! No, nhl.com, it is not "yo-KIN HESHT" as you would like everyone to believe.])
Showing posts with label Reasons I love Hockey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reasons I love Hockey. Show all posts
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #22
Sabretooth
Okay, honestly, how awesome is Sabretooth? You would think a team named “the Sabres” would have a really lame mascot (and I’ve seen proof that we once had a mascot called “Sammy the Sabre,” who was apparently a cartoon sword somehow on ice skates and holding a hockey stick—LAME), but somewhere along the line some front office genius piped up, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we had, like, a tiger? A sabretoothed one?” And hockey was never the same again. I first met Sabretooth when I was five or six. My dad took me to a game, and I can remember nothing except that I spent almost the entire time whining about wanting to see Sabretooth, and then when I finally did get to meet him I flat-out refused to get close enough to take a picture with him. To this day, whenever Sabretooth is involved I’m transformed into that little girl again: equally thrilled by and hyper-aware of his presence, but way too embarrassed/shy/excited to actually interact with him. Instead I watch from a distance as he pals around with little kids, bangs on the glass, leads cheers, and generally just runs the show. He has the kind of untouchable star power the players only wish they had. The Sabres are just hockey players, but Sabretooth? He’s a celebrity, and everyone knows it. I mean, you don’t see Ryan Miller repelling from the ceiling to the tune of Eye of the Tiger before every game, do you? Okay, okay. I know it’s just a guy (or girl) in a furry costume, but the truth is that that furry costume has become an institution, the way only a kick-ass mascot could.
Okay, honestly, how awesome is Sabretooth? You would think a team named “the Sabres” would have a really lame mascot (and I’ve seen proof that we once had a mascot called “Sammy the Sabre,” who was apparently a cartoon sword somehow on ice skates and holding a hockey stick—LAME), but somewhere along the line some front office genius piped up, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we had, like, a tiger? A sabretoothed one?” And hockey was never the same again. I first met Sabretooth when I was five or six. My dad took me to a game, and I can remember nothing except that I spent almost the entire time whining about wanting to see Sabretooth, and then when I finally did get to meet him I flat-out refused to get close enough to take a picture with him. To this day, whenever Sabretooth is involved I’m transformed into that little girl again: equally thrilled by and hyper-aware of his presence, but way too embarrassed/shy/excited to actually interact with him. Instead I watch from a distance as he pals around with little kids, bangs on the glass, leads cheers, and generally just runs the show. He has the kind of untouchable star power the players only wish they had. The Sabres are just hockey players, but Sabretooth? He’s a celebrity, and everyone knows it. I mean, you don’t see Ryan Miller repelling from the ceiling to the tune of Eye of the Tiger before every game, do you? Okay, okay. I know it’s just a guy (or girl) in a furry costume, but the truth is that that furry costume has become an institution, the way only a kick-ass mascot could.
Reason I Love Hockey #21
In honor of my last Reason I Love Hockey, I’m going to do a little mini-series of my favorite things about watching live hockey, including some specific aspects of HSBC. I’m totally unorganized with this whole list (could you tell?) so I have no idea how long this mini-series will be, but I’ll just keep writing about things until I run out. That philosophy hasn’t failed me yet.
HSBC Salted Peanuts
Hey, did you think that was an empty threat all the way back in June?! Honestly, I feel silly admitting this as a reason I love hockey, but not silly enough to not admit it at all. The truth is, half my anticipation when entering HSBC to see a game was caused by the salted peanuts I knew were right inside the door. Once I had that little paper bag in hand, there was no way the night could be a waste. I think peanuts are the perfect food for the hockey spectator. They’re small and portable—not cumbersome like hotdogs or nachos or the like—but they also require a certain amount of involvement. Peanuts break the mindless path from bag to mouth well traveled by handfuls of popcorn, adding the extra steps of unshelling. With my attention decidedly on the game, I find my fingers like having something to do, and once I settle into a kind of peanut-shelling rhythm my viewing experience is complete. Interestingly, hockey and peanuts relate symbiotically in this regard, because I’ve found that without something as enthralling as hockey to distract my brain I’m way too frustrated by peanut shells to bother with them. But at the arena, the shells are definitely the best part. My dad would always buy his own bag of regular, unsalted peanuts, which as far as I’m concerned is blasphemy. I mean, that’s free salt he’s passing up! What’s the point of even having a shell if you’re not going to suck all the salt off it first? (I’m beginning to see why I was never on the Jumbotron during games—my peanut-consumption method isn’t really the sort of thing Miss Manners would condone.) And then, of course, the shells are a marker, a tangible indicator, a tiny mound of accomplishment. Whenever I left my seat after the game, I would look back at the thin layer of broken shells coating the floor (I felt bad about it until my mom told me that local convicts clean the arena after games) and let out a nostalgic sigh. Yes, I was here.
HSBC Salted Peanuts
Hey, did you think that was an empty threat all the way back in June?! Honestly, I feel silly admitting this as a reason I love hockey, but not silly enough to not admit it at all. The truth is, half my anticipation when entering HSBC to see a game was caused by the salted peanuts I knew were right inside the door. Once I had that little paper bag in hand, there was no way the night could be a waste. I think peanuts are the perfect food for the hockey spectator. They’re small and portable—not cumbersome like hotdogs or nachos or the like—but they also require a certain amount of involvement. Peanuts break the mindless path from bag to mouth well traveled by handfuls of popcorn, adding the extra steps of unshelling. With my attention decidedly on the game, I find my fingers like having something to do, and once I settle into a kind of peanut-shelling rhythm my viewing experience is complete. Interestingly, hockey and peanuts relate symbiotically in this regard, because I’ve found that without something as enthralling as hockey to distract my brain I’m way too frustrated by peanut shells to bother with them. But at the arena, the shells are definitely the best part. My dad would always buy his own bag of regular, unsalted peanuts, which as far as I’m concerned is blasphemy. I mean, that’s free salt he’s passing up! What’s the point of even having a shell if you’re not going to suck all the salt off it first? (I’m beginning to see why I was never on the Jumbotron during games—my peanut-consumption method isn’t really the sort of thing Miss Manners would condone.) And then, of course, the shells are a marker, a tangible indicator, a tiny mound of accomplishment. Whenever I left my seat after the game, I would look back at the thin layer of broken shells coating the floor (I felt bad about it until my mom told me that local convicts clean the arena after games) and let out a nostalgic sigh. Yes, I was here.
Reason I Love Hockey #20
The Arena Experience
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a huge fan of other sports. Compared to hockey, televised football, baseball, and basketball frankly just bore me. And yet, sit me down in front of a live game and you won’t hear me complain. I’ve been known to get into a Bisons game at Dunn Tire Park, cheer on the UB Bulls basketball team next to my season-ticket-holder parents, and I’m sure I’d even enjoy a Bills game from Ralph Wilson Stadium, although some of my parents’ horror stories suggest otherwise. Even if I don’t particularly enjoy the game itself, I can’t resist the sports atmosphere. So for me, a live hockey game--complete with atmosphere--is nothing short of sublime. There’s the food, the Jumbotron, the organ and about a million other things to love, but my favorite by far is the collective fan experience. Hockey is exciting on TV and even on the radio, but during a good game, the air inside the home building is almost palpably electric. People bond through their mass anticipation: they cheer and groan in unison as opportunities are created and missed; complete strangers strike up conversations about this player or that one, exchange compliments about sweaters and signs. And every once in a while there’s a moment of complete elation that’s entirely unlike any other experience in the world. I’ve spent a lot of time on YouTube this long, hockey-less summer, and one of the videos I keep revisiting is this one, but I usually don’t even watch it. I just love listening to the crowd’s prayerful quiet after the face-off, then their desperation as they yell “SHOOT!” at Tim Connolly, their frustration as his shot is turned away, their pure joy as Drury scores. That, more so than the goal itself, sends chills down my spine. It’s like suddenly being thrown into the experience. (Incidentally, the guy who shot this sits about ten rows in front of the seats my dad shares with his office, so the viewing angle is pretty familiar to me.) I wish more things in life—finding the movie I want at Blockbuster, getting off of work an hour early, finally completing a year-long knitting project—could be celebrated the way they are in a hockey arena: throwing hands up in the air, screaming, grabbing complete strangers by the shoulders, shaking them, high-fiving anything that moves, and being joined by almost 19,000 other people, all doing the same thing.
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a huge fan of other sports. Compared to hockey, televised football, baseball, and basketball frankly just bore me. And yet, sit me down in front of a live game and you won’t hear me complain. I’ve been known to get into a Bisons game at Dunn Tire Park, cheer on the UB Bulls basketball team next to my season-ticket-holder parents, and I’m sure I’d even enjoy a Bills game from Ralph Wilson Stadium, although some of my parents’ horror stories suggest otherwise. Even if I don’t particularly enjoy the game itself, I can’t resist the sports atmosphere. So for me, a live hockey game--complete with atmosphere--is nothing short of sublime. There’s the food, the Jumbotron, the organ and about a million other things to love, but my favorite by far is the collective fan experience. Hockey is exciting on TV and even on the radio, but during a good game, the air inside the home building is almost palpably electric. People bond through their mass anticipation: they cheer and groan in unison as opportunities are created and missed; complete strangers strike up conversations about this player or that one, exchange compliments about sweaters and signs. And every once in a while there’s a moment of complete elation that’s entirely unlike any other experience in the world. I’ve spent a lot of time on YouTube this long, hockey-less summer, and one of the videos I keep revisiting is this one, but I usually don’t even watch it. I just love listening to the crowd’s prayerful quiet after the face-off, then their desperation as they yell “SHOOT!” at Tim Connolly, their frustration as his shot is turned away, their pure joy as Drury scores. That, more so than the goal itself, sends chills down my spine. It’s like suddenly being thrown into the experience. (Incidentally, the guy who shot this sits about ten rows in front of the seats my dad shares with his office, so the viewing angle is pretty familiar to me.) I wish more things in life—finding the movie I want at Blockbuster, getting off of work an hour early, finally completing a year-long knitting project—could be celebrated the way they are in a hockey arena: throwing hands up in the air, screaming, grabbing complete strangers by the shoulders, shaking them, high-fiving anything that moves, and being joined by almost 19,000 other people, all doing the same thing.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #19
Family Bonding
You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I come from huge jock stock. In high school, my mom played softball and field hockey, and was head basketball cheerleader. My dad, captain and self-proclaimed best player of the football team, also played lacrosse and wrestled. My mom went on to major in physical education in college, and now teaches gym and coaches basketball at my old grade school. My dad is a physician and runs his own practice, which partially specializes in treating sports injuries. (A number of Sabres and Bills have been treated there, including Paul Gaustad after his ligament injury.) To this day, they are both incredibly active, and plan entire vacations around skiing, canoing, and hiking. Now, you would think they'd have produced at least one super-star athlete, right? No such luck. We three kids--we're not exactly immovable blobs, but we're not particularly athletic either. My sister used to collect PE credits for dance and bowling (at least until she was cut from the team), and as for me.... Well, let's just say that the celebration of Andrew Peters' goal against the Flyers last season brought back memories of my first and only goal as a member of my high school's soccer squad. My brother gets a little bit closer: Possessor of a naturally athletic build he did next to nothing to cultivate, he will captain both his football and lacrosse teams next year, though I'm pretty sure that selection was based more on character than talent. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, I prefer it that way.) The point is, after they moved from northern New York state to Buffalo in 1979, my sporty parents became fast fans of the Bills and Sabres, but their kids were somewhat less than interested. Sure, sports talk was almost impossible to avoid in my house, so I inevitably picked up a few things (Lesson #1: I must unconditionally hate anyone who wears, displays, or otherwise flaunts the Miami Dolphins logo--no questions asked--or else I am not their daughter), but it wasn't a type of relationship I actively pursued with my parents and siblings.
But then hockey happened. Of course, hockey had always been happening, but in 2006 it happened in a Big Way. The Sabres were suddenly everywhere, including my backyard, family room, dinner table, and general consciousness. And no one was immune. Even my sister, who had chosen this unfortunate time to plan a road trip to LA with her best friend, did so with a Sabres flag flying from the window, and glass paint loudly expressing her love for one crooked-faced number thirty. Before she left she demanded I keep her posted on the scores and news via text message as she drove through a (literal) hockey desert. (This may seem like no big deal, but anyone who knows my sister knows it's a very. Big. Deal.) Suddenly on game days I was gluing myself to the couch between my parents, instead of wandering upstairs to listen distantly to their hooting and hollering for a few hours. And my brother was right there with me, trying to play it cool, but never passing up an opportunity to jump up and scream like a kid whenever a goal was scored. Yes, we were bandwagon jumpers of the tallest order, but we were also the best bandwagon jumpers we could possibly be. Whatever it looked like from the outside, we all genuinely loved the game. But even more, I loved loving it with my family by my side. I finally knew what all the fuss was about.
As the magic of that season faded, and the residual anger at the Hurricanes started to wear off (you know, to less than I-am-blind-to-all-else levels), I half expected us to retreat into our apathetic shells. But it didn't happen. Maybe I can chalk it up to the Sabres' bang up season, but the passion is still there, on all sides. Even through heartbreak. My sister and I consoled each other after the most recent post-season let down, and subsequent departure of, you know, those guys, saying it just wasn't meant to be, and we'd be strong and make it though. We said it until, eventually, we believed it. My brother and I, on the other hand, worked through our pain by having several empassioned arguments about whether or not Darcy Regier is an idiot. Meanwhile, my parents looked on, amused, saying things like, "You think this is bad? Imagine what the 90s were like." Yup, we're all one big, happy, sports-fan family, now. Ready to suffer and celebrate together. I love it.
You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I come from huge jock stock. In high school, my mom played softball and field hockey, and was head basketball cheerleader. My dad, captain and self-proclaimed best player of the football team, also played lacrosse and wrestled. My mom went on to major in physical education in college, and now teaches gym and coaches basketball at my old grade school. My dad is a physician and runs his own practice, which partially specializes in treating sports injuries. (A number of Sabres and Bills have been treated there, including Paul Gaustad after his ligament injury.) To this day, they are both incredibly active, and plan entire vacations around skiing, canoing, and hiking. Now, you would think they'd have produced at least one super-star athlete, right? No such luck. We three kids--we're not exactly immovable blobs, but we're not particularly athletic either. My sister used to collect PE credits for dance and bowling (at least until she was cut from the team), and as for me.... Well, let's just say that the celebration of Andrew Peters' goal against the Flyers last season brought back memories of my first and only goal as a member of my high school's soccer squad. My brother gets a little bit closer: Possessor of a naturally athletic build he did next to nothing to cultivate, he will captain both his football and lacrosse teams next year, though I'm pretty sure that selection was based more on character than talent. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, I prefer it that way.) The point is, after they moved from northern New York state to Buffalo in 1979, my sporty parents became fast fans of the Bills and Sabres, but their kids were somewhat less than interested. Sure, sports talk was almost impossible to avoid in my house, so I inevitably picked up a few things (Lesson #1: I must unconditionally hate anyone who wears, displays, or otherwise flaunts the Miami Dolphins logo--no questions asked--or else I am not their daughter), but it wasn't a type of relationship I actively pursued with my parents and siblings.
But then hockey happened. Of course, hockey had always been happening, but in 2006 it happened in a Big Way. The Sabres were suddenly everywhere, including my backyard, family room, dinner table, and general consciousness. And no one was immune. Even my sister, who had chosen this unfortunate time to plan a road trip to LA with her best friend, did so with a Sabres flag flying from the window, and glass paint loudly expressing her love for one crooked-faced number thirty. Before she left she demanded I keep her posted on the scores and news via text message as she drove through a (literal) hockey desert. (This may seem like no big deal, but anyone who knows my sister knows it's a very. Big. Deal.) Suddenly on game days I was gluing myself to the couch between my parents, instead of wandering upstairs to listen distantly to their hooting and hollering for a few hours. And my brother was right there with me, trying to play it cool, but never passing up an opportunity to jump up and scream like a kid whenever a goal was scored. Yes, we were bandwagon jumpers of the tallest order, but we were also the best bandwagon jumpers we could possibly be. Whatever it looked like from the outside, we all genuinely loved the game. But even more, I loved loving it with my family by my side. I finally knew what all the fuss was about.
As the magic of that season faded, and the residual anger at the Hurricanes started to wear off (you know, to less than I-am-blind-to-all-else levels), I half expected us to retreat into our apathetic shells. But it didn't happen. Maybe I can chalk it up to the Sabres' bang up season, but the passion is still there, on all sides. Even through heartbreak. My sister and I consoled each other after the most recent post-season let down, and subsequent departure of, you know, those guys, saying it just wasn't meant to be, and we'd be strong and make it though. We said it until, eventually, we believed it. My brother and I, on the other hand, worked through our pain by having several empassioned arguments about whether or not Darcy Regier is an idiot. Meanwhile, my parents looked on, amused, saying things like, "You think this is bad? Imagine what the 90s were like." Yup, we're all one big, happy, sports-fan family, now. Ready to suffer and celebrate together. I love it.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #18
Hockey Land
My mom is a pretty nosy person. I say this with love, but she's happiest when she's in everybody's business. She turned 50 two days ago, but we had to plan her surprise party for next week (I hope she's not so nosy that she finds this blog before then), because otherwise she would have known it was coming months ago. My dad, on the other hand, is an entirely different breed. When we planned his surprise 50th last year, on the actual day, he didn't have a clue, even though there was immeasurable evidence: we snuck around, whispered behind his back, made excuses to get him out of the house so we could plan decorations and gifts. We even had random relatives showing up at our house unannounced right before we were set to "go out to dinner." But nothing was so hilariously obvious as the time when my brother accidentally blurted out "When are [Aunt and Uncle who never visit except on special occasions] coming this weekend?" no more than four feet away from my father. And yet he didn't even notice. Why? Because there was a Sabres game on. I'll never forget how everyone in the room--including my brother, who quickly realized his mistake--tensed up and turned in slow motion to face my dad, anticipating disaster, only to have him respond with: "Come on! Who was that pass to?" Eyes glued to the screen, he didn't even know anyone was speaking. Even though he's probably the smartest person I know, my dad's notorious for obsessively focusing on one thing at a time, to the almost complete exclusion of all else. But when that one thing is hockey? Forget about it. He's dead to the world until commercial break. And it's a good thing, too, otherwise we would have had a lot of explaining to do last January. Instead we all got to chuckle and say, "Oh, it's okay. Dad's in Hockey Land again."
My mom is a pretty nosy person. I say this with love, but she's happiest when she's in everybody's business. She turned 50 two days ago, but we had to plan her surprise party for next week (I hope she's not so nosy that she finds this blog before then), because otherwise she would have known it was coming months ago. My dad, on the other hand, is an entirely different breed. When we planned his surprise 50th last year, on the actual day, he didn't have a clue, even though there was immeasurable evidence: we snuck around, whispered behind his back, made excuses to get him out of the house so we could plan decorations and gifts. We even had random relatives showing up at our house unannounced right before we were set to "go out to dinner." But nothing was so hilariously obvious as the time when my brother accidentally blurted out "When are [Aunt and Uncle who never visit except on special occasions] coming this weekend?" no more than four feet away from my father. And yet he didn't even notice. Why? Because there was a Sabres game on. I'll never forget how everyone in the room--including my brother, who quickly realized his mistake--tensed up and turned in slow motion to face my dad, anticipating disaster, only to have him respond with: "Come on! Who was that pass to?" Eyes glued to the screen, he didn't even know anyone was speaking. Even though he's probably the smartest person I know, my dad's notorious for obsessively focusing on one thing at a time, to the almost complete exclusion of all else. But when that one thing is hockey? Forget about it. He's dead to the world until commercial break. And it's a good thing, too, otherwise we would have had a lot of explaining to do last January. Instead we all got to chuckle and say, "Oh, it's okay. Dad's in Hockey Land again."
Reason I Love Hockey #17
The Lingo
Two weekends ago, as I was relaxing in the middle of a canoe, gliding across the glass-like waters of Tom Thompson lake, something struck me. In a physical sense, that something was my dad's canoe paddle, which he had whacked lazily (albeit unintentionally) on my head. But in a metaphysical sense--after my dad had reacted with, "Oh no! I'm so sorry, is it a double minor?"--that something was that I really, really love hockey lingo. I love it enough that it causes me to giggle even when I've recently been smacked in the head with a wooden blade.
As a hockey fan, I have a plethora of specialized terminology at my disposal. Even the most pedestrian of sports terms (jersey, team...) have unique and exciting hockey equivalents (sweater, club...). Maybe it's the Theater Major in me, but I never thought twice about the use of "dressing room," until my boyfriend overheard one of the Sabres intermission reports and exclaimed, "What is this, a play? Don't they mean locker room?" I found myself strangely proud to declare that, no, they don't. There's something very satisfying about hockey having its own vocabulary. Even better is how so much of that vocabulary can fit deliciously into everyday conversation. I've found it can brighten any situation. Like when my dad wants to know if I'm bleeding. Or when I'm watching baseball with my mom (read: she's watching, and I just happen to be in the room) and someone hits a homer: "Uh, oh. Over the glass. Delay of game." Or when I stub my toe: "Oh no! A lower-body injury!" The possibilities are endless! I have visions of me in the future, sending my squabbling kids to their rooms by yelling, "That's it! Five for fighting! Get in the box!" (That's a good enough reason to want to have kids, right?)
This year my brother took biology from a teacher notorious for giving hockey players special treatment in his classes. He and one of his friends decided that since they don't play hockey, the best way for them to get free extra points would be to answer questions like, "On which side of the abdomen is the pancreas located?" with things like, "Gloveside!" Or explain that, "The gonads are located right above the five-hole, near the groin." Or raise their hands to say, "Mr. M, you might want to forecheck that answer. I think you mean mitosis, not meiosis." After which they would high-five each other and exclaim "Yeah! Ten points for us!" If I were their teacher, they would totally get the ten points. Hockey lingo is just that cool.
Two weekends ago, as I was relaxing in the middle of a canoe, gliding across the glass-like waters of Tom Thompson lake, something struck me. In a physical sense, that something was my dad's canoe paddle, which he had whacked lazily (albeit unintentionally) on my head. But in a metaphysical sense--after my dad had reacted with, "Oh no! I'm so sorry, is it a double minor?"--that something was that I really, really love hockey lingo. I love it enough that it causes me to giggle even when I've recently been smacked in the head with a wooden blade.
As a hockey fan, I have a plethora of specialized terminology at my disposal. Even the most pedestrian of sports terms (jersey, team...) have unique and exciting hockey equivalents (sweater, club...). Maybe it's the Theater Major in me, but I never thought twice about the use of "dressing room," until my boyfriend overheard one of the Sabres intermission reports and exclaimed, "What is this, a play? Don't they mean locker room?" I found myself strangely proud to declare that, no, they don't. There's something very satisfying about hockey having its own vocabulary. Even better is how so much of that vocabulary can fit deliciously into everyday conversation. I've found it can brighten any situation. Like when my dad wants to know if I'm bleeding. Or when I'm watching baseball with my mom (read: she's watching, and I just happen to be in the room) and someone hits a homer: "Uh, oh. Over the glass. Delay of game." Or when I stub my toe: "Oh no! A lower-body injury!" The possibilities are endless! I have visions of me in the future, sending my squabbling kids to their rooms by yelling, "That's it! Five for fighting! Get in the box!" (That's a good enough reason to want to have kids, right?)
This year my brother took biology from a teacher notorious for giving hockey players special treatment in his classes. He and one of his friends decided that since they don't play hockey, the best way for them to get free extra points would be to answer questions like, "On which side of the abdomen is the pancreas located?" with things like, "Gloveside!" Or explain that, "The gonads are located right above the five-hole, near the groin." Or raise their hands to say, "Mr. M, you might want to forecheck that answer. I think you mean mitosis, not meiosis." After which they would high-five each other and exclaim "Yeah! Ten points for us!" If I were their teacher, they would totally get the ten points. Hockey lingo is just that cool.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #16
Hockey Players
No, no, no. My (imaginary?) male audience can take their fingers out of their ears, because I promise I'm not going to start talking about "chiseled abs," or "luscious lashes." While the eye-candy is certainly, um, enjoyable, it's mainly the persona I appreciate. Swimming in the sea of overblown machismo and male divaship that is pro sports, hockey players manage to keep their heads level and their acts classy. (Well, for the most part. I mean, this is still sports, where the testosterone and adrenaline pumps go to eleven, and there are plenty of dirty players.) Respect and professionalism have always been, and hopefully will always be the hockey player's trademark. This April, while the NBA was wrestling with its young stars to get them to stop showing up for important events in baggy sports wear and cockeyed caps, my mom ran into the Rangers at the Adam's Mark hotel in Buffalo. Every last one of them was dressed in a thousands-dollar suit.
Being a hockey player means checking your ego at the door (until money gets involved). It means following a goal with a series of glove- and helmet-taps with your teammates, instead of a self-satisfied strut and some egotistical muscle-flexing. It means celebrating the goal and not the scorer. It means skating back and thanking your goaltender after every game, win or lose. It means at some point you will be held accountable--at microphone-point--for your actions, so you sure as hell better have something to say for yourself. I'm always happy to note, in post-game interviews, how quick most players are to spread the praise to their teammates, and reserve the criticism for themselves. They are most often found to be humble, earnest and articulate. (Well, in relative sports terms, of course. Usually more articulate than this Berkley grad, that's for sure. Also keep in mind that, for many of them, English is a second language. How much Russian do you know, huh?)
Best of all, being a hockey player means keeping your nose clean. There's enough sports-related action going on in the NHL, and I'm glad I don't have to deal with the anxiety of finding out who's taking what illegal performance enhancer, or who's sleeping with what underage hooker. News about doping and criminal charges is hardly in the foreground of the hockey landscape. Granted, this probably has as much to do with the NHL practice of keeping the players' private lives out of the spotlight (which is just fine by me) as it does anything else, but I can't help but believe that on a basic level, hockey players are just good-natured, down-to-earth guys. Not necessarily guys I'd want to hang out with, but guys I can at least imagine someone wanting to hang out with. And that's more than I can say for my perception of the average basketball player.
In light of this week's events with Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick, I'm infinitely glad to be a hockey fan. I mean, dealing with the fact that Chris Drury is a Ranger is bad enough. How could I possibly cope if confronted with the knowledge that he kills dogs in his spare time? I never thought I'd be thankful for guys like Chris Neil and Sean Avery, but if that's as "bad boy" as the NHL gets, we're in pretty good shape. Especially considering that for every insolent puke to be found, there's a handful of laid-back, lovable guys like Marty Biron and Brian Campbell to reset the balance.
No, no, no. My (imaginary?) male audience can take their fingers out of their ears, because I promise I'm not going to start talking about "chiseled abs," or "luscious lashes." While the eye-candy is certainly, um, enjoyable, it's mainly the persona I appreciate. Swimming in the sea of overblown machismo and male divaship that is pro sports, hockey players manage to keep their heads level and their acts classy. (Well, for the most part. I mean, this is still sports, where the testosterone and adrenaline pumps go to eleven, and there are plenty of dirty players.) Respect and professionalism have always been, and hopefully will always be the hockey player's trademark. This April, while the NBA was wrestling with its young stars to get them to stop showing up for important events in baggy sports wear and cockeyed caps, my mom ran into the Rangers at the Adam's Mark hotel in Buffalo. Every last one of them was dressed in a thousands-dollar suit.
Being a hockey player means checking your ego at the door (until money gets involved). It means following a goal with a series of glove- and helmet-taps with your teammates, instead of a self-satisfied strut and some egotistical muscle-flexing. It means celebrating the goal and not the scorer. It means skating back and thanking your goaltender after every game, win or lose. It means at some point you will be held accountable--at microphone-point--for your actions, so you sure as hell better have something to say for yourself. I'm always happy to note, in post-game interviews, how quick most players are to spread the praise to their teammates, and reserve the criticism for themselves. They are most often found to be humble, earnest and articulate. (Well, in relative sports terms, of course. Usually more articulate than this Berkley grad, that's for sure. Also keep in mind that, for many of them, English is a second language. How much Russian do you know, huh?)
Best of all, being a hockey player means keeping your nose clean. There's enough sports-related action going on in the NHL, and I'm glad I don't have to deal with the anxiety of finding out who's taking what illegal performance enhancer, or who's sleeping with what underage hooker. News about doping and criminal charges is hardly in the foreground of the hockey landscape. Granted, this probably has as much to do with the NHL practice of keeping the players' private lives out of the spotlight (which is just fine by me) as it does anything else, but I can't help but believe that on a basic level, hockey players are just good-natured, down-to-earth guys. Not necessarily guys I'd want to hang out with, but guys I can at least imagine someone wanting to hang out with. And that's more than I can say for my perception of the average basketball player.
In light of this week's events with Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick, I'm infinitely glad to be a hockey fan. I mean, dealing with the fact that Chris Drury is a Ranger is bad enough. How could I possibly cope if confronted with the knowledge that he kills dogs in his spare time? I never thought I'd be thankful for guys like Chris Neil and Sean Avery, but if that's as "bad boy" as the NHL gets, we're in pretty good shape. Especially considering that for every insolent puke to be found, there's a handful of laid-back, lovable guys like Marty Biron and Brian Campbell to reset the balance.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #15
Playoff Beards
A good playoff beard is a hockey player's greatest weapon. It can be at once wild-man crazy, and fuzzy-bunny cuddly, simultaneously intimidating to opponents, and endearing to fans. In the Stanley Cup playoffs, a commitment to facial hair is tantamount to a commitment to winning, and it separates the men from the boys in a literal, hormonal sense. While I know there's some dispute about whether or not the best team won the 2007 Cup (mostly from embittered fans of the teams the Ducks left maimed and bloodied along their road to victory), I don't think anyone can claim that Scott Niedermayer's beard deserved anything less than a championship. And the Conn Smythe to boot! The thing was a hockey work of art, an entity in and of itself. To blatantly steal from some unknown internet source: if you shaved it off and put it on skates, it would go around blocking shots on its own. Thick, wizened, and completely transformative, it was everything a great playoff beard should be.
The Sabres are a notoriously weakly-bearded team--our average age is about 6-and-three-quarters (4-and-a-half if you take out Old Man Teppo), and the average beard-length is just above the point of visibility--but this off-season has seen some drastic changes in the (literal) face of the team. We've dumped our deadest-of-the-dead facial hair weight on the Flyers (you sure are paying top dollar for Danny's peach fuzz, Philly!), but unfortunately one of our strongest showers in the shun-the-clippers competition will be wearing Rangers blue next season. During the 2006 post season, a friend and I came up with the nickname "Dr-Dr-Dr-Drury!" (sung, of course, to the tune and rhythm of "Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia!") in order to commemorate the way Chris' beard seemed to spring up overnight, seemingly out of nothing but pure will (or fertilizer). I'll sure miss that nickname, but I'm confident that if guys like Goose and Soupy can step into larger roles of beard-skill and beard-leadership, we'll be just fine.
But let's not forget the other side of playoff beards: fan participation. Yes, beards are one of the oldest and most traditional of fan superstitions, and the tales of teams doomed by the clean-shaven visages in the stands haunt the annals of hockey history to this day. The rules are simple: to support your team, you must sacrifice the itch-free nature of your face; if you already sport a mustache, goatee, some hipster sideburns, or the like on a regular basis, you must shave and start from scratch; no shaving, trimming, or thinning allowed until your team has exited the running. My brother, who grows a rather impressive beard for a just-eighteen-year-old, relishes playoff time because it means he has an excuse for leaving his razor untouched, beyond, "I'm lazy." (This year, he tried to convince my dad that he shouldn't have to mow the lawn, either, since "It wants to grow it's playoff beard, too," but to no avail.) For once he's allowed to look unkempt and slobbish in public, and receives looks of awe and respect, rather than mild disdain. But the best part about fan beards isn't that they protect against the scorn of the Hockey Gods, or that they provide excuses for lax codes of personal hygiene. Most fascinatingly, facial hair is an essential tool for building a hockey community. Come April, beards are the universal, silent signal for "I'm a hockey fan," and when I see one on the kid bagging my groceries, I feel a slight twinge of regret that I am, in fact, a girl, and realizing where my loyalties lie isn't as easy as looking at my face. It's a strange tradition to feel left out of--I would never, under any other circumstances, wish to be the bearded lady--but as the Sabres went to the Eastern Conference Final this year, I was a little bit sad not to be scratching my neck along with the rest of the die-hards in Buffalo.
P.S. As I mentioned, the other day was my brother's birthday, and this T-shirt was his gift from me:
Just another reason I wish I could grow one. (Uh, that's me modeling, by the way. I don't want to start any false rumors that my brother has breasts. Not again.)
A good playoff beard is a hockey player's greatest weapon. It can be at once wild-man crazy, and fuzzy-bunny cuddly, simultaneously intimidating to opponents, and endearing to fans. In the Stanley Cup playoffs, a commitment to facial hair is tantamount to a commitment to winning, and it separates the men from the boys in a literal, hormonal sense. While I know there's some dispute about whether or not the best team won the 2007 Cup (mostly from embittered fans of the teams the Ducks left maimed and bloodied along their road to victory), I don't think anyone can claim that Scott Niedermayer's beard deserved anything less than a championship. And the Conn Smythe to boot! The thing was a hockey work of art, an entity in and of itself. To blatantly steal from some unknown internet source: if you shaved it off and put it on skates, it would go around blocking shots on its own. Thick, wizened, and completely transformative, it was everything a great playoff beard should be.
The Sabres are a notoriously weakly-bearded team--our average age is about 6-and-three-quarters (4-and-a-half if you take out Old Man Teppo), and the average beard-length is just above the point of visibility--but this off-season has seen some drastic changes in the (literal) face of the team. We've dumped our deadest-of-the-dead facial hair weight on the Flyers (you sure are paying top dollar for Danny's peach fuzz, Philly!), but unfortunately one of our strongest showers in the shun-the-clippers competition will be wearing Rangers blue next season. During the 2006 post season, a friend and I came up with the nickname "Dr-Dr-Dr-Drury!" (sung, of course, to the tune and rhythm of "Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia!") in order to commemorate the way Chris' beard seemed to spring up overnight, seemingly out of nothing but pure will (or fertilizer). I'll sure miss that nickname, but I'm confident that if guys like Goose and Soupy can step into larger roles of beard-skill and beard-leadership, we'll be just fine.
But let's not forget the other side of playoff beards: fan participation. Yes, beards are one of the oldest and most traditional of fan superstitions, and the tales of teams doomed by the clean-shaven visages in the stands haunt the annals of hockey history to this day. The rules are simple: to support your team, you must sacrifice the itch-free nature of your face; if you already sport a mustache, goatee, some hipster sideburns, or the like on a regular basis, you must shave and start from scratch; no shaving, trimming, or thinning allowed until your team has exited the running. My brother, who grows a rather impressive beard for a just-eighteen-year-old, relishes playoff time because it means he has an excuse for leaving his razor untouched, beyond, "I'm lazy." (This year, he tried to convince my dad that he shouldn't have to mow the lawn, either, since "It wants to grow it's playoff beard, too," but to no avail.) For once he's allowed to look unkempt and slobbish in public, and receives looks of awe and respect, rather than mild disdain. But the best part about fan beards isn't that they protect against the scorn of the Hockey Gods, or that they provide excuses for lax codes of personal hygiene. Most fascinatingly, facial hair is an essential tool for building a hockey community. Come April, beards are the universal, silent signal for "I'm a hockey fan," and when I see one on the kid bagging my groceries, I feel a slight twinge of regret that I am, in fact, a girl, and realizing where my loyalties lie isn't as easy as looking at my face. It's a strange tradition to feel left out of--I would never, under any other circumstances, wish to be the bearded lady--but as the Sabres went to the Eastern Conference Final this year, I was a little bit sad not to be scratching my neck along with the rest of the die-hards in Buffalo.
P.S. As I mentioned, the other day was my brother's birthday, and this T-shirt was his gift from me:
Just another reason I wish I could grow one. (Uh, that's me modeling, by the way. I don't want to start any false rumors that my brother has breasts. Not again.)
Monday, July 16, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #14
Unsung Heroes
Those show-stealers are great, but in my opinion, these guys are even better. As a true team sport, hockey can't be all about the spotlight. It has to be about teamwork, and a supporting cast. It doesn't matter how many dazzling play-makers you have, if you don't have the generally unspectacular players to back them up, your club's not going many places. I love that for every mind-boggling goal by Max Afinogenov, or set-up by Tim Connolly, there are a dozen equally important, but infinitely less exciting plays that go unnoticed. Whether it's a strong backcheck by Jochen Hecht that results in a turnover, solid positional play by Henrik Tallinder that negates a possible breakaway, or an absorbing save by Ryan Miller that makes a dangerous shot seem like it never had a chance, every game is littered with understated plays. These may not seem like game-alterers, but don't be fooled. If they don't happen, the opposition gets shots, and scoring chances, and goals. One of my favorite moments of the past post-season, was when Adam Mair forced a Ranger to cough up the puck at the red line, and then raced down the ice to be there for the tip-in. What started as an ordinary open-ice hit ended in a goal. The media may reward the superstar, but the game rewards the workhorse.
The best part is that in the NHL, players can make careers out of going unnoticed, quietly going about their business, avoiding being flashy. I know the ladies behind Interchangeable Parts--Pookie and Schnookie--are quite enamored with the Devils' Jay Pandolfo (I almost typed "Pandolfski" which just goes to show, I guess, how anonymous he is). I have to admit I don't know much about him (and really I shouldn't, considering the only time I would notice him is when he's not doing his job properly), but he seems like just the kind of player I would love, for all his unassuming hard work and contributions to his team. Sure, I may wear out my keyboard looking for YouTube clips of the greatest goals, hardest hits, and the most stupendous saves, but in the end it's the players whose value goes above and beyond their highlight reel status who always win my heart.
Those show-stealers are great, but in my opinion, these guys are even better. As a true team sport, hockey can't be all about the spotlight. It has to be about teamwork, and a supporting cast. It doesn't matter how many dazzling play-makers you have, if you don't have the generally unspectacular players to back them up, your club's not going many places. I love that for every mind-boggling goal by Max Afinogenov, or set-up by Tim Connolly, there are a dozen equally important, but infinitely less exciting plays that go unnoticed. Whether it's a strong backcheck by Jochen Hecht that results in a turnover, solid positional play by Henrik Tallinder that negates a possible breakaway, or an absorbing save by Ryan Miller that makes a dangerous shot seem like it never had a chance, every game is littered with understated plays. These may not seem like game-alterers, but don't be fooled. If they don't happen, the opposition gets shots, and scoring chances, and goals. One of my favorite moments of the past post-season, was when Adam Mair forced a Ranger to cough up the puck at the red line, and then raced down the ice to be there for the tip-in. What started as an ordinary open-ice hit ended in a goal. The media may reward the superstar, but the game rewards the workhorse.
The best part is that in the NHL, players can make careers out of going unnoticed, quietly going about their business, avoiding being flashy. I know the ladies behind Interchangeable Parts--Pookie and Schnookie--are quite enamored with the Devils' Jay Pandolfo (I almost typed "Pandolfski" which just goes to show, I guess, how anonymous he is). I have to admit I don't know much about him (and really I shouldn't, considering the only time I would notice him is when he's not doing his job properly), but he seems like just the kind of player I would love, for all his unassuming hard work and contributions to his team. Sure, I may wear out my keyboard looking for YouTube clips of the greatest goals, hardest hits, and the most stupendous saves, but in the end it's the players whose value goes above and beyond their highlight reel status who always win my heart.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #13
Heroes
I'm not talking about the Heroes of the Game: your Gretzkies, your Messiers, your Crosbies. Those guys are all well and good (well, great), but it's the other kind of heroes that are my favorites: the guys that don't have careers of outstanding success behind them, that only need a few seconds of ice time to have fans chanting their names, and wearing their sweaters for years to come. These heroes can come from anywhere, or out of nowhere. One minute they're skating innocuously up the ice, the next minute you're saying "Did you just see that? Who was that?" It was Brian Campbell, steamrolling RJ Umberger to start the playoffs off right. It was Jason Pominville, making Daniel Alfredsson look like the rookie as he sent him golfing. It was Max Afinogenov, scoring in overtime a game after he was benched. Every roster is littered with unlikely players just waiting for their moment to shine. Sure, after a couple of weeks they go off your radar again; they become just another cog in the machine. But for those few minutes they were heroes, and every time you look back on that hit, that play, that goal, you will say "Remember when so-and-so..." with reverence. In a sport whose big moments are more about the heroics than the hero, more about the play than the player, these are the perfect champions.
I'm not talking about the Heroes of the Game: your Gretzkies, your Messiers, your Crosbies. Those guys are all well and good (well, great), but it's the other kind of heroes that are my favorites: the guys that don't have careers of outstanding success behind them, that only need a few seconds of ice time to have fans chanting their names, and wearing their sweaters for years to come. These heroes can come from anywhere, or out of nowhere. One minute they're skating innocuously up the ice, the next minute you're saying "Did you just see that? Who was that?" It was Brian Campbell, steamrolling RJ Umberger to start the playoffs off right. It was Jason Pominville, making Daniel Alfredsson look like the rookie as he sent him golfing. It was Max Afinogenov, scoring in overtime a game after he was benched. Every roster is littered with unlikely players just waiting for their moment to shine. Sure, after a couple of weeks they go off your radar again; they become just another cog in the machine. But for those few minutes they were heroes, and every time you look back on that hit, that play, that goal, you will say "Remember when so-and-so..." with reverence. In a sport whose big moments are more about the heroics than the hero, more about the play than the player, these are the perfect champions.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #12
Canada
One of my most hated conversation-starters, and one that comes up way too often at college is "Where are you from?" This question sends me into a long song and dance number about Buffalo, and Western New York, and not being near NYC at all, and lots of snow, and so on and so forth. No matter how much I try to explain it, no one can quite grasp where my hometown is. So finally I just opted for the simple explanation of "It's near Canada," said with a twinge of pride. Of course, this, more often than not, elicits responses akin to "How sad for you," which only sends me into another song and dance. I love Canada. I'm a total Canada-phile. And people who try to bring Canada down based on falsified facts and assumptions are my sworn enemies. So, to these people, I list off my well-practiced reasons why my Northern Neighbor is so great. I start with the somewhat impertinent fact that they have a better view of Niagara Falls than we do, then work my way up through great Chinese food, Toronto, Tim Horton's, getting drunk at 19, the anthem, the accents, Algonquin Provincial Park, and the fact that they continued airing Clone High when no one else would, etc. etc. to the culmination, the crowning moment. Canada invented hockey, and therefore can do no wrong. Ever. Of course, most of the people who are down on Canada are similarly ignorantly down on hockey, so this usually does nothing to increase their love of either. But on rare occasions, I get a reply of "What's so great about hockey?" said with genuine inquisitiveness instead of disdain. At a cast party last semester, my routine defense of Canada lead to an hour and a half conversation about hockey, and why the Sabres rule and the Canes drool, with a non-fan from Raleigh. Even though he had no real idea of what I was talking about, it made me infinitely happy that he was not only interested in listening to me blabber (it was March, and I really needed an outlet), but he also actually agreed with me. A couple of months later I saw him again, and he told me he had tried to buy me a Hurricanes hat, "so you could burn it, or something," but unfortunately they apparently "suck so much that no one even bothers selling that stuff anymore." And thus a hockey friendship was born. Brought to me by Canada.
It's such a perfectly symbiotic relationship: I love Canada because it gave me hockey, and I love me hockey for giving me one more reason to love Canada.
One of my most hated conversation-starters, and one that comes up way too often at college is "Where are you from?" This question sends me into a long song and dance number about Buffalo, and Western New York, and not being near NYC at all, and lots of snow, and so on and so forth. No matter how much I try to explain it, no one can quite grasp where my hometown is. So finally I just opted for the simple explanation of "It's near Canada," said with a twinge of pride. Of course, this, more often than not, elicits responses akin to "How sad for you," which only sends me into another song and dance. I love Canada. I'm a total Canada-phile. And people who try to bring Canada down based on falsified facts and assumptions are my sworn enemies. So, to these people, I list off my well-practiced reasons why my Northern Neighbor is so great. I start with the somewhat impertinent fact that they have a better view of Niagara Falls than we do, then work my way up through great Chinese food, Toronto, Tim Horton's, getting drunk at 19, the anthem, the accents, Algonquin Provincial Park, and the fact that they continued airing Clone High when no one else would, etc. etc. to the culmination, the crowning moment. Canada invented hockey, and therefore can do no wrong. Ever. Of course, most of the people who are down on Canada are similarly ignorantly down on hockey, so this usually does nothing to increase their love of either. But on rare occasions, I get a reply of "What's so great about hockey?" said with genuine inquisitiveness instead of disdain. At a cast party last semester, my routine defense of Canada lead to an hour and a half conversation about hockey, and why the Sabres rule and the Canes drool, with a non-fan from Raleigh. Even though he had no real idea of what I was talking about, it made me infinitely happy that he was not only interested in listening to me blabber (it was March, and I really needed an outlet), but he also actually agreed with me. A couple of months later I saw him again, and he told me he had tried to buy me a Hurricanes hat, "so you could burn it, or something," but unfortunately they apparently "suck so much that no one even bothers selling that stuff anymore." And thus a hockey friendship was born. Brought to me by Canada.
It's such a perfectly symbiotic relationship: I love Canada because it gave me hockey, and I love me hockey for giving me one more reason to love Canada.
Reason I Love Hockey #11
The Superstitions
Now, I'm a good, superstition-fearing theater person. I do not, under any circumstances, utter the word "Macbeth" in or around a theater, and even in other settings I flinch and glance warily over my shoulder to make sure the Theater Gods aren't listening. I consider the fact that I can't whistle to be one of my greatest assets as an actress, as that also brings bad luck to the theater. Participating in the single most cursed production ever (our director needing to take medical leave a week into rehearsal, having to rebuild half the set the day after opening, and calling 911 for one of our cast members ten minutes before curtain one night were just three in a long series of unfortunate events) put the fear into me for good.
But nothing, nothing prepared me for the full-on devotion to superstition that comes with being a hardcore hockey fan. It's part of the game: there are unwritten rules, things that will make the Hockey Gods either pleased or angry, and it's our duty to figure those things out. Because without their blessing, we're cursed. There are some pretty extreme examples of hockey-fan superstition: people who don't shower or change their clothes after a win, who need to have their viewing area arranged just-so, who observe a strict code of behavior, clothing, and consumption in order to help their team. But I think every fan has at least one thing they're superstitious about, whether it's a lucky shirt or an unlucky word to mention.
Buffalo has an abundance of these types of crazies, because, let's face it--we have a lot of failures to blame ourselves for, and we're self-hating enough to do so. After Game 1 of the ECF this year, sports radio was fielding calls from people who needed to clear their consciences and admit their guilt for causing a painful Sabres loss. There was a call from a woman who had taken the night off work to watch the game, even though she knew they always won while she was working, and from a guy who was kicking himself because he met some Sens fans in a hotel lobby and actually accepted the drink they bought him. Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the car, convinced they had lost because I had worn my Sabres sweatshirt to the game. The same sweatshirt which had proven itself unlucky in the Islanders series. I hadn't heeded the warning signs, and now I was paying the price.
Sure, it can be a pain in the ass being superstitious--having to avoid food and clothing the shade of on of your opponent's colors like the plague, mentally dragging yourself over the coals when you slip up and cause a loss--but there's something to be said for feeling like you are somehow responsible for your team's fate. Truly believing that the attention paid to details which couldn't be less related to the game at hand can change the course of history. It's somewhat hubristic, but we fans are just that important.
Now, I'm a good, superstition-fearing theater person. I do not, under any circumstances, utter the word "Macbeth" in or around a theater, and even in other settings I flinch and glance warily over my shoulder to make sure the Theater Gods aren't listening. I consider the fact that I can't whistle to be one of my greatest assets as an actress, as that also brings bad luck to the theater. Participating in the single most cursed production ever (our director needing to take medical leave a week into rehearsal, having to rebuild half the set the day after opening, and calling 911 for one of our cast members ten minutes before curtain one night were just three in a long series of unfortunate events) put the fear into me for good.
But nothing, nothing prepared me for the full-on devotion to superstition that comes with being a hardcore hockey fan. It's part of the game: there are unwritten rules, things that will make the Hockey Gods either pleased or angry, and it's our duty to figure those things out. Because without their blessing, we're cursed. There are some pretty extreme examples of hockey-fan superstition: people who don't shower or change their clothes after a win, who need to have their viewing area arranged just-so, who observe a strict code of behavior, clothing, and consumption in order to help their team. But I think every fan has at least one thing they're superstitious about, whether it's a lucky shirt or an unlucky word to mention.
Buffalo has an abundance of these types of crazies, because, let's face it--we have a lot of failures to blame ourselves for, and we're self-hating enough to do so. After Game 1 of the ECF this year, sports radio was fielding calls from people who needed to clear their consciences and admit their guilt for causing a painful Sabres loss. There was a call from a woman who had taken the night off work to watch the game, even though she knew they always won while she was working, and from a guy who was kicking himself because he met some Sens fans in a hotel lobby and actually accepted the drink they bought him. Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the car, convinced they had lost because I had worn my Sabres sweatshirt to the game. The same sweatshirt which had proven itself unlucky in the Islanders series. I hadn't heeded the warning signs, and now I was paying the price.
Sure, it can be a pain in the ass being superstitious--having to avoid food and clothing the shade of on of your opponent's colors like the plague, mentally dragging yourself over the coals when you slip up and cause a loss--but there's something to be said for feeling like you are somehow responsible for your team's fate. Truly believing that the attention paid to details which couldn't be less related to the game at hand can change the course of history. It's somewhat hubristic, but we fans are just that important.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #10
The Stanley Cup
Considering the Cup just spent 24 hours in WNY a couple of days ago, and yesterday it quailed under the steely death glare of Ryan Miller, this seemed like an appropriate time to bust this reason out.
The Stanley Cup is called "the greatest prize in sports" for good reason. Not only does it take superior achievement to win (more on that later), but it also wraps up all the history and tradition of almost a century of hockey in one 35 pound chunk of metal. Hockey's champions and legends have their names engraved and immortalized on it for all eternity where the stars of today can see them and begin to dream. You just know that when Miller looked at the Cup yesterday (from a safe distance, of course), seeing names like Roy, Brodeur, Hasek, etc. carved in silver only fueled his already potent desire to win. Not to mention the name that probably stung the most--little brother Andrew Miller. The Stanley Cup is the ultimate goal of hockey on any level. Players in the minors and college, high school and bantam dream of making it to the NHL so they can hoist the silver trophy, the only true validation of success in this sport. They spend every second on the ice trying to get to the Cup, and once they do, they don't rest until they either get a second day with it, or retire trying.
Most of all, I love that the Stanley Cup is truly a player's award. Once those final post-season seconds are played and the red carpet comes out, it goes right into the hands of the winning captain. After he spends a few seconds smearing his sweat, tears, and saliva on it, he passes it to the next player in line, and then the next, until every single contributor--no matter how seemingly insignificant--has had his moment. Only then do the off-ice personnel get to touch hockey's most sacred prize. After that, the names of the champions are printed on the surface of the Cup, and each player is awarded a day of the off season to spend with his new best friend. Stanley's adventures range from dunks in the pool to grave-side visits to dispensing horse feed, and each player finds a way to make his experience as a champion unique and personal. Only in hockey. Only in hockey do players have the opportunity to have their names written down, not only in the history books, but right on the Cup for everyone to see. Only in hockey do they get to experience winning as part of a team, and being a winning individual. Only in hockey does victory have universal body-language: both hands on the Cup, the Cup over the head, the head held high.
Considering the Cup just spent 24 hours in WNY a couple of days ago, and yesterday it quailed under the steely death glare of Ryan Miller, this seemed like an appropriate time to bust this reason out.
The Stanley Cup is called "the greatest prize in sports" for good reason. Not only does it take superior achievement to win (more on that later), but it also wraps up all the history and tradition of almost a century of hockey in one 35 pound chunk of metal. Hockey's champions and legends have their names engraved and immortalized on it for all eternity where the stars of today can see them and begin to dream. You just know that when Miller looked at the Cup yesterday (from a safe distance, of course), seeing names like Roy, Brodeur, Hasek, etc. carved in silver only fueled his already potent desire to win. Not to mention the name that probably stung the most--little brother Andrew Miller. The Stanley Cup is the ultimate goal of hockey on any level. Players in the minors and college, high school and bantam dream of making it to the NHL so they can hoist the silver trophy, the only true validation of success in this sport. They spend every second on the ice trying to get to the Cup, and once they do, they don't rest until they either get a second day with it, or retire trying.
Most of all, I love that the Stanley Cup is truly a player's award. Once those final post-season seconds are played and the red carpet comes out, it goes right into the hands of the winning captain. After he spends a few seconds smearing his sweat, tears, and saliva on it, he passes it to the next player in line, and then the next, until every single contributor--no matter how seemingly insignificant--has had his moment. Only then do the off-ice personnel get to touch hockey's most sacred prize. After that, the names of the champions are printed on the surface of the Cup, and each player is awarded a day of the off season to spend with his new best friend. Stanley's adventures range from dunks in the pool to grave-side visits to dispensing horse feed, and each player finds a way to make his experience as a champion unique and personal. Only in hockey. Only in hockey do players have the opportunity to have their names written down, not only in the history books, but right on the Cup for everyone to see. Only in hockey do they get to experience winning as part of a team, and being a winning individual. Only in hockey does victory have universal body-language: both hands on the Cup, the Cup over the head, the head held high.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #9
Team Comes First
The last 48 hours have been rough ones for us Sabres fans. We’ve had our beloved co-captains snatched away by two of the Sabres’ most hated rivals: the Flyers and the Rangers. Actually, the worst part of is that they weren’t exactly snatched, were they? They went where they wanted, and what they wanted wasn't in Buffalo.
But there is good news: I still love hockey, and I still love my team.
There’s nothing like the loss of a player (or two) I adored to prove that it was really the sweater I loved more than anything. Thinking about Briere in black and orange, or Drury in blue and red breaks my heart, but it’s pretty clear-cut. They’re not Sabres anymore. Therefore, I can’t love them. If you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I would have told you that I didn’t think I’d have it in me to hate Danny or Chris, even if they went to teams I loathed. While they were still officially in the blue and gold, I thought nothing could possibly come between us. I was wrong. Okay, so I don’t exactly hate them. I still love them for all of the great moments they brought me as a fan of Buffalo, and there are certain memories I won’t be able to erase. But as far as I’m concerned, they’re not those guys anymore. Those guys were Sabres. Those newest members of the Flyers and the Rangers aren’t.
When you think about it, a sports team is a funny thing. Its identity is fluid, changeable; players come and go, administration changes, logos, names, and even locations aren’t set in stone. And yet the definition is pretty simple. Either you belong to a team, or you don’t. And, ultimately, that’s what dictates a fan’s loyalties. So, while this experience definitely sucks, it’s nice to be reminded that I really do love my team more than anything else. Chris Drury, I don’t care if you really are the same guy who scored that 7.7 goal. Without the Slug on your chest, you’re gonna be just another player.
The last 48 hours have been rough ones for us Sabres fans. We’ve had our beloved co-captains snatched away by two of the Sabres’ most hated rivals: the Flyers and the Rangers. Actually, the worst part of is that they weren’t exactly snatched, were they? They went where they wanted, and what they wanted wasn't in Buffalo.
But there is good news: I still love hockey, and I still love my team.
There’s nothing like the loss of a player (or two) I adored to prove that it was really the sweater I loved more than anything. Thinking about Briere in black and orange, or Drury in blue and red breaks my heart, but it’s pretty clear-cut. They’re not Sabres anymore. Therefore, I can’t love them. If you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I would have told you that I didn’t think I’d have it in me to hate Danny or Chris, even if they went to teams I loathed. While they were still officially in the blue and gold, I thought nothing could possibly come between us. I was wrong. Okay, so I don’t exactly hate them. I still love them for all of the great moments they brought me as a fan of Buffalo, and there are certain memories I won’t be able to erase. But as far as I’m concerned, they’re not those guys anymore. Those guys were Sabres. Those newest members of the Flyers and the Rangers aren’t.
When you think about it, a sports team is a funny thing. Its identity is fluid, changeable; players come and go, administration changes, logos, names, and even locations aren’t set in stone. And yet the definition is pretty simple. Either you belong to a team, or you don’t. And, ultimately, that’s what dictates a fan’s loyalties. So, while this experience definitely sucks, it’s nice to be reminded that I really do love my team more than anything else. Chris Drury, I don’t care if you really are the same guy who scored that 7.7 goal. Without the Slug on your chest, you’re gonna be just another player.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #8
B. Tom Golisano
I planned on including him even before I recapped this week's Game to Remember, but his "recent" appearance in the broadcast booth convinced me to bump him up a few numbers (not that there's any rhyme or reason to the order, here). What is there to say about B. Tom? Well, the man's a bonafide hero.
In the summer of 2002, Sabres fans got to watch as John Rigas and his sons were carted away in handcuffs for committing wire fraud, and assorted other nefarious deeds. The corporation which owned the Sabres, Adelphia Communications, went bankrupt. If you think the unknown futures of our co-captains has turned Buffalo into a bundle of nerves, imagine what it was like when the entire team was at risk of leaving town. You know those unwashed crazy guys who wander around street corners muttering "The end is near" over and over? It was a lot like that. The 2002-2003 season started with the Sabres under league control, and by January they had filed Chapter 11. As the season wore on, it was looking more and more likely that the Bills were going to become the sole source of future sports heartbreak for Western New Yorkers. And then B. Tom Golisano showed up on the scene. Unlike the prospective owners who made offers before him, he declared his commitment to keeping them the Buffalo Sabres, and when he took over ownership of the team from the league, Buffalonians were hard pressed to find something to complain about. Well, for a little while at least.
B. Tom (the B stands for Blaise, so I don't blame him for going by his middle name, but B. Tom is an affectionate nickname) admits he knew nothing about hockey when he decided to buy the Sabres, but he did know a thing or two about running a business. He famously turned a company he started with a single Visa card into a multi-billion dollar corporation. So he took a look at the floundering team, and knew he could make it a success. He saw through the failures, the low attendance, and lost money, and recognized that the people of Buffalo love their hockey passionately. If he made it worth our while, we would make it worth his. And since he took over, that's exactly what's happened. He's stood by his promise to keep ticket prices low, and the fans have responded by flocking to HSBC. He grabbed a team on the brink of extinction or relocation, and in a few short years turned them into the biggest bang for your buck in American sports. Officially.
Even better, I love that owning the Sabres has turned B. Tom into an honest-to-God hockey fan. Instead of just sitting back and letting the dough roll in, he's apparently been bugging Lindy and Darcy to school him so he knows what's going on. As evidenced by his presence in the booth the other night, he watches hockey away from HSBC (though I suspect seven games in one night is a bit of an overstatement), and he's truly excited by the game in front of him. Whenever he's shown in the owner's box after a win, he's always smiling, and not just because the tickets are sold out. B. Tom, Mark Marinaccio says it best: Domo Arigato Tom Golisano.
I planned on including him even before I recapped this week's Game to Remember, but his "recent" appearance in the broadcast booth convinced me to bump him up a few numbers (not that there's any rhyme or reason to the order, here). What is there to say about B. Tom? Well, the man's a bonafide hero.
In the summer of 2002, Sabres fans got to watch as John Rigas and his sons were carted away in handcuffs for committing wire fraud, and assorted other nefarious deeds. The corporation which owned the Sabres, Adelphia Communications, went bankrupt. If you think the unknown futures of our co-captains has turned Buffalo into a bundle of nerves, imagine what it was like when the entire team was at risk of leaving town. You know those unwashed crazy guys who wander around street corners muttering "The end is near" over and over? It was a lot like that. The 2002-2003 season started with the Sabres under league control, and by January they had filed Chapter 11. As the season wore on, it was looking more and more likely that the Bills were going to become the sole source of future sports heartbreak for Western New Yorkers. And then B. Tom Golisano showed up on the scene. Unlike the prospective owners who made offers before him, he declared his commitment to keeping them the Buffalo Sabres, and when he took over ownership of the team from the league, Buffalonians were hard pressed to find something to complain about. Well, for a little while at least.
B. Tom (the B stands for Blaise, so I don't blame him for going by his middle name, but B. Tom is an affectionate nickname) admits he knew nothing about hockey when he decided to buy the Sabres, but he did know a thing or two about running a business. He famously turned a company he started with a single Visa card into a multi-billion dollar corporation. So he took a look at the floundering team, and knew he could make it a success. He saw through the failures, the low attendance, and lost money, and recognized that the people of Buffalo love their hockey passionately. If he made it worth our while, we would make it worth his. And since he took over, that's exactly what's happened. He's stood by his promise to keep ticket prices low, and the fans have responded by flocking to HSBC. He grabbed a team on the brink of extinction or relocation, and in a few short years turned them into the biggest bang for your buck in American sports. Officially.
Even better, I love that owning the Sabres has turned B. Tom into an honest-to-God hockey fan. Instead of just sitting back and letting the dough roll in, he's apparently been bugging Lindy and Darcy to school him so he knows what's going on. As evidenced by his presence in the booth the other night, he watches hockey away from HSBC (though I suspect seven games in one night is a bit of an overstatement), and he's truly excited by the game in front of him. Whenever he's shown in the owner's box after a win, he's always smiling, and not just because the tickets are sold out. B. Tom, Mark Marinaccio says it best: Domo Arigato Tom Golisano.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #7
The Canadian National Anthem
Honestly, how cool is this anthem? Not only is it stirring and beautiful, but it's also actually easy to sing. The Star Spangled Banner, whose pitch ranges from the impossibly low to the inaudibly screechy, is best left to the professionals, but O Canada sounds best when belted out by a large crowd of amateurs. And what better crowd than an arena full of hockey fans? I'm lucky: the Sabres are the only club in the league that still plays both national anthems at a game, no matter who they're playing. Standing up and following along with the Jumbotron to two anthems is a ritual, not just an added bonus whenever a Canadian team comes to town. Whenever fans from other American teams--the Rangers or the Flyers, for instance--find their way to HSBC Arena for a game, I love watching the confused looks on their faces when the spotlight finds the Canadian flag. I once even had to reassure a guy that Buffalo is, in fact, still in America. But it's not just a Buffalo thing. Thanks to hockey, O Canada finds its way to places in the US it would otherwise have no place being: Dallas, Nashville, Tampa, etc. I have to admit, I did a lot of disappointed head shaking when I heard about those fans from Pittsburgh and New Jersey who booed the Canadian anthem. Boo the Senators, guys, the anthem is untouchable. (Fortunately for them, between the Isles fans who screamed "Rangers suck!" during a moment of silence for the VT students, and the Sens fans who punched a female Sabres fan in head, they were substantially outdone on the "disrespectful fan" scale.)
Okay, I don't know if there's anyone reading this who has not had the chance to sing along with this anthem at a hockey game (hell, I don't even know if there's anyone reading this), but if there is, then you haven't lived. I suggest you amend the situation immediately.
Honestly, how cool is this anthem? Not only is it stirring and beautiful, but it's also actually easy to sing. The Star Spangled Banner, whose pitch ranges from the impossibly low to the inaudibly screechy, is best left to the professionals, but O Canada sounds best when belted out by a large crowd of amateurs. And what better crowd than an arena full of hockey fans? I'm lucky: the Sabres are the only club in the league that still plays both national anthems at a game, no matter who they're playing. Standing up and following along with the Jumbotron to two anthems is a ritual, not just an added bonus whenever a Canadian team comes to town. Whenever fans from other American teams--the Rangers or the Flyers, for instance--find their way to HSBC Arena for a game, I love watching the confused looks on their faces when the spotlight finds the Canadian flag. I once even had to reassure a guy that Buffalo is, in fact, still in America. But it's not just a Buffalo thing. Thanks to hockey, O Canada finds its way to places in the US it would otherwise have no place being: Dallas, Nashville, Tampa, etc. I have to admit, I did a lot of disappointed head shaking when I heard about those fans from Pittsburgh and New Jersey who booed the Canadian anthem. Boo the Senators, guys, the anthem is untouchable. (Fortunately for them, between the Isles fans who screamed "Rangers suck!" during a moment of silence for the VT students, and the Sens fans who punched a female Sabres fan in head, they were substantially outdone on the "disrespectful fan" scale.)
Okay, I don't know if there's anyone reading this who has not had the chance to sing along with this anthem at a hockey game (hell, I don't even know if there's anyone reading this), but if there is, then you haven't lived. I suggest you amend the situation immediately.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #6
Europeans
MLS aside (I swear, Beckham, if I have to hear about you and the Galaxy one more time, I'll hurl), the NHL is the only American sports league that European players have managed to crack into. And that makes me happy. Don't get me wrong, I love cheering for the home-grown boys as much as the next guy (uh, provided that the next guy isn't one of the idiots who was chanting "USA! USA!" during the last Sabres/Sens game), and obviously, hockey isn't anything without Canada (that Reason is coming up), but there's just something about those Euros I can't help but love. The Russians and the Czechs, the Finns and the Swedes--and I would be remiss in my duties to both my major and to Jochen Hecht if I didn't mention the Germans--each add a layer of cultural flavor to the hockey mix. Even though I've learned plenty of things from various hockey-playing Europeans (for instance, "Ales" isn't pronounced like "Alice," unless Kotalik is playing like shit and deserves to be made fun of), it's not just the ethnic education I love. It's the entire European experience. It's the interviews they give, with their near-incomprehensible accents and distinct English-as-a-second-language speech patterns. It's both their exciting, dangle-heavy style of offense, and mobile, intelligent style of defense. And it's the way their names do a Nadia-Comaneci-style uneven bars routine off the tongue. (I'm convinced "Maxim Afinogenov," with its buzzers and velars, is the most fun seven syllables can have.) Whether they're performing the perfect wraparound or explaining the cartoon ducks painted on their masks, they're entertaining to watch and entertaining to listen to, on and off the ice, and the sport of hockey just wouldn't be the same without them.
MLS aside (I swear, Beckham, if I have to hear about you and the Galaxy one more time, I'll hurl), the NHL is the only American sports league that European players have managed to crack into. And that makes me happy. Don't get me wrong, I love cheering for the home-grown boys as much as the next guy (uh, provided that the next guy isn't one of the idiots who was chanting "USA! USA!" during the last Sabres/Sens game), and obviously, hockey isn't anything without Canada (that Reason is coming up), but there's just something about those Euros I can't help but love. The Russians and the Czechs, the Finns and the Swedes--and I would be remiss in my duties to both my major and to Jochen Hecht if I didn't mention the Germans--each add a layer of cultural flavor to the hockey mix. Even though I've learned plenty of things from various hockey-playing Europeans (for instance, "Ales" isn't pronounced like "Alice," unless Kotalik is playing like shit and deserves to be made fun of), it's not just the ethnic education I love. It's the entire European experience. It's the interviews they give, with their near-incomprehensible accents and distinct English-as-a-second-language speech patterns. It's both their exciting, dangle-heavy style of offense, and mobile, intelligent style of defense. And it's the way their names do a Nadia-Comaneci-style uneven bars routine off the tongue. (I'm convinced "Maxim Afinogenov," with its buzzers and velars, is the most fun seven syllables can have.) Whether they're performing the perfect wraparound or explaining the cartoon ducks painted on their masks, they're entertaining to watch and entertaining to listen to, on and off the ice, and the sport of hockey just wouldn't be the same without them.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #5
NHL Team Logos
There's a pattern forming. Each new item I add to this list is an avenue toward other reasons to love hockey. Declaring my love for the names of the NHL teams the other day has today led me to my love for said teams' logos. For the most part, the themes of lameness and irrelevance found in the names printed on the ice continue onto the front of the sweater, and the results are delicious. As a kid, I chose my favorite sports teams based on the coolness of the uniforms (honestly, who didn't?). Even though I was drawn to the mesmerizing helmets of the St Louis Rams, I always thought hockey had the best uniforms. Instead of being banished to the side of a helmet, the logo is right there on the chest, front and center. I remember one of my first encounters with a non-Sabres logo. Some new neighbors had just moved in behind my house, and my mom took me out on the back porch to point to a red and white banner flying from the flagpole next to their front door. "The new neighbors are Detroit Red Wings fans," she said. I remember thinking to myself "That has got to be the dumbest logo I've ever seen. It has nothing to do with hockey." What I didn't know is that most of the logos in the league have nothing to do with hockey. And, what's more, once I found that out, I realized I liked it better that way. The old-school designs of such clubs as the Boston Bruins, the Montreal Canadiens, the Edmonton Oilers, and, yes I'll admit it, the Philadelphia Flyers just ooze history like nothing else. And maybe I'm biased, but the Sabres' original logo--that beautiful rebus for "Buffalo Sabres"--is nothing short of sublime. And no matter what anyone says, no matter how many Slugs are thrown our way, fans will always recognize that as the one, true logo. So, even though the NHL contains such silly logos as the Penguins' (cute, but silly), such befuddling logos as the Wild's (is that a bear head, or not?), such ugly logos as the Hurricanes' (no one will be able to convince me it doesn't look like a puck being flushed down the toilet), there's something about the simplicity of design inherent in hockey logos that I can't help but love.
There's a pattern forming. Each new item I add to this list is an avenue toward other reasons to love hockey. Declaring my love for the names of the NHL teams the other day has today led me to my love for said teams' logos. For the most part, the themes of lameness and irrelevance found in the names printed on the ice continue onto the front of the sweater, and the results are delicious. As a kid, I chose my favorite sports teams based on the coolness of the uniforms (honestly, who didn't?). Even though I was drawn to the mesmerizing helmets of the St Louis Rams, I always thought hockey had the best uniforms. Instead of being banished to the side of a helmet, the logo is right there on the chest, front and center. I remember one of my first encounters with a non-Sabres logo. Some new neighbors had just moved in behind my house, and my mom took me out on the back porch to point to a red and white banner flying from the flagpole next to their front door. "The new neighbors are Detroit Red Wings fans," she said. I remember thinking to myself "That has got to be the dumbest logo I've ever seen. It has nothing to do with hockey." What I didn't know is that most of the logos in the league have nothing to do with hockey. And, what's more, once I found that out, I realized I liked it better that way. The old-school designs of such clubs as the Boston Bruins, the Montreal Canadiens, the Edmonton Oilers, and, yes I'll admit it, the Philadelphia Flyers just ooze history like nothing else. And maybe I'm biased, but the Sabres' original logo--that beautiful rebus for "Buffalo Sabres"--is nothing short of sublime. And no matter what anyone says, no matter how many Slugs are thrown our way, fans will always recognize that as the one, true logo. So, even though the NHL contains such silly logos as the Penguins' (cute, but silly), such befuddling logos as the Wild's (is that a bear head, or not?), such ugly logos as the Hurricanes' (no one will be able to convince me it doesn't look like a puck being flushed down the toilet), there's something about the simplicity of design inherent in hockey logos that I can't help but love.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Reason I Love Hockey #4
NHL Team Names
Okay, so I live in a city whose football team is proof that there are some lame team names out there in sports (the fact that it can stand for "Boy I Love Losing Superbowls" is really it's only relevance), but no one does lame like the NHL. I mean, look at this list. The only names that seem not particularly out of place in the world of sports are the Devils, the Panthers, the Kings, and possibly the Avalanche. The rest of them range from the obviously regional: Islanders, Canadiens, Senators, Capitals. To the oddly irrelevant: Sabres, Rangers, Flyers, Blackhawks, Blue Jackets, Stars, Red Wings, Oilers, Wild, Blues. To the downright silly: Hurricanes, Flames and Lightning may sound impressive, but they have no place on the ice. NHL teams even managed to choose the least threatening, least majestic, least recognizable of animal names, the can't-go-wrong area for most sports teams. Who's afraid of a Penguin, or a Coyote, or a Duck? What the hell is a Thrasher? A Bruin? Predators? Way to be vague. Even the team logo knows there's no way for a Shark to hold a hockey stick. And I haven't even gotten to the worst of it. To top it all off, there are teams named after an ethnic slur (although wikipedia suggests the Canucks are pretty much equivalent to the Yankees), and grammatically-incorrect foliage!
Now, I know you're frantically checking the header of this post all "Didn't she say this was a reason she loves hockey?" It is! I swear! Even though the NHL managed to squish the most random and unimpressive names in all of sports into one league, I can't help but love them all for their lameness. Because they didn't give in to the pressure of re-using Lions, and Tigers, and Bears (must...resist...dumb...joke) just to sound imposing. They weren't afraid to be different and, well, lame. And as long as the team wears the name well and proudly, the lame-factor is not readily apparent and becomes unimportant. In hockey, even a duck can seem deadly. Also, it means no team is safe from name-ridicule. So if I say to a Toronto fan "No wonder everyone hates your team, you can't even spell "Leaves" right!" s/he can come back with "Yeah, well your team is named after a stupid sword, what's that all about?" To which I am only able to say "Touche," with every last bit of pun intended.
Okay, so I live in a city whose football team is proof that there are some lame team names out there in sports (the fact that it can stand for "Boy I Love Losing Superbowls" is really it's only relevance), but no one does lame like the NHL. I mean, look at this list. The only names that seem not particularly out of place in the world of sports are the Devils, the Panthers, the Kings, and possibly the Avalanche. The rest of them range from the obviously regional: Islanders, Canadiens, Senators, Capitals. To the oddly irrelevant: Sabres, Rangers, Flyers, Blackhawks, Blue Jackets, Stars, Red Wings, Oilers, Wild, Blues. To the downright silly: Hurricanes, Flames and Lightning may sound impressive, but they have no place on the ice. NHL teams even managed to choose the least threatening, least majestic, least recognizable of animal names, the can't-go-wrong area for most sports teams. Who's afraid of a Penguin, or a Coyote, or a Duck? What the hell is a Thrasher? A Bruin? Predators? Way to be vague. Even the team logo knows there's no way for a Shark to hold a hockey stick. And I haven't even gotten to the worst of it. To top it all off, there are teams named after an ethnic slur (although wikipedia suggests the Canucks are pretty much equivalent to the Yankees), and grammatically-incorrect foliage!
Now, I know you're frantically checking the header of this post all "Didn't she say this was a reason she loves hockey?" It is! I swear! Even though the NHL managed to squish the most random and unimpressive names in all of sports into one league, I can't help but love them all for their lameness. Because they didn't give in to the pressure of re-using Lions, and Tigers, and Bears (must...resist...dumb...joke) just to sound imposing. They weren't afraid to be different and, well, lame. And as long as the team wears the name well and proudly, the lame-factor is not readily apparent and becomes unimportant. In hockey, even a duck can seem deadly. Also, it means no team is safe from name-ridicule. So if I say to a Toronto fan "No wonder everyone hates your team, you can't even spell "Leaves" right!" s/he can come back with "Yeah, well your team is named after a stupid sword, what's that all about?" To which I am only able to say "Touche," with every last bit of pun intended.
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