Thursday, June 05, 2008
Finito
There you have it. One last shot of Don Cherry wearing your favorite upholstery/curtain fabric. If she were alive (and also not a fictional character), Scarlett O'Hara would be proud of Mr. Cherry's fabric utilization skills. As far as the Red Wings are concerned, fabric utilization wise, they've sewn up another Cup, #4 in the last 11 years, playing a style so reminiscent, IMHO, of the CCCP teams of the 1970's and early 1980's that I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was looking at Babcock and not Tikhonov behind the bench.
As Whisky Prajer noted, the Red Wings did deserve to win. They were a class above every other team and, on most nights, played that way through the Stanley Cup playoffs and the finals. Somehow it always seemed that, though limited to 6 players on the ice at any given moment, they skated so intelligently and swiftly that I'd swear they had 8-10 men on the ice. The waves of attacks never subsided, wearing down all opponents who skated backwards to their defensive positions, thinking they could stop the onslaught.
As Whisky Prajer noted, the Red Wings did deserve to win. They were a class above every other team and, on most nights, played that way through the Stanley Cup playoffs and the finals. Somehow it always seemed that, though limited to 6 players on the ice at any given moment, they skated so intelligently and swiftly that I'd swear they had 8-10 men on the ice. The waves of attacks never subsided, wearing down all opponents who skated backwards to their defensive positions, thinking they could stop the onslaught.
Labels: Hockey
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Hockey (Pronounced, "Haaaaacky!")
It's deep into the first round. Phlyers are up 2-1 over the Ovechkinites of DC and Ms. E. over @ The Theory of Ice has her style up to a playoff buzz.
Please notice,
"They (and no, I’m not going to tell you who ‘they’ are, my sources are confidential) tell me that this is the way playoff hockey is supposed to be, by which I assume they mean that playoff hockey is fucking weird. Fast but claustrophobic, conservative but chaotic, tidy at the core and sloppy around the edges. Imagine a ballroom dance competition being attacked by a legion of zombies; everyone frantically trying to fend of the ravenous undead with folding chairs and feather boas while simultaneously struggling not to miss a step in their foxtrot routine. This game was a lot like that, only weirder.".
Go. Read. Please. Who is this mono-lettered woman? And can she hip-check one into the boards without spilling any ink?
For her scriptures on the following, just click.
On Speed.
On Watching.
On Loyalty.
On Violence.
On Losing.
Please notice,
"They (and no, I’m not going to tell you who ‘they’ are, my sources are confidential) tell me that this is the way playoff hockey is supposed to be, by which I assume they mean that playoff hockey is fucking weird. Fast but claustrophobic, conservative but chaotic, tidy at the core and sloppy around the edges. Imagine a ballroom dance competition being attacked by a legion of zombies; everyone frantically trying to fend of the ravenous undead with folding chairs and feather boas while simultaneously struggling not to miss a step in their foxtrot routine. This game was a lot like that, only weirder.".
Go. Read. Please. Who is this mono-lettered woman? And can she hip-check one into the boards without spilling any ink?
For her scriptures on the following, just click.
On Speed.
On Watching.
On Loyalty.
On Violence.
On Losing.
Labels: Hockey
Friday, October 12, 2007
Hockey is Not War....
..and that's where the problem lies.
"Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else.
Let’s pretend its 3:17 AM on a Tuesday, and we’re sitting in a bar. Not a club or anything fancy, just a very ordinary neighborhood tavern type thing (if your neighborhood bar isn’t open at 3:17 AM on Tuesdays, you live in the wrong neighborhood). Let’s pretend we’ve been drinking quite a bit for quite a while and chatting drunken-style about all sorts of things. Maybe I serenaded you with my very moving version of Rex’s Blues, and you were (being drunk) appropriately appreciative. Now it’s very late and things are getting pretty quiet and we’re not in Montreal because I’m smoking and staring at the smoke in that vaguely perplexed way that drunk people tend to stare at cigarette smoke. And after a longish silence, in which you were beginning to think about heading home, I say the following:
Sometimes…
[Pause. Deep breath.]
Sometimes I think that watching hockey makes me a bad person."
So, Ms. E over at A Theory of Ice begins her entry, On Watching. I've effused about her site quite a few times. This last entry seems to be something she's been working her way through for a while. Over 5,500 words, just short of 11 single-spaced pages. It's about hockey like Catch-22 is about planes. Print it out, mark it up, read it through multiple times.
Another bite:
"But all watching is a sort of vampirism. It’s all about appropriating the qualities of the game for ourselves. For some people it’s vicarious macho, for others it’s vicarious speed, vicarious anger, vicarious triumph, vicarious courage, vicarious endurance. In some sense being a hockey fan is similar to any other form of the symbolic consumption which is so characteristic of contemporary capitalist society- those qualities which we feel lacking in ourselves we seek in something external. Buying a sexy sportscar to feel young, or a hybrid to feel socially responsible. Getting a tattoo to feel cool. We are all very conscious of what our tastes and our choices say about us, we define other people often by what they like to watch, and define ourselves similarly."
and, finally:
"If hockey were war, it would in fact, be war, and if that’s what you really want, you know, we already have that and I’m very sure that a good many governments would be just thrilled if you wanted to go take a closer look. The whole reason that hockey is hockey is that it is not war, neither is it gladiatorial combat, or murder, or Fight Club. It’s not ultimate fighting, boxing, or (American) football. For that matter, it’s not basketball, baseball, figure skating, or dwarf bowling. It’s hockey, and it is different from all those things. So don’t tell me that hockey is violent because it’s battle. It’s not. Battle is battle and hockey is hockey, and metaphor is an art that points obliquely at truth but is not truth itself."
She makes me nervous and itchy with how well she writes about hockey. Seriously, has anyone out there come across someone else who comes even close? And it's not just this linked piece; it's all of her stuff. She is the Roger Angell of hockey.
"Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else.
Let’s pretend its 3:17 AM on a Tuesday, and we’re sitting in a bar. Not a club or anything fancy, just a very ordinary neighborhood tavern type thing (if your neighborhood bar isn’t open at 3:17 AM on Tuesdays, you live in the wrong neighborhood). Let’s pretend we’ve been drinking quite a bit for quite a while and chatting drunken-style about all sorts of things. Maybe I serenaded you with my very moving version of Rex’s Blues, and you were (being drunk) appropriately appreciative. Now it’s very late and things are getting pretty quiet and we’re not in Montreal because I’m smoking and staring at the smoke in that vaguely perplexed way that drunk people tend to stare at cigarette smoke. And after a longish silence, in which you were beginning to think about heading home, I say the following:
Sometimes…
[Pause. Deep breath.]
Sometimes I think that watching hockey makes me a bad person."
So, Ms. E over at A Theory of Ice begins her entry, On Watching. I've effused about her site quite a few times. This last entry seems to be something she's been working her way through for a while. Over 5,500 words, just short of 11 single-spaced pages. It's about hockey like Catch-22 is about planes. Print it out, mark it up, read it through multiple times.
Another bite:
"But all watching is a sort of vampirism. It’s all about appropriating the qualities of the game for ourselves. For some people it’s vicarious macho, for others it’s vicarious speed, vicarious anger, vicarious triumph, vicarious courage, vicarious endurance. In some sense being a hockey fan is similar to any other form of the symbolic consumption which is so characteristic of contemporary capitalist society- those qualities which we feel lacking in ourselves we seek in something external. Buying a sexy sportscar to feel young, or a hybrid to feel socially responsible. Getting a tattoo to feel cool. We are all very conscious of what our tastes and our choices say about us, we define other people often by what they like to watch, and define ourselves similarly."
and, finally:
"If hockey were war, it would in fact, be war, and if that’s what you really want, you know, we already have that and I’m very sure that a good many governments would be just thrilled if you wanted to go take a closer look. The whole reason that hockey is hockey is that it is not war, neither is it gladiatorial combat, or murder, or Fight Club. It’s not ultimate fighting, boxing, or (American) football. For that matter, it’s not basketball, baseball, figure skating, or dwarf bowling. It’s hockey, and it is different from all those things. So don’t tell me that hockey is violent because it’s battle. It’s not. Battle is battle and hockey is hockey, and metaphor is an art that points obliquely at truth but is not truth itself."
She makes me nervous and itchy with how well she writes about hockey. Seriously, has anyone out there come across someone else who comes even close? And it's not just this linked piece; it's all of her stuff. She is the Roger Angell of hockey.
Labels: Blogs, Hockey, Links to Posts, Reviews, The Sporting Thing
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Gloves are Down. Gordie Goes Legal
This story is very disturbing. I mean, we're talking about the original Mr. Hockey, the inspiration for the Gordie Howe Hat Trick (Mr. Howe had over 100 of these hat tricks in his life), the only professional hockey player to ever appear in a professional game during six consecutive decades (1940s-1990s). "Gordie Howe" is my ever-loving wife's answer to any Trivial Pursuit question about hockey. And guess what? Her answer is right 50% of the time ("Wayne Gretsky" being another 50% and "Punch Imlach" the balance of 20%). I remember him checking a guy into the boards and smearing his face against the glass for a good 40 feet. Gordie was only 48 at the time. The other guy got up and, I swear, apologized to Mr. Howe for getting in his way.
Doesn't Mr. Howe's neighbor realize who Gordie Howe is? This clown should be sitting in the sin bin with Tie Domi! If Mr. Howe had only let some of his older fans know he was in a bit of a spot, I'm sure they would have paid a visit to his neighbor and straightened the matter up. That idiot was messing with a Hockey God.
Note Bene: Speaking of hockey, A Theory of Ice has already started writing about the Montreal Habitants 2007-2008 season. It's great to have her back again.
Labels: Hockey, The Sporting Thing
