Lowetide has pretty well finished his annual “Reasonable Expectations” series, and doesn’t think the Oilers look like a playoff team. On the other hand, Ender has historically maintained an optimistic perspective, and can see enough talent on this team for them to make the playoffs, and maybe even manage an upset once they get there. My problem lies in the fact that I kind of agree with both of them, or more accurately, can see where each are coming from in their respective assessments. As composed, this is a bubble team: they could certainly make it in if everything breaks their way, but the bubble is a hot competition these days, and they could plummet like a stone if things fail to click, and frankly, I don’t know what to believe. Part of this is (dis)informed by the fact that I checked out in February due to work and school, and haven’t really mustered the will to consistently give a shit since, and the rest is an admitted bit of laziness: I do enough reading and statistical analysis in my day job that I can’t be arsed to do more for the sake of a side project (though at some point, I will get around to running some stats on all that FO% vs. Pts% data that I’ve got lying around). I’ve poked my head in occasionally at LT’s and C&B, but mostly have stuck to the whole-League blogs that don’t require me to think so much.
But I decided that at some point, I should really start engaging myself with the team again, so I figured I’d take a quick peek at the standing roster and see where the question marks lie, so as to gain a better understanding of what we’re up against. For staters, I count four players who seem to have gained one-year reprieves with the firing of head coach Craig MacTavish: Dustin Penner, Robert Nilsson, Marc-Antoine Pouliot, and Rob Schremp.
Recently, the prolific Jonathan Willis posted a study suggesting that hitting actually had a negative correlation with winning, a result that seems counter-intuitive, to say the least. However, his analysis looked only at teams on the margins, the five highest- and lowest-hitting teams in each of the last nine seasons, without accounting for the twenty in the middle. The purpose of this study is to complete this analysis by examining the relationship between the hit statistic and points for all 30 teams in each of the last eight seasons. Additionally, I will look at the cumulative relationship between hits and points in the four seasons before and after the lockout, keeping the two periods segregated due to changes in play style and point awarding after the 2004-05 lockout.
A while back, Vic Ferrari said in one of Lowetide’s game-day threads (and damned if I can find it now) that he didn’t see why it was such a big deal to play goalies in back-to-back games, and that it really shouldn’t be that physically exhausting, or something to that effect. At the time, I gave some rudimentary response that covered the basics, but I wanted something a little more detailed that I could post over here and point to for future reference. After a month of procrastination and scheduling conflicts, I finally managed to get in to see my lab supervisor and muscle physiology professor, Dr. Douglas Syme of the University of Calgary, to clarify a few things and make sure I’d covered all the angles, no pun intended.
Author’s Note (March 6th, 2011): As with the previous post in this series, I went through this to make sure all the formatting was fine, and found some interesting things. Less embarrassing, thankfully, and in one case, it actually reflected exceptionally well on my hockey acumen (or I just got lucky). Either way, enjoy.
They have hockey south of the Mason-Dixon. Ice hockey!
As you may have heard, I went to Nashville last week, and stayed here. No, really, I did. The hotel itself was fantastic, but eventually, I decided to leave the hotel and go on a little tour. After that, it was off to the good ol’ hockey game.
Oh, the good ol’ hockey game is the best game you can name, and the best game you can name is the good ol’ hockey game.
A bit of background first. The Tennessee Titans are the biggest show in town, next to the Opry. This is to be expected, really, given that the NFL is the biggest thing in the United States, period, and not really overly bothersome. The fact that the Titans are the only other major-league team around does work to the Predators’ advantage, however. Gate C-4 at the Nashville Airport is a Southwest gate, and is done up with various Preds pictures and posters (many featuring the Southwest ad on the arena boards). The airport also has more Preds ads than Calgary has Flames ads and Edmonton has Oilers ads, which really surprised me. The sports bar at the hotel gives equal memorabilia space and mural space behind the bar to the Preds and Titans, and even one-ups that with a large mural of Tomas Vokoun in net for the Preds underneath the primary big-screen TV. They also have minor collages about baseball, football, boxing, and hockey, with quotes attached. While the other sports’ quotes were inspirational, hockey’s was that old Rodney Dangerfield chestnut, “I went to a fight, and a hockey game broke out.” It’s not exactly Roch Carrier (or his Vancouverite analogue), but give ‘em credit overall for trying more than, say, Dallas, which didn’t have a damned thing.
The first thing that struck me when I arrived were the various oddities outside the arena. When I get my pictures developed, I’ll try to remember to upload them, but in the meantime, imagine a giant inflatable cat with a giant inflatable pylon behind it, which kids can play on, with a giant inflatable hockey player, which the kids can’t play on, with kiosks to the side where you can get a free Predators blanket if you’d just like to sign up for the NHL MasterCard. Also of interest is the fact that the front of the arena is all transparent, so you can look inside and watch people milling about before the game. I did see radio trucks outside, as well, though I didn’t know which one was actually broadcasting the game (unless one was English and one was Spanish).
I was originally going to try to take some pictures inside, but I saw a sign that said cameras were not allowed, and some cops were going through purses with flashlights. I decided to play it safe and blow off my remaining pictures (it was a disposable camera; my digital crapped out on me). I get to the door, and no one asks to see my pockets, and worst of all, there’s people four feet inside the door snapping pics with impunity. Buggers and damn.
When I got inside, I found out that the program was free. Yes, that’s right, free. It also did not contain the sort of useless information the hefty, thirty-page, $5 Flames magazines contain. It was, I think, eight pages, and included the rules of the game, information on the organization and its various community endeavours, a few purchased ads, and the rosters in the middle. No muss, no fuss. I also got a free schedule magnet, to go with my Calgary Hitmen magnet, no doubt. The first place I went from there was The Fan Zone, the Predators’ official merchandise store. I’d never seen those Godawful third jerseys up close and personal before, and was surprised to learn that, while they’re still unforgivably ugly, they’re actually kind of soft to the touch, even more than my Habs’ vintage jersey. In the end, I determined entirely by accident that I am actually a car-flag collector (my aunt gave me a Flames one during their ’04 run, and Ender picked up a pair of Oilers flags for me during last year’s run), and bought a Preds car flag for $20. Author’s Note: Bad move, in hindsight. Should’ve gotten the jersey.
On my way into the store, I noticed the Wall of Pucks. This is a little monument dedicated to all the season-ticket holders who kept their tickets through the 2004-05 season. We kind of take for granted that the team will still be there in the morning here in Canada, when at least a half-dozen teams could have — maybe even should have — folded out of the mess that was the second lockout, including the Predators. I’m fairly certain the Predators don’t take for granted the support base they’d managed to secure over their first seven years. Another entertaining thing I saw on the concourse: a talking robot, which looked like a cross between something from Lost in Space and early Doctor Who. I wish I could find a picture of it, because it simply defied description.
Getting to my seat was a bit tricky. The higher rows of the lower bowl are mysteriously enclosed in their own box, which can only be accessed from one side. A little confusing, but it worked out okay once I realized that I needed to take the next entrance. Anyway, as I looked around me, I noticed that the lower bowl looked for all the world like a fucking Ikea. It was the same brilliant yellow with a blue trim that was only a bit darker. My seats were blue, as was the floor in part of the lower bowl. Also striking was the fact that they had raised three banners without winning a damned thing: inaugural season, first playoffs, and “7th man” award to the fans. I mean, I get that they haven’t had time to establish a winning tradition, but there’s no sense in raising superfluous banners. Won’t they look kinda silly beside the division, conference, and Stanley Cup championship banners that will one day populate the rafters?
I wonder if the Sedin twins sprang fully formed from the top of that sign?
Before the game started, a computer-generated video played of various “enemy” teams skating along one of Nashville’s rivers, smashing up the General Jackson tour boat, and generally making a mess of the place. They stop dead as they hear a low growl. A large computer-generated tiger in Predators colours leaps into action, smacks some guys around, sends some more falling through the ice, and then takes his place between the spires atop the BellSouth Tower. Out from one of the entryways comes the team mascot…Gnash. For the record, no, Matt was not involved in the naming process, though I can see how you might get that impression. Gnash is, as you’d expect, a sabre-toothed tiger furry dressed in Predators gear. He did not brandish an annoying drum at any point during the game that I can recall, which is an immediate improvement over Harvey the Hound, particularly when he’s in my section.
Hello out there, we’re on the air, it’s hockey night tonight. Tension grows, the whistle blows, and the puck goes down the ice. The goalie jumps and the players bump, and the fans all go insane. Someone roars, “Bobby scores!”, at the good ol’ hockey game.
The game begins. Pretty good pace, and fairly physical, to boot. During the first TV time-out, the Predators have their own promotion for moving some poor schmuck from cruddy seats up near the top to much nicer seats in the lower bowl. Unfortunately, theirs is called “Windex Up Against the Glass.” What’s wrong with that, you say? As the lucky winners make their way down the steps, two or three of the cheerleaders (let’s call a spade a spade, here) pranced down ahead of them and began mock-washing the glass in front of their seats. I could tell by the looks on their faces that even they thought this was the dumbest thing on skates since the last novelty jersey night in the minors. I would have been more sympathetic, but really, they were getting paid to be there.
The scoreboard also provided some unintentional comic relief in the form of “Fang Fingers” (remember the San Jose Sharks “chomp?”), the mascot playing the drums to “We Will Rock You” giant-size on the arena and skyline, numerous classic movie clips to introduce various events, and even another CG predator animation. I spent most of the first period laughing myself sick over all the wonderfully silly things to see around the place.
Ph34r my Fang Fingers!
And now for some highlights:
First Goal: The guy behind me saw Scott Hartnell break into the zone and was yelling “Pass it to Kariya!” My immediate observation is that he was nowhere near open. Instead, Hartnell passes it off to Arnott, who sends it to a streaking Kariya, who is now open, and deposits it into the empty side of the net.
Second Goal: I had no idea Erat actually booted it to his stick in front of the net. I thought it was just a really sweet stickhandle, and that Cujo was too stunned to pokecheck, or something. It worked, anyway. Also of note, even if Cujo’s stick had gotten the puck, it would’ve been at least a penalty shot, if not an awarded goal, because he actually threw it, according to the replay.
First Fight: Dunno how it started, since the play was moving away from them as they got going, but it was pretty good, while it lasted. Gratton and Hordichuck tuckered out way too quickly, though. If you’re not even going to dance for 30 seconds, is there much point? Come on, now. Advantage: Gratton.
Coyotes Goal: Some nice footwork to keep the puck in the zone before Sjostrom deposited a beautiful wrist shot behind Vokoun. Not much else to say about this one, though I’m wondering now who that Yandle kid is; that was his first assist. Author’s Note: We know who that Yandle kid is now, clearly.
And so ends an eventful first period, with the score 2-1 Nashville, but the balance of play not even coming close. The Predators were firmly in control of this game already, and while the scrap may have briefly sparked the Coyotes, it was clear to me that the home crowd was going to go home happy tonight. The Predators started slow. The Coyotes are just plain bad.
Author’s Note: I was more right than I could’ve imagined here. The Predators finished with the third-best record in the NHL that year, three points back of Buffalo and Detroit, with this game kicking off a 17-2-3 run after an 0-3 start; the Coyotes were a 29th-place lottery team, buoyed only by the Flyers’ improbable horribleness.
During intermission, I went and got some nachos with barbecue pork. Barbecue pork is popular in Nashville, I think, because I also found barbecue pork sandwiches at the hotel food court and near my gate at the airport. While I was in line, I heard a guy enthusiastically telling his buddy that he saw “the boxing match.” That’s hockey fer ya: two sports for the price of one. Sadly, this came at the expense of the cheerleader routine. Ah, well.
Let me also take this time to register my dismay that the Predators haven’t yet rid themselves of Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll, Part 2.” I think by now we all know the kind of man he is, and if you don’t, Google him. The short version: he’s like Graham James and David Frost, but flies halfway across the world to do his shit. His music does not belong in any arena, ever.
While we’re on the subject of music, the Preds’ goal music is, well, unusual. And totally Nashville. Specifically, the chorus of Tim McGraw’s “I Like It, I Love It” was slightly modified to include a Preds reference, and a video of Tim singing along in a Preds jersey was added along on the scoreboard. Not exactly typical, but hey, you gotta play to your audience. Speaking of playing to your audience, they actually have a live band at the arena, who plays between periods on the CMT stage above the Zamboni tunnel. I don’t like country, but I have to say, that is the awesomest idea, ever, and totally in line with the spirit of Nashville.
Second period: Where players dash with skates a-flash, the home team trails behind. But they grab the puck, and go bursting up, and they’re down across the line. They storm the crease like bumblebees, they travel like a burning flame. You see them slide the puck inside, it’s a 1-1 hockey game.
Third Goal: Suter deflects a Timmonen point shot behind Cujo on the PP. I’ve already begun to suspect by this point that Phoenix is done for the night. They just don’t look like a team that believes it can come back from two down, even against the winless Preds. I don’t really blame them, though, given their own record, and given that this is the first time the Preds have actually played like the Preds this year.
Fourth Goal: I gleefully announced “The rout is on!”, hoping to see things get out of hand just to find out how the fans would respond to an old-fashioned brawl. I’ve never seen one in person, either, though I know the Preds can at least give a full-line effort.
After two, the score is 4-1 Predators, and the Coyotes look like they just want to get the hell out of town. On the bench and on the ice, they look dejected and defeated, which is not something you want to see late in the second period of a game that is still well within reach. Three goals is hardly insurmountable, even at that point: just ask the Oilers.
I noticed during one of the intermissions, possibly the first, that the PA announcer gave an almost identical speech regarding “advanced safety features” preventing the puck from going into the stands as the one in Calgary. I figure the NHL just gives ‘em a script, which they (more or less) follow to the letter.
Third period (last game of the playoffs, too): Oh, take me where the hockey players face off down the rink, and the Stanley Cup is all filled up for the champs who win the drink. Now, the final flick of a hockey stick, and-a one gigantic scream. Well, the puck is in, the home team wins the good ol’ hockey game.
The Coyotes came out with a lot more jump in the third period, and actually managed to put together some decent pressure at a couple of points. But really, the third period was noteworthy for two things, neither of them goals.
Second Fight: This one gets going when Georges Laraque cleanly clobbers Darcy Hordichuk. I didn’t see this because it was along the near boards in the corner, which made it impossible to see from my angle, but I saw him struggle to his feet after the scraps started. Looking at the replay, I wonder if he got inavertantly kidney-shot; certainly, I wouldn’t think he’d be down that long if he just got hit in the ribs or hip. There was a delayed reaction, like it took everyone a sec to realize that Darcy wasn’t getting back up, then all bets were off. Seidenberg wrestled with Smithson, Roenick tangled up Weber, but left one glove on, declining to fight, and the main event became Boynton vs. Tootoo, which was a pretty decent fight (advantage: Boynton). Curiously, no one actually went after Laraque, who I’m gradually beginning to realize really doesn’t like to start fights, just accept challenges. Not very useful in an enforcer. Nashville gets an extra two, and play resumes.
Third Fight: Six and a half minutes after the first melee of the third, Dan Hamhuis lays a late hit, a good two or three seconds after the offside whistle, on Chris Gratton, and everyone gets into it again. Stunningly, Laraque again remains unpaired, which is convincing me that either (a) Gretzky is trying to turn him into a power forward, about five years too late for it to do any good (there is evidence to support this), and won’t let him, or (b) he simply won’t fight unless someone asks. Bizarre. Author’s Note: Turns out it’s the latter. And only if it’s someone in his weight class. Or something. Anyway, once again, the main event is not the original scrap, but one of the side duels, this time Morris vs. Fiddler (advantage: Morris), took centre stage. I don’t think this one’s worth an instigator, myself, since Fiddler appeared to throw the first punch, and definitely threw several more, even if none of them actually hit, which pretty much negates any instigator, but I guess the refs just saw Morris pounding the crap out of Fiddler and gave it to him anyway, which…yeah.
Little else of consequence happened thereafter. While the Coyotes clearly won all three major bouts tonight, it didn’t help them on the scoresheet (an option that can be enabled in certain modes of recent NHL 2K games). Final score, 4-1 Predators, with the home crowd happy. Yes, even with the fights. See, I don’t get why Gary Bettman is apparently trying to kill fighting in the game, but it can’t be for the sake of new markets, because this new market loved it. I can live with hockey remaining a niche sport, as long as it’s fun to watch, and this game tonight was fun to watch, period. It had a good amount of everything, and not too many penalties (only seven outside the fighting all night), and I don’t think we see enough games with that mixture of ingredients anymore, which is rather unfortunate.
Oh, the good ol’ hockey game is the best game you can name, and the best game you can name is the good ol’ hockey game.
Author’s Note (March 6th, 2011): I asked Ender to repost my two “Good Ol’ Hockey Game” articles last week, and I just went through them today to make sure all the formatting was kosher and the dead links were pruned. Along the way, I found a few unfortunate relics of…well, being 18. And not just the more indiscriminate profanity. I have made sure to call out the worst of them as loudly as possible, because it wasn’t embarrassing enough having them in there in the first place.
For months, Dad and I have been meaning to go to a hockey game–either the Calgary Hitmen or the U of C Dinos. It’s taken until now, playoff time, for us to finally get around to doing it. After some debate about which game (3 or 4) to go to, we settled on Game 4, Wednesday.
15:20 – Search TicketMaster for seats. On a whim, I check out the tickets for the lower bowl–oh, look, they’re the same price as the upper bowl for the reds, in each zone. I figure I might get a high seat in the lower bowl, but hey, it’s still better than any of my previous vantage points, all of them in the 200s, most of them the high 200s.
15:21 – Section 107…Row 2?! That can’t be right. That puts me within spitting (though sadly, not banging) distance of the glass. Fuckin’ A.
15:25 – Transaction complete. After TM fees, it’s $47 for an adult and a student admission, complete with emailed tickets. Compare this to $103 each for a Flames game–or $81/seat/game as season-ticket holders. Holy shit.
15:33 – Tickets arrive. Of course, by this time, I’ve already begun bragging around the Internet about it, so it’s a couple of hours before I get around to actually printing them off.
Wednesday
Typical school day. Went to class, ate lunch, went to another class, voted for myself, bought a shirt, came home. While waiting for the bus home, I saw a guy pull out a PSP and start playing Gretzky NHL. All I can say is: believe the hype. This is, without a doubt, the slickest-looking handheld ever created, from both the graphical and exterior point of view–and I was looking at one of the lamest launch titles on the platform, so I can only imagine how something like Wipeout Pure or Lumines looks up close and personal, to say nothing of how games will look when developers actually start pushing the PSP. Bottom line: Nintendo is fucked if they don’t announce something a lot more substantial than some Touch Touch Revolution shit at E3.
Author’s Note: Reading this again six years later…holy hell, was I ever wrong.
17:20 – Leave the house. Almost forget my tickets despite being reminded three times in about five minutes. Oh, yeah, we’re off to a grand start. And Dad won’t let me drive. Bugger.
17:29 – Arrive at Whitehorn station. There’s a train waiting right there. Sweet.
17:30 – Or…no, it’s not. Damn.
17:33 – After debating for about a minute about which side of the train we want to be on, we realize that it doesn’t mean a damn thing, and go with the lazy route and stay where we are. Board the train.
17:37 – Um…where are all the hockey fans? With most of the ‘Dome expected to be filled, you’d think there’d be more than two guys debating something about Yzerman and Fedorov.
17:40 – Oh, here’s a guy in a Flames hat. I…guess that’s something?
17:42 – That lasted long. Hat boy is gone. In his place, there’s a chick in a black Hitmen jersey. I’d say I came out ahead on that trade.
17:52 – Downtown. As we approach Olympic Plaza, we see a cop looking through some paperwork with a guy in cuffs standing on the sidewalk beside him. As my mom would say, someone got his pee-pee slapped.
17:54 – Um…Dad? Are you sure jaywalking on a red light is such a good idea? Dad? Fucksake.
17:57 – We arrive at Victoria Park station. There’s a few guys in Hitmen hats and jerseys, suggesting that this is, in fact, the right night. Good, I was starting to get worried. The scalpers and their potential clients aid this impression, although I have to ask–the fuck would you need to want look for a scalper for a junior game for?! Maybe someone was expecting a sellout. Poor bastard; the actual attendance: the two of us, plus 17,037 friends–amazing for a junior game, but definitely not a sellout.
17:59 – I always enjoy looking at the old Stampede posters on the walk to the ‘Dome; must be the historian im me. You know, I had an opportunity to procure some articles on Germany’s military buildup in the 1930s at an auction four years ago, but I pussied out. Stupid, I know. Oh, and they’re looking for 1922, 1926, and 1930 posters, so if you know anything about that, give the Stampede Foundation a jingle; they’d love to hear from you.
18:00 – As we enter the outdoor walkway from the Stampede Corral to the Saddledome itself, we can hear sports radio and the bass thump of music from the arena sound system. Molson really needs to update their overhead ads–they’re six years, a uniform change, and one massive Stanley Cup run out of date.
18:06 – Mother of Christ, are these concessions expensive. The name-brand joints are no better, since everything is arena-inflated. Good thing I’m not paying for goodies…
18:13 – Hit the seats. There’s metal floors here–whoever heard of metal floors at an arena? Then again, whoever heard of $3.25 small Cokes? In other news, we can see the Hitmen defensive end really nicely from here, including the Dodge Ram face-off dots. Wait…Dodge Ram face-off dots?! Goddamnit, isn’t it bad enough these companies buy away the right to name an arena something classy–now we can’t even have red face-off dots? Aye yi yi.
18:20 – Is it a law that programs must contain no useful information? Fortunately, as with most things, it’s a lot cheaper than an NHL game, so I can’t bitch too much. On the other hand, I can bitch mightily about the noisemakers. Guys, it’s 45 minutes ’til puck-drop. Save it for the game.
18:26 – Players! The crowd (all 3000 that have showed up this early) is adequately appreciative. They warm up for a few minutes and then return to their dressing room, at which point I decide to hit the can.
18:40 – On my way back to my seat, I see a guy in a Flames jersey. I wonder if anyone’s told him yet that the season was cancelled six weeks ago? Should I break the news to him myself?
18:41 – I join the ranks of the obnoxious and pick up a couple of (free) pairs of thunder sticks. I blow.
18:44 – Zamboni! The kids in front of me bang the glass with their thundersticks. Guys, they make more noise when you bang them together. That’s kinda what they’re for.
18:53 – Hooters sponsors a shuttle to Hitmen games? I’m not sure if that’s ironic or not.
18:55 – The Hitmen’s mascot is…Farley the Fox? Oh…kay. Someone behind me calls him a “weasel.” Heh. I’m so calling him the Weasel for the rest of the night.
18:56 – Lights, metal, Hitmen…montage. Right.
18:59 – The Weasel is headbanging. When do we start, again?
19:00 – And now we have Hitmen. The crowd is respectable now, and they show their appreciation with more gusto than before.
19:01 – A national anthem is one of those things, ya know? You just can’t forget the words to “O Canada.” And you always sing it loud and proud when you’re at an event like this. You just do.
19:03 – Queen wants to rock us. As I ponder the deeper implications of this, and scribble down the events of the past three minutes, the puck drops.
The Game
Instead of noting times on my observations, I just made point-form notes on what I saw and thought. As I got increasingly engaged by the game–and as people had increasing numbers of beers–I noticed a few more things. So the first couple of periods are blank, but by the third, things pick up considerably.
1st Period:
If it’s wrong to love the unique thunk of helmet against Plexiglass, I don’t want to be right. Author’s Note: Again. Really unfortunate in hindsight.
I should add to my earlier assessment of my seats–you can see the defensive end just fine, but you can’t see the offensive end for shit. Oh, well, they were still $22.
“Try again next time!” Hee. Kids sound so cute when they try to be arrogant.
Crap. Lethbridge scored. It’s worth noting here that of the around 15,000 who are currently here, at least 3000 are Lethbridge fans, so there’s a fair bit of noise, even though the “enemy” scored.
1st Intermission:
Ooh, the officially-sanctioned hotties–a significant thing, considering North American hockey tends to lack cheerleaders. And…they’re going the other way. Damn. Author’s Note: Yeah. I was 18. We will encounter this theme again.
Look up. Waaay up. No, don’t keep discussing your relationship. Look the…there you go. Yes, wave. Okay, we’re done. As you were.
2nd Period:
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! The noise and energy is electric, far more than anything I’ve ever experienced first-hand, which immediately confirms that I was never at the Saddledome last spring. Also, I now know what at least some of the metal is for–not the metal flooring, mind you, but the loose metal sheets near the boards that rattle so nicely when you stomp them.
“Nice call, ref!” Gotta love how you hear this every time a call goes against the home team, even when it’s perfectly legitimate.
“Get a haircut!” Poor Christian. Mocked at every turn. I’d be more inclined to poke at his tiny bald spot, anyway.
2nd Intermission:
The Saddledome’s ice cream is surprisingly good. Well, good enough that I’m willing to stand in a 30-deep line to pay almost $5 for 8 oz. of it.
Speaking of lines, there’s such a thing as “excuse me,” assholes. I swear, of the fifty or so people that cut in front of me to get elsewhere, only one said “excuse me.” Reprehensible.
Oblivious JumboTron people continue. One who’s not oblivious? The original Hitman, Bret Hart himself. You know, I seem to remember him having a rather significant stake in this franchise when it was formed in 1994, hence the name. I wonder if he retained any or all of it when the Flames bought the club in 1997? (Note: No, he hasn’t.)
And it’s time for the random dude who reeks of pot. Hey, I don’t care what you think of the pot law and whether you break it–you fucking stink. That is what gets me every time.
3rd Period:
Dad offers to hold my ice cream while I sit down–and starts eating it. Gah!
“Hurry! HURRY!” I briefly wonder if watching the Brier has affected me in some way, but dismiss the notion out of hand.
Kisio gave the boys something to think about in that last intermission. They’re skating hard, and they’re actually shooting–a novelty in this game, where the shot clock reads 23-11 Lethbridge after two periods.
“Come on, boys! You’re lettin’ ‘em outwork you!” Thanks for that burst of spit, Dad. I guess he’s starting to get into the game, too.
A fan boos with the rest of the crowd over an iffy call. “Couldn’t see it, but it must’ve been bad.” Ah, hockey solidarity.
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! Pushkarev ties the game with a beaut. The fans go even wilder than last time. By this point, I’m fully into it.
During a stoppage in play, I notice the synth-organ lead-in to the traditional “Go Team Go” is “Birthday”; back in the first, they used “Kashmir”. Interesting era we live in when you hear something like that and it doesn’t seem strange to you.
Since we’re on the subject of music, the “real” music has been excellent. With a strong focus on hard rock from the likes of Trooper, AC/DC, Queen, and classic Metallica, it reminded me of nothing if not my own music collection. Huge thumbs-up to the new sound crew they hired last year.
“Oh-ho! He got lucky there! Bet he didn’t even enjoy it!” Okay, that was me. But he did. (Pogge tried to clear a puck behind the net and fanned on it, yet somehow managed to get a second shot and cleared it.)
The Weasel is doing the YMCA. Good Lord.
There’s a chip giveaway in our section. At the end, one kid gets the empty box, which he prompty tosses back at the Weasel, hitting him square in the ass. Solid gold.
Get your fingers out of your nose, Goddamnit! Can’t you see yourself?
To everyone sitting in Section 107, Rows 1-3: you rock. Everyone there was passing around one of the big-ass bags of chips to share! If only I wasn’t full!
More JumboTron people. A trio of dancers, and…the same two chicks that were up there in the first? Oh…kay. I guess they know the cameraman or something.
3rd Intermission:
I hate public cans. No matter how recently the cleaning staff has been through, they always feel dirty. Now, imagine spending six minutes in one (which would be no time at home) with a guy standing outside waiting to change your TP, and imagining there being a massive line behind him because, hey, there’s 17,039 people here tonight. There’s bound to be more than just me, ya know? So, yeah, longest six minutes of my life. Author’s Note: *sigh*
Who is that masked man? Oh, it’s just Jason. I guess even masked serial killers have to unwind once in a while.
What hockey game would be complete without at least one rendition of “The Hockey Song”? Stompin’ Tom has got to be fucking rich from the royalties. If he’s not, he should shoot his agent, resurrect him, then shoot him again.
There’s a guy in a skull mask the next aisle over. Awesome! (Note: He also appeared in Thursday’s Herald. His name is evidently Dave Gorsline.)
1st Overtime:
And the officially-sanctioned hotties are now walking right past me. I need a girlfriend if I’m actully writing this down. Author’s Note: Yes, yes, you do.
This place is crackling with energy. And the Hitmen have gotten even better. Novel concept, considering their standard MO is to collapse in the third, and choke in OT. I’m feeling really good about our chances. (Did I just say “our?” Huh.)
Fast-paced, hard-hitting, hard-working, and more than a touch of finesse: I hereby dub this “real hockey.” Pay close attention, NHL coaches and GMs; when the Bob & Gary Show is finally over, this is what I want to see, not retarded-looking nets.
“Zoooooooooooorrrrrrrrroooooooooo! Zoooooooooooorrrrrrrrroooooooooo!” Ah, another time-honoured hockey tradition–psyching the enemy goaltender by talking to him all game.
Kids Say the Darnedest Things, Part II: “Get better glasses, ref!” after a bad offside call. I was laughing too hard to tell him it was the linesman that was blind.
4th Intermission:
You could cut the tension in this place with a knife. After how dominant the Hitmen are, everyone’s getting kinda nervous that a bad bounce or call could end it all in spite of everything. Or maybe I’m projecting.
The officially-sanctioned hotties walk right past me going the other way. Yup. Need a girlfriend.
Why is it that Dad’s (formerly my) 4½-year-old beat-up cell phone can dial out of our ice-level seats, but my six-month-old, near-mint phone can’t?
You can tell this is an older JumboTron because the resolution just isn’t there–I couldn’t even read the “KEL” on the Kelowna @ Vancouver feed they showed us during intermission.
If you’ve ever wondered how America’s Funniest Home Videos has managed to survive fifteen years, here’s the secret: people getting hurt is funny. Period.
This intermission’s JumboTron people include a tired kid who suddenly wakes up as soon as he comes on-camera. Hm…
2nd Overtime:
The ‘Dome is getting sleepy, even though it’s not yet 10:30. I guess it’s true that junior hockey does attract more kids than major pro.
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL! Of course, I couldn’t fucking see it, but that doesn’t matter. The buiding erupts, awoken from its near-hibernation. Ladd from Getzlaf at 24:32 of overtime; final score: 3-2 Hitmen.
How ironic is it that Dylan Yeo–after assisting on Lethbridge’s second goal with his indecision–is still named the Hardest-Working Hitman?
Aftermath
22:57 – Well, we would be getting on a train, but they have to remove a sleeping drunk. Quips one would-be patron: “Why? So they can just let more drunks on?”
23:00 – We finally get on, and even though I was only two people behind my dad, I still manage to get no seat. Also, our area of the train smells funny, and there’s a green streak on the window. Ew.
23:02 – Some asshole on a cell phone is blocking the seat by sitting on the edge and not letting anyone join him. If he wasn’t two seats down…
23:10 – And now there’s a guy clicking his nails against his teeth, on the Whitehorn-bound train. GRRR!
23:21 – “End of line. Thank you for riding Calgary Transit.” “You’re welcome!”
23:33 – We arrive home. The night is over. Great fun, and definitely something I’d do again.
Afterthoughts
Wow. This is the second-longest thing I’ve written for this site (the four-part lockout article being #1), but it’s something I’ve enjoyed a lot, because it’s allowed me to relive the night several times in the fleshing-out of my notes. As I said above, the NHL could definitely take a few notes from the junior leagues; they play a much more blue-collar game, more reminescent of the way it used to be played, and frankly, the way it ought to be played. The game was a fantastic value, even without the overtime, it was exciting, the atmosphere was engaging…the whole experience was damn near perfect. If they could just do something about the concession prices (and the bland popcorn–it’s called salt, people), and if the first period in particular had been a little more exciting, it would have been 5/5 for sure. So if you ever feel a need to cure the hockey withdrawal symptoms, head on over to TicketMaster or the Saddledome and get yourself a couple of Hitmen tickets, because you’re not going to find a better value anytime soon, and with the second round coming, there’s at least two more chances for you to enjoy some old-time playoff hockey.
