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Pengator Musings and In-Game Scribbles

Nashville Predators vs Pittsburgh Penguins Game Six June 12, 2017

Penguins lead best-of-seven three games to two

Missed it? Musings capture the game in writing. A written transcript typed during the game, posted and edited about thirty minutes afterward.  Based on the RDS French telecast of the Montreal Canadiens game (or some anglo sourced playoff game), Musings take about 23 minutes to read. More detailed than an article, fresher than a looping highlight and good with morning coffee. Or late-night Coke.  A unique way to re-experience the game. 

 (Nashville) - Star defender Ryan Ellis remains questionable for tonight's game. Scott Oake, at rinkside, says his absence would mean a step closer for Pittsburgh to raise the Stanley Cup at Bridgestone Arena tonight.

 Subban is shown waiting for everyone to leave the ice after the warmup and he lofts a puck into the empty Pittsburgh net. Reminds me of a similar Montreal tradition that led to a pre-period fight against the Flyers.  Playoffs.  Late eighties.  Two Flyers diving out to prevent the superstitious shot, clean ice glistening. And then the fight.  

 Chico Resch, backup goalie for the Flyers, was one of those black-clad Philadelphians.

 Only a maximum of four games a year are games where the Stanley Cup might be awarded at game's end.  This season, the maximum is two.  Tonight, the Penguins could lift.  Should Nashville win (and they will), game seven on Tuesday would be the second award night.  It would almost certainly be awarded that night.  

 Hey, an OT could go on forever.  Couldn't it.  

 Outdoor Tennessee.  A band on Broadway, the sun setting.  The lead singer wears a "SMASH" hat, grey fronting, yellow lettering, and white mesh rear.  It's a country song.

 A shot of a Penguin (possibly Crob) wearing a Stanley Cup-shaped bunch of words.  Compete Level.  Chip it in. Blah, blah.  It's a nice shirt.

 It's a huge crowd, subdued for now.  Nashville faces elimination for the first time these playoffs.  They won series one 4-0 over Chicago Blackhawks.  They led 3-1 before eliminating the Blues in six.  They drowned the Ducks in six, never behind.

 Back in the arena we hear "Let's go Preds!"  

 Cherry stands, wearing a star-blotched suit, blue. White stars.  Cherry backs off on his pick.  He said that he originally picked Pens to win in six but he's gotta change his pick.  I respect the shift.  He says if Ellis plays the whole game (Ellis skated in the warm-ups) and with this crowd ... Nashville will win.

 Pens look relaxed in their hallway.  Preds look fearful, hesitant in theirs. Nerves.  Rinne is one of the last to join the team and he effects a hockey nerve and near-arrogance his teammates need to see.  

 The Preds have impressed in many ways this playoff. Passing short.  Passing long.  Quickness. Powerful pace.  But deeper than that, something we've only sensed, something we'll see demonstrated tonight, is the team's character.  

 Ellis is introduced first.  He doesn't look himself and takes a sour breath and glances askance.  But he'll play.  

 We're reminded the Cup is in the building.  

 The (fucking) Cup was in the building that dark night in 1989, too.  The only time a visiting team held the trophy aloft on Montreal ice.

 Faith Hill sings the anthem.  It has nothing to do with the game and only distracts a purist, puck professor or student of the game.  Get rid of it.  These useless intrusions in our games.  They're our games.  

 Not anybody else's.  Certainly not yours.  

 Murray has a good angle and could knock Hill down. Send a clear message.  Matt Murray.  Their goalie.  There's a fucking "honour guard".  Dishonour guard.  

 Now we must welcome Tim McGraw.  He waves two towels and the crowd appears to appreciate it.

 Broadway is jammed from end to end if the heliphotos are, um, real.

 They are.

 Pekka Rinne and Matt Murray are the goalies.  

 Rinne was pulled in an eventual 7-0 loss last game. But he's back.

 First Period Nashville 0, Pittsburgh 0

 Crob wins the draw.  They bump into one another early and the keystone komedy leads to an unwarranted Pittsburgh entry down the right.  Rinne is ready for the less-than-savage shot.

 Subban advances four feet past their blue. Murray gets a piece of it with his right pad.  

 On the other end a mild puck is stopped and held.

 The replay of the Kaper shows Josi falling for no reason.  Like a scared seven year-old. Why.

 Technology can't be-foul me.  Neither must hockey art.

 Nineteen oh eight left in the first period.

 Malkin and Fisher are drawing to Rinne's left.  

 Subban low.  

 Coffee is good, at least.  I'll be up late long past the game, anyway.  

 On a different sleep sked.

 Puck is into the Penguins zone.  

 Neither team can show their style.  Even the Pens’ languid approach appears more investigative than fearful or detached.

 The Predators must begin to breathe.  And they do.  Fisher is in their middle deep area and shoots.  It's into glass and then he turns, the puck far from him. But Josi offers a solid check.  

 The Predators’ bold cross-town passing game has been slowed or redirected by a fast-checking Penguin team that's matched the Preds' movements with, at times, intrepid commitment.  

 Preds push in.  Chance.  Gloved and retained.

 Faceoff.

 Over sixteen.  

 The puck ends up on the boards.  

 The crowd mocks in their purposeful way

 PPG Arena interior is shown; filled with Penguin fans.  It's pretty cool, yo. Seriously. In 1982, many couldn't have imagined such a thing.

 Dead catfish on the ice.  

 Six tonight according to CBC's (cute) Catfish Counter.

 They're tossed down by fans.  Florida fans tossed plastic rats onto the surface during their team's improbable run to the final in 1996 (an eventual 4-0 loss to Colorado Avalanche.  Roy's Avalanche.  The year he was traded.  Ya. Mhm.)

 I sigh.

 Subban hasn't been prominent in the finals nor has he been absent or, worse, a liability.  He's played within the system.  But he's got room to rake risk.  Perhaps he hasn't taken enough?

 I'd have to watch some of these games again (and I likely will this summer).

 Fifteen oh two.  

 Another chant.  

 Sent down.  Forsberg, a turning hash shot.  Murray is his rubber-legged self.  

 I quite like him.  

 He looks on the verge of catching pneumonia, he's bearded, scruffly, too thin and rather inelegant.  On the ice he's swift, economical, bent, low and rather seventies in his wide stance.  Pads make the man large.

 Thirteen and ten.

 Like most of the modern goalies, Murray will rest a pad on the ice while guarding a post.  It's a current notion.  I don't like it.  And I think in the coming years it will be shown to be a liability.  

 Of course, goalies are only getting bigger. And the net stays the same size. Styles are moot when size is prominent. When are they gonna increase the rink size?  

 The net size discussion is nearly a sacrosanct one.

 Banker's crumbs.  "You're richer than you think."  Condescending.  Infuriating. They're far richer than WE think.

 Shania Twain is in the rink.  Now she's shown.  We're told CBC will  speak with her later.  (I'd say "in the telecast" but this isn't a telecast.  Is it.)

 Talking to musicians during the Stanley Cup. What have we come to.

 The Cup was once held under a trusteeship. And a non-NHL team challenged for it as late as 1952.  Around that time, the trusteeship was officially turned over to the NHL.  Never should have happened.  The Cup is Canada's.  Not some league's.

 During the lockout of 2004-05, the season canceled, a group of dandies organized and suggested they could put the Cup on offer for other challengers. The league took immediate legal action to quash this.

 Leagues are good for a few things.  But they're not needed.  

 How about a rink where anyone could show up any time, 24-hour telecast, a camera on at all times.  They just suit up and things happen.  Anyone.

 Sure schedules are nice.  Websites.  

 But people – fans, would pay players, regardless. And people could organize the rest. Without these mediocre Animal Farm men of money.

 Pace increases.  Eight and forty.

 This game searches for its mood much like a game seven.  The Preds aren't sure who to be in this sixth match.  And that's unusual.  

 As I'd said, they haven't faced elimination at all this playoff (yes, I like saying that  ... 'this playoff').  And not having faced hockey death, they.... well.  May not know as a group who and how.

 And so forth.

 A Cowboy rolling around the ground (Staubach in thrall), Reggie Miller missing a whole bunch of first quarter shots against the Sixers (Finals-bound) in the first round of the NBA 00-01 playoffs and a humid Als team slowly pulling away at home against a visiting Eskimo team (Ricky Ray in his second pro start) in 2002.  These are some of the recent images ingested.  

 By me.

 And now you're all gonna pay.  I've been watching a lotta random tape and YouTube. The usual leagues.  

 CBC shows the verbal exchange between Ekholm and Hornqvist (last game).  There's hope for the world, says Hughson.  Or Simmy.  The exchange, a fight request turned down, was polite.  

 Ellis looks his usual self.  Hagelin is expunged on the hash.  Then a puck is cleared deep.  

��Blowout responses are shown.  In 2017, three six-plus losses led to wins in the next games for the losers.  But the Preds are the most tentative of each of these teams.  Ottawa.  Edmonton. Anaheim.  Each rebounded with early emotion and intensity.  

 It's worrisome.  If you're concerned about Nashville.

 Delayed call.  Pittsburgh.  Rinne leaves the net.  No chances. Puck is touched.  Nashville power.

 Jim Hughson.  “First goal could be important”.  I type and then edit some tart remarks.  I mean, c'mon.  

 Ninety seconds later, a cleared puck ends the first sequence.  Then the Preds lose it on the deep hash, left.  

 Lines change.  

 Järnkrok.  Arvidsson.

 I struggle with getting closer to the game, myself.  

The distance keeps me from staring at the screen too long, allowing the old habit of staring at the words on the laptop.  

 But I finally suck it up and stay on the main screen.  Penalty ends.

 Subban round his net.  

 Players have superstitions.  And, more comically perhaps, so do fans.  

 How can a viewer believe their coffee mug influenced a game's outcome, thousands of miles away.  Yet some do.  Guilty as charged.  It’s in my past now. 

Players, invested in intricate daily patterns encompassing meal-times, sleep-times, practice and all manner of preparation (video, nutrition, exercise) and playing as many games as they do (82 a season) can't know precisely which detail led to the win or which didn't.  Coaches break down film to show exactly why and how. But players are left with mystery. Why did the puck go in THAT time? And not THAT one.

 And so, some pay attention to details they CAN understand.  That perhaps, they CAN control.  Tie up the left skate first.  Spit out your gum before you take the ice.  Cuz the last time I did, we won.  The last time I did, I had a goal.  And so forth. Until the pattern leads to nothing. Or worse. Then the pattern is changed.

 Three and twelve.

 Clark should join me in due course.  Here in this musing station.  This fairly comfortable basement.  Clark Kent, we call him.

 Puck stays on the boards.  

 I can't believe it’s scoreless.  Penguins are waiting to lose this game.  And the Preds don't know how to take it.  This has happened before this series. Pendead hockey and Predator Hezator.  Their puma pause.

 Now they rise.  A shot.  Murray, across.  Around the boards.  Crowd the maw. Murray has it.  

 Neal saw the puck emerge off a skate on the crease lip and got too little on it.  

 Lotta tough talk from the Canadian usuals, both teams.  But when the fire is needed; ... like now ... where are they.  Where is Neal.  Where is Cullen.  

 Rinne save.  Shifted right, table-hockey style, and he stops the low slot shot next.  

 Hagelin.  

 Faceoff to his right.  Forty-five point eight.

 Entry.  Wind-up. Slapper.  And the high glove.  

 Cherry remains sharp.  How does he do it.  He's earned back a chunk of my respect these playoffs.  Like that better?  He's been fair.  He's been big-hearted.  He's been apologetic.  Both directly and in his way.

 Crob fires a "rocket" and Rinne got the glove on it.  He looks normal again. Getting pulled is part of the game.  But it's hard to manage.  Even to discuss from a distance.  At least for this scribe.

  First Intermission Nashville 0, Pittsburgh 0

 Coaching kickers.  Coaching keyboardists.  Can it be done?

 In decades past, they'd say no.  Nowadays, kickers and punters, both have position coaches.  Keyboardists? Well.  Just ride in the other bus, son.  

 PJ Stock was in line to be the next Cherry. CAN there be a next Cherry? Probably not.  CBC has personalities and people who can fill the void. They'll take it in another direction. And they should.  Stock, among others, was let go a year ago.  Stock was wearing the Cherry high collars and saying unprovable things.  He’s likeable but the schtick wore thin.  He also appeared regularly (and in galling fashion) on Reseau Des Sports (the French TSN).

 Ron asks (and leads) Don with questions about the tenor, the events.

 Cherry wishes Nashville had gotten a goal.  He adds that Pittsburgh seems loosey-goosey. Both agree.  Preds are nervous.  

 Cherry is fighting a cold, I'll guess.  He's a bit pale and clearing his throat often.  

 Earlier today or yesterday, Cherry got down to Predator practice.  

 He hands the mike around and Nashville players and coaches greet their families.  Two Finns, too.  Yup. Don is, what, showing his true colours?   Or evolving.  I'll say the former.  His irritating brand of bombast (the one we're used to) has long hidden a fine hockey mind; opinions that don't match with his public ones.

 Kids ask for specific bedtime stories.  To be read in the prescribed manner; the tones and exclamations or possible asides (footnotes, appendices) to be identical to the last reading to a well-remembered ideal reading performance.  Parents know.  And to deviate (in any way; omission, increased speed or absent accents) is to be told to repeat the passage correctly.  

 Kids choose the feelings they'll feel in this way. They'll choose, say, three books, three distinct feelings, to close out the day.  It's a prescribed experience.  And nothing wrong with it.  We do the same; a favourite song. A favourite recipe.  (A favourite taped game)

 But in watching THESE games, THESE narratives, particularly playoff narratives is a risk.  Having seen so many games (as many of us have) we know what an ideal game one feels like, looks like.  Same with game two, three and on down the line.  We know what surges and drops to expect.  

 But games and series rarely match the ideal pattern we (might) demand.  Games disappoint, bore or appall.  

 This game leaves me with an electric disdain.

 (Another catfish)

 This game isn't the three-nothing first-period jump from Nashville I expected.  And that changes what I might expect from game seven.  If there's a game seven.  It changes everything.  

 And that's as it should be.  So should I demand a retelling of the tale?

 I sigh and consider my hundreds of taped games, a collection begun in 1986, made up of CFL, NHL, NFL and NBA games.  And some boxing.

  Second Period Pittsburgh 0, Nashville 0

 Murray gloops one.  It falls.  Whistle. The puck rolls.  And it's poked in.  Crowd reacts.  Of course it won't count.  We all heard the whistle.  

 Forsberg, deep on the left, his offwing

 Wait.  Whistle was mistaken.  Should have counted.  Sissons was robbed.  

 And there's nothing they can do.  Fisher is arms spread and irate.  Fans swear at volume.  Nothing in the rules to save it.  

 We saw an early whistle in the Pens-Caps series that cost Ovechkin and company a late crease jam-session that could have led to a tying goal.  But no.

 I'd like to say "that's hockey". Or "that's sports".  But I can't.  I won't.  It's preventable.  THAT. Was preventable.

 Thaaaattt.  Is the question.  Did you like Hamlet?  My colleague Columbo hates Hamlet.  Mostly cuz Hamlet the character pisses him off.  Too hesitant or something.

 Another shot.  More booing.  Murray silts it about in his glove before handing it over.  

 I wonder if the context will prod reach the Predators.  But they're on their own. It' a rare hockey crowd that cheers or exhorts when the team needs it.  Most cheer or exhort after the team has produced something desirable.  Nashville fans, still relatively new to the game (the team entered the NHL in 1998), is still capable of original encouragement.  Surge times unique.

 They're not on offer just now.  

 So many problems with the Rogers set-up. Like Microsoft they don't have to compete.  They just protect their monopoly.  Funny that Conservative parties claim to be pro-business. Pro-competition.  They're just pro-monopoly.  Pro-collusion.  Too scared to compete legitimately in their own lives (they cheat or lean) they support the very same mediocre or worse entities in their policies. Pill-pushers.  Lard-gurglers.  

 Three and a half gone.  

 Rinne looks sharp.  His movements are Price-like tonight, ahead or flush with the play, each movement precise and no more than needed.  No panic.  Rinne isn’t a panicked goalie, typically.  He just moves like Price tonight.  

 Save.  Save. Move.  Save.  Slide. Rise.  Save.  

 Nashville two-on-one.

 Rinne has helped write the emotional texturing for his team.  

 Tripping.  Sheary. Arvidsson goes to the dressing room. To be checked.

 Preds power.  

 C'mon PK.  Then the camera shows the young fella.  He's on with Ellis on the blue, Ellis, a rightie on the left point.  

 Forsberg.  Colin Wilson. Fisher.  Unusual first trio.  

 But it's been earned (or lost; or both).

 First entry is rebuffed.  

 Hainsey interrupts.  Quick return.  Forsberg, perhaps their most dangerous shooter just sends it wide of the post, to Murray's left.  

 Another failure.  

 Now they set up.  Sissons.  Järnkrok. Neal.  Ekholm on the blue.  Ekholm has it. Poised. Twenty seconds.  They're set up for the first time in a long time.  

 But the passes aren't quick.  Nor precise.  Out of character, the team surrenders another failed power-play.

 Beards don't win playoff games.

 Hughson notes Forsberg's shot was dangerous.

 Commercial.  

 Future generations (and there should be, Kim Jong-Il or no) will disdain airbrushing and gloss.   They'll call it evil.  These faux pleasant car commercials.  [Ed note: It's Kim Jon-un, now]

 Thirteen oh two.  

 Crob.  Hagelin. Crob.  Shot.  Pad extended. Rinne is the team's heart.  When he's on, the team feels safe.  And the rest works.  How many times has the Predator squad saved Pekka Rinne these playoffs?  When he's off?  Once, maybe. I think none.  

 Twelve and twenty-six.  

 Rinne is thirty-four years old and is, at times, the best goalie in the world.  For most of these playoffs he was.  But the finals changed that.  The Penguins and their sinister backhand shots changed that.  Rinne and his unit allowed eight goals on the thirty-six first shots against after entering at about 0.935.  Since then, the Predators have fluctuated.  Good.  Tentative. Great.  Error-prone. Relaxed. Hurried.

 Prior, they were one tone.  One sound.  A grand electric symphony, fat, shimmering, patriot yellow.  Tweed country.

 Ten and fifty-five.  

 They could be again but it won't be sustained. The Penguin limousine has rolled onto their countryside.  This series will remain unique among Nashville's four chapter-sets.  

 Still scoreless.

 Malkin and Sissons to Rinne's left.  Malkin, a cursory gesture.  Into the back boards.  Penguins briefly control.  

 Where are the Penguins.

 Sissons.  A man just behind him.  We wait. We wait.  Sissons fakes and then tries the left pad.  No.  

 On the other end, long diagonal passes stretch and shrink the icy floor.  Rinne matches.  Ligament and length.  

 More Pens.  

 Munged up.  

 Five Pens return and keep the puck on the boards.

  Lines change.  Fresh birds.  

 Penguins lead on shots ten to six.  

 Crowd begins another chant.  

 Whistle.  Hand-pass. Crosby.  

 Murray got across for Sissons’ deke and shoot. Sissons was too slow.  

 Clark should be by shortly.  And possibly Mook.  

 Eight and seventeen.

 Sheary tries to get around Josi.  Around the net they go.  Sheary gets the step and keeps the puck but can't control for a shot.  

 Hughson says Crosby has it from his office as Crob views action from under the end line to Rinne's right.  That's not quite his office.  (One of his known “sweet spots” is next to the post, at their end-line, back to the boards.)

 Mookie arrives.  I let him in and set him up.  You know.  Beverage.

 Shot.  Murray. Arvidsson slams the glass in irritation.

 Mookie says the TV is high-tech.  Merci.

 Arvidsson was upset because he couldn't get enough on the puck.  Preds lead on faceoffs 20-11.  At least they've fixed that from last series.  Of course, this series' matchups are different.  I chuckle.  

 Left side entry.  Murray mops.  Some words, Kunitz and Smith.  

 Faceoff to Murray's right.  Three on two, Pens.  

 Slot chance.  Mookie says "it's a goal".  But for a leg.  

 Mookie asks me about Crosby's "tremendous game", mentioning the Kid's three assists.  I say it wasn't a tremendous game, rather Crosby had a great first eight minutes.  Maybe three, four shifts.   post. A drawn or caused penalty.  A goal.  A near goal.  And then a settling into his usual game.  

 He won't do that again this series, I say.  

 Three and thirty-six.  

 I ask Mookie if he saw the Cleveland game. He hadn't and I inform him the Cavs set an NBA Final (perhaps playoff) record with 86 first-half points.  En route to staving off a sweep.  Mookie asks if I think they can maintain this erection for the rest of the playoffs.  What.

 I ask him again.  Ya.  He said it. Hey, sports and sex don't mix. Mookie finds my churl amusing.  

 Slot.  Mookie exhorts Preds to shoot.  They do. Into bodies.  Then a long puck and whistle.  

 Mookie reminds me that the Cavs came back from 3-1 down last season.  I remind him that the personnel are different this season.  Still, I wonder.  And I really don't know.  

 Watching the Sixers and Pacers last night, I found I could follow.  The movements and patterns were predictable.  I could better understand what I was seeing. What is the change that I can't understand the game anymore? Today's game.  

 Sullivan calls timeout.  

 Pens.  On-ice din. Jerseys shimmer.  Ding.  Pinkkk! But nothing certain.  No doom.  

 Then the puck is back out.  

 Twenty seconds.  

 Pens can't prong it into their ice.  And the period winks out.

  Second Intermission Nashville 0, Pittsburgh 0

 Friedman says it should have been a goal, adding nobody feels worse about it than the ref that missed the call.  The Sissons poke-in.

 Mookie mentions that Moog was the goalie in 90 and 88 (for Bruins) when Edmonton won.  Andy Moog and Grant Fuhr was once on that same Edmonton team, two Conn Smythe-calibre goalies on the same team.  

 Mookie insists that Kelly Hrudey was once an Oiler. A backup.  In the nineties. Really?

 CBC cameras roll.  Musicians.  Interviews. Cage the Elephant.  This is a music town, alright.  

 Scott Oake is seated beside Shania Twain. She's ha a couple of beverages. “I'm so proud of our national sport in Canada!”  Hilarious.

 The earnest housewife.  It's endearing because it's Shania.  Timmins native.  Scott talks about the new single.  Shania’s eyes narrow as she expands on it. She claps and expresses delight.  

 So, a new album.  Good, good.  Shania Law.

 Respect to housewives.  If that's what they honestly wished and chose.

 If.

 The Sissons goal.  He flopped forward, stomach poke at a roller across the blue-streak crease.  And it went in.  Ref lost sight of it and whistled immediately.  Too bad.

  Third Period Pittsburgh 0, Nashville 0

 This Acer with its top-heavy monitor. Detachable.  Techward awk.

 These companies need more complex controls and regulations.  

 Mookie marvels again at the size of the crowd on Broadway.  It’s curb to curb for blocks.  

 Mookie shows off his knowledge, mentioning Winnipeg's move to Phoenix, Quebec City's to Colorado, Hartford to Carolina and others. Mookie moved to Alberta from Africa in 1984, in time for the Oilers' big Cup win over the four-in-a-row Islanders. He's been Oil since.  (He’s been a TO dude for maybe 25 years.

 The Penguins seem absent.  The Preds can't do much.  The Penguins are absent offensively only, however.  They're watching lanes and keeping the Preds from their floe.  

 Entry pass.  Stood up.  

 Kunitz with an offwing shot.  The Pens are playing a conservative brand normally seen when a team is short-handed.  And they're playing it well.  Now Yannick Weber.  Keeps past the hash.  Around the net to the other hash.  And lost. But Wilson comes up with it. Pressed against he boards.  Määttä took it away from him.  

 Shoot dat, says Mookie.  We don't just want random shots, i say with some pepper.  We want good ones.  

 Tocchet's tablet is away.  Trainer a few feet to his right, towel on his shoulder.  Good beard.  

 Preds get a shooting lane.  Left point.  Long shot. Stopped and retained. Mostly yellow in the crowd.  Not quite Sea of White.  But close.  Sea of White was Winnipeg's legendary demo.  It's not the same these days.  But we'll see. Playoff appearance may evoke the same.  We'll see.

 Wilson.  Walrus dribble from the corner.  Three Preds behind their end line.  

 Penguins are happy to eschew offensive involvement.   It's almost like a rope-a dope. Frustrate em frustrate em frustrate em. And then come out.  

 Also you're lulling them.  

 It's ugly.  

 Hainsey with a long point shot.  

 Stopped.  Held.  

 It’s effective.

 It's almost as if the Pens feel they can afford to play tied or from behind.  Well maybe not from behind.

 Post.  Crossbar. Mookie says these guys aren't getting any luck, are they.  Preds.

 Kessel is an ex-Leaf, Mookie asks.  Ya yp..  Ex-Bruin, too.  

 Four advance.  Pat the hash.  But Rinne is there.

 We return to the Preds yelling during commercial break.  Their fans.

 Thirteen and ten.  

 Ellis moves a man off the disc.  Diagonal pass.  Neal.  Left hash. Retained. Whistle.

 Faceoff to Murray's right.  

 Tinny Subdivisions tune on the organ.  Cute.

 Thirteen.  

 The old feelings come over me.  In those days, this kind of score and circumstance would mean putting away the whistles.  Määttä knocked Arvidsson over.  Mookie says it shouldn't have been called.  I saw tripping.  Replay shows Mookie is right.  

 Faceoff to Murray's right.  No matter, Sullivan is quiet.  and the Preds go to power..

 Diamond.  Two in the low slot.  Lotta bumping.  Finally Neal falls over.  Is he pretending?  Shot into the back boards.  

 Ekholm.  

 Roman Josi.  They work the umbrella.  Ekholm, a blast.  Off a body, high.  

 They move it.  Mookie exhorts, looking for a set up.  But the puck is out down the boards.  Fifty seconds.  

 PK is on.  Behind his net.  He carries it out.  

 Be the hero?  Or play the system.  

 Thirty-three.

 They dig on the boards, deep left. Daley?  What.

 Five on three.  

 Let's see.  

 Roughing.  Really, I say out loud.  

 Ok.  Stick to the face (Ellis).  Then a punch in the face.  Ok.

 There's been nothing against Preds?  No calls?  Yep, no calls against Nashville.  This game will be interesting to re-watch..  

 Thirty-two seconds; two-man advantage.  

 Phil Housley.  Shown behind the bench.  Preds assistant.  I remind Mookie of the 3-1 lead the Jets had over Oil in 1990.  He smiles with some guilt and some joy.  Edmonton came back to win the series.  They went on to win the Cup.

 Mookie asks about “the last Leaf coach”.  I nod and smile.  He means Carlyle. Mookie adds that he was the last to not wear a helmet.  Carlyle was a Jet defenceman in 1990.  [Ed note: Following Carlyle, the Leafs had a brief, horrifying period under Peter Horacek; 9-29-5 before Mike Babcock was hired for the 15-16 season.]

 Back to five on four.  

 Ten and thirty-seven.  

 Ekholm and Josi.  

 Around the back boards.  Josie advances.  Backhander dig around the right.  

 They retain.  Under a minute.  

 Cross-slot pass.  No.  Then a long shot.  Murray finds it.  How did he pick it up through all that traffic, asks Simmy.  

 Preds lead on shots seven to three.  I wonder aloud where Clark is; is he at Contender? Mookie chuckles.

 Thirty-one seconds in the power-play.  

 Offside entry.  

 I wonder what Laviolette is thinking. Saying.  

 He's got a knee up.  He exhorts.  The moment I wondered, the camera found him.  I’m as Hindu as I need to be.  

 Twelve.  

 Subban.  Left side. Lost on the hash.  Kunitz clears it.

 Nine and eleven.  

 Nashville is oh of four.  

 Twelfth time in SC final history that home team won first five games.  

 Long Predator puck.  Touched.  

 Laviolette is still talking, more red-faced.  Preds lead on faceoffs 33-16.  Crob wins it.  Powerful backhanded draw and the torqued puck eludes Crob’s defenceman on the right point.  Pens manage a quick re-entry and shot.  Rinne is adroit.

 I must believe, must accept the score. It's zero-zero.  How.    

 How many more hockey games am I going to (have to) see like this one? Enduring zero-zero is cool when you don't give a duck.   When you’re half in, half-out.  When the teams don’t matter.  When the outcome isn’t meaningful.  

 Mookie raises a fist and mentions the "kid line".  He just saw the irritating Simpleson.  He should have stayed on the ice.  Givin us nothin in the booth.

 Seven and a half.  

 I do smell overtime, tho, Mookie says as his fingers tap with nerves or impatience on one of my steel lamps.   Ting-ting-ting.

 Preds control.  

 Off the post.  High slot.  Sissons.

 Off the outside of the post to Murray's left, a one-timer.

 Six oh three.  Pass from the left point to Crob on the hash.  Timely stick.  Fisher. And the puck is up and out.  

 Could be worse.  Imagine if the Sharks had somehow snuck in here.  

 Eight catfish, now.  The catfish count graphic makes me smile.  

 Faceoff to Murray's left.  

 It's looking like one goal may be the ....

 Swings of panic as the puck crosses the low slot. My own concentration improves as I see this.  

 Where IS Clark.  

 Five and twelve.

 Clark Kent.  

 Sometimes Bruce.

 Are we going to see changes from these teams or are we going to see the same styles of hockey replicated.

 Four and thirty-one.  

 The puck remains on the boards.  Suddenly a toothy blade appears at Murray's right and nearly pots it.  

 Then it's out.  Shots are tied 27, each.

 C'mon!  I yell. Then I apologize.  

 It's too much.  

 Lemieux is shown in the upper level.  

 If that guy was healthy, he would have erased all of Gretzky's records, shares Mookie, a bit to my surprise.  

 Mookie yawns and I tell him it's not time to be tired. Under three.  

 Rinne waits on a long dribbler.  He doesn't play it with a glove.  He waits.  Then sends it along its way behind his net.  Preds carry it out.  

 Two and twenty.  

 I guess a clam-down would not have been wise.

 Kunitz.  Trying to get around Josi.  Nope.  

 It feels like a Montreal moment and I accidentally exhort, "C'mon les boys”.

 Hornqvist flukes one in.  Dropped behind Rinne’s shoulder.  From behind the end line.  Ugly. Fortunate.  Opportunistic.  

 Hockey shock on Ellis’ face.  Same as Subban.  The back board shot popped and was slapped in off Rinne's back.  

 This is why we don't like 0-0.  This is why we don't like game sevens.  Or game sixes like this one.  

 Laviolette will challenge.  But there's nothing.  Goaltender interference is what he’s looking for.  

 The Sissons non-goal looms larger.  

 Mookie says it's a waste of a challenge.  I respond that they have to do it.  

 Clark calls to say he'll be by in fifteen.

 Pittsburgh's arena is shown erupting.  

 Legal goal.  Pittsburgh 1, Nashville 0

 Ninety seconds.  

 Yeah, you have to take the goalie out, I answer Mookie.  And Rinne soon leaves.  

 Offside entry.  

 Crowd is quiet.  We can hear player voices.  

 Well.  Stranger things have happened.

 The crowd recovers.  One and ten.  

 Just score.

 If this.  If that.  

 Rinne, mostly.  

 Into Penguin ice.  

 Just at the blue.  Turned and shot.  Long Penguin puck.  

 Forty-six point four.

 Mookie messes around with my lamp.  Removes the bulb to show (and remind me) it's a black light.

 Hagelin gets free.  Scores.  Empty net.

 Somebody kisses Mario.  Looks like his mom.  But it was on the lips.  

 It's not as bad as the Flames loss.  

 Malkin is feeling joy.  

 Crosby, arms up.  

 Pittsburgh 2, Nashville 0

 A woman is red-faced and tears streaming down her cheeks.  Predator jersey.  

 It could be worse, I think, even as I fill my den with some tart phrases and thoughts.  

 I wonder if Mookie has ever heard me talk like that.  

 Long puck.  Turning shot.  Three point one.  

 Penguins win the Cup.  Predators win the trade.  

 They crowd together on the ice.  Who's Kühnhackl?   [Ed note: Tom Kühnhackl (born 21 January 1992) is a German ice hockey right winger who currently plays for the Pittsburgh Penguins of the National Hockey League (NHL); from Wikipedia.  And did you even care at that point?]

 Letang is on the ice in uniform, I think.  

 No equipment.  

 Hugs.  

 Laviolette and Sullivan shake hands.  What disparity.  

 Throughout, I think it could be much worse.  The Penguins are acceptable.  And it's easy to prove Crob wasn't the guy.  Despite whatever awards are given.  

  Final Score Pittsburgh 2 Nashville 0

 HDS Stars: Pekka Rinne, Matt Murray, Colton Sissons

 Penguins are awarded the 16-17 Stanley Cup for scoring more goals in certain games.

 They line up to shake hands.  

 Why is Letang in the handshake line?  He didn't play.  

 Did he?  [Ed note: No.  You were there.  He didn’t. Not a minute.]

 The players hold up their sticks to their fans. Clapping.  Penguins have to wait a few moments.  

 Penguins and another ugly goal.  And another undeserved win.  

 Hornqvist says it's obviously the biggest goal he'll ever score

 Sometimes the wrong team wins.  

 Guentzel deserves the Conn Smythe but they'll make sure to give it to Crob.  It'll be undeserved.  Just as last season's Conn Smythe was.

 Hornqvist is shown crying shortly after the win. Seated on the team bench, time on the clock, yet.  

 Commissioner’s carpet.  Bettman and his politics.  Booing. He commends the town, their fans. He builds up to the MVP award.  

 Crosby is given the trophy.  Conn.  And it IS a con.  The awarding of the Conn Smythe has been degraded in recent years.  In order to present Crob as "the face of the league", Bettman and company have stooped to NBA levels.  But purists tend to know this.

 Pens are first repeat champs since 98's Red Wings.

 Crob.  And his legacy.  

 It'll take years to get close to a truthful narrative for the mainstream.  But it'll happen.

 Malkin nearly falls with the Cup.  Holds on.

 Malkin was also more valuable than Crob. Murray.  

 Mark Streit carries it.

 Clark arrives.  I set him up with red.  Grapes.

 Clark says it's too bad the best team didn't win. He says he hates it when that happens.

 Clark sets up his USB stuff.  I got some music for him.

 Scott Oake says it's the most difficult trophy to win in all of sports.  This leads to den derision and a series of questions from Mookie about minutes played by player (forwards 18 mins, say; defencemen 24 mins).  Mookie cites soccer as an endurance piece.

 Sullivan holds it up.  Then Tocchet.  Then Martin.

 Is Sullivan the dumbest head coach to hold up the Stanley Cup?  Possibly. Modern times, certainly.  Lemme think on it.  

 Martin earns several loud cheers from the players for his hoist.  Better believe he's the smartest guy on the coaching staff.  

 Mookie: “Somebody should be throwing a catfish on the celebrations there.”

 Casual dress-shirted Mario Lemieux holds up the chalice.  His now-thin frame, his rich smile.  He owns 40% of the club; 25% is Ron Burkle.

 Subban is interviewed.  He's subdued and philosophical.  He says there's been tears and that's how it should be. People cared.  

 Some of what he says is mildly contrived but a lotta Canadian kids get a free pass for that.  He thinks they'll be back.

 They won't.  

 I've thought that for some time.  

 Amber interviews the real Conn Smythe winner. Guentzel is young and grateful.  

 Pittsburgh is awarded the Stanley Cup after six games.

 (This night’s musing features a mixture of Canadian and American English use.) 

[nicicles]

Two Words, One All-Star

Doug Bentley Miner Twin Frank Brimsek Mister Zero Bill Durnan Switch Leather Maurice Richard Iris Nova Syl Apps Apex Order Howie Meeker Grin Technical Don Metz Kid Three Turk Broda Blunt Bulge Gordie Howe Cold Mister Ted Lindsay Board Bale Jean Béliveau Brim Ivory Jacques Plante Stitched Plastic Glen Hall Butterfly Horror

[nicicles]

Two Inches Neat

dave looks up from the zazoo paper he crinkles coffee stirs his brow the skates pinwheel under the chopping limousine blue sky screen slides under white cough snow lungful of tobacco the blister wind cold y'know an ovie caw a red blood bucket russian screech the solo rounds a team or no mad make in a world shaped like russia

[nicicles]

Big Lake

I shouldn't have been there.   It was late.  On the ice, too.  The lake was grey with low fog.  I knew it was frozen underneath that layer.   I could hear the skates now.   I had made my way down as quietly as possible.  The smells of the northern BC night had dampened, cooled.  A dank, concrete mint smell.  The moss was slick, the normally reassuring sponginess was sinister.  As if the ground was alive.  Alive and memorizing my path to the shore.  It was a lurid sensation.   The skates weren't what drew me.  I didn't hear them til I was much closer to the shore.  It seems I was drawn by the power of the lake itself.  It wouldn't let me sleep.   The skating sounds weren't the click and hiss strides of the modern rink-goer.  These sounds were more uneven.  Small rocks and ruts under Henry Ford's steel wheels.  And though they lacked echo, these natural surface skate-thrusts had a depth of sound, a fullness that was missing from the brighter chops of a temperature-regulated arena. Rather than the mechanical oval echo of the arena, these skating sounds weren't shaped.  they were sharp audio particles and a graceful uneven grinding of old steel on a bumpy lake blunt perhaps muffled by the humidity or by my distance. There was a puck, too.   I paused.  I held my breath for long moments so I could hear when the stick would fwick or click the puck.  But it seemed as if the puck was left lonely on that forbidden surface more than it was cared for. The BC night air can creep into your cottons, through your sweater, under your cap and sheath you.  It happens slowly.  My breath was visible.  One could see it because the moon had emerged.  But I hadn't consciously registered that. I was in a wonder tunnel, my eyes, my mind fixed on the sound of what I thought was majesty on a cold lake ice surface.  I had, without realising it, crept, crawled, inched, shambled, cold-fingered and itched my slinky, moist snow way to within ten yards of the ice itself. When the moon emerged, the fog rippled.  And I could see the figure, graceful lumber, tilted toque, still obscured by the mists, still skating in the night.  The stick was a scythe.   I could see his eyes.  It was a terrible glance.  They weren't eyes.  There was nothing where his eyes should have been.   The puck moved easily. I’d read about Jean Beliveau, Bobby Hull, how they were on the ice.  Boby Orr.  That whole farm guy myth.  I knew from experience that up close, all the greats – well, even the averages – were much faster, were more skilled. You can’t see the head fakes, for one.  Not on TV.  The eye fakes.  The suggestions of movement that come from twitching equipment under a jersey. On this ice, there was only Paul and the morning sun.  And the puck made easy by Sherwood.  I watched. To stride on a large, frozen body like this one is to stride small.  The lake opens away from the shore, widens and becomes the horizon.  The sky rises like an ocean.  Most of us preferred to skate facing the shore in some way.  Not all that grey ice and sky.  That’s if you’re alone.  If we’re playing shinny, it’s easier.  You can concentrate on the game. If you grow up in the city or made your living from the town in some way, that’s how you skated on that lake.  You didn’t face the everything and the nothing where the ice joins the sky.  It’s bad enough to know you’re going to die (one day, just like everyone else) why dwell on it? But Paul Ellis, the town’s big dream, skated to and fro and didn’t think which way the sky and shore might point. I watched him ladle and turn.  He was in his sixties now but he was the best player this town had ever seen. That day was a summer moment in winter.  The clouds were up but infrequent.  The sky was bigger than usual.  The ice was an ugly, bright glaze.  Saran wrap in the sun.  I preferred the overcast and colder winter days.  The ice looks whiter, the cold isn’t as pointy.  I watched for as long as I could take the glare and then I left.  He was big, he was strong – he wore a checked flannel shirt – he reminded me of Paul Bunyan – or what I thought Paul Bunyan might or should look like.  The shirt was blue. I’d known Ellis a long time; grew up in the same town.  Not that we were friends.  It was a small town.  Everyone knew him.  He might have known my name.  One of those “You Kevin?”  “No, it’s Ken” kind of things.  I wasn’t the important one, anyway. He said some folks called him Ranger when he was growing up.  That was his team.  The formula for failure is many-fold.  The recipe for success fills half an index-card.  Nobility is boring.  I knew all that.  And maybe some part of that functioned as my lens – because it was the incompleteness of Paul Ellis’ story that appealed to me the most. He was Marcus Dupree, the enigmatic physical phenom who never made out of his home state to play in the NFL.  He was Michel Briere who died in a car crash just starting his career and had his number retired by the Pittsburgh Penguins.  Or he was Todd Marinovich; the kid whose dad tied his right arm behind his back so the son could one day play leftie quarterback in the bigs.  He was none of these guys, really.  I just wondered about him a lot and especially why he never punched his own ticket to play in the big show.  I don’t think he liked to lie.  I think, maybe, he only lied when he had to like when someone’s life was at stake.  Or maybe just someone’s feelings.  People don’t really die around here.  It’s just a figure of speech. I think he was lying about the corn, about Nebraska.  Really, who plays hockey in Nebraska?

[nicicles]

Los Angeles Kings vs. New Jersey Devils (Game 6)

Los Angeles Kings vs. New Jersey Devils

June 11, 2012, by Homme de Sept-Îles

NewLa Musings and In-Game Scribbles

My English is as good as yours, I just write these in a stream-of-consciousness mode that I insist excuses me from small things like rules of grammar or general etiquette. Let’s call it conversational English, hopped up on beans. You know what kind of beans (no, Carl Mellesmoen, not the magic ones).

STANLEY CUP FINALS

Los Angeles Kings

 host

New Jersey Devils

Monday, June 11th, 2012

Game Six.  LA leads three games to two

Missed it? Musings capture the game in writing. A written transcript typed during the game, posted and edited about thirty minutes afterward.  Based on the RDS French telecast of the Montreal Canadiens game, Musings take about 23 minutes to read. More detailed than an article, fresher than a looping highlight and good with morning coffee. Or late-night Coke.  A unique way to re-experience the game.

click here to expand post (it looks prettier)

A new panellist rubs his hands, resembles the affable and knowledgeable Norman Flynn but just isn’t him. His glee suggests an avuncular overconfidence.

As for the games, your New Jersey Devils, having faced a 3-0 series deficit have arrived at game six with natty 22-21 and 24-22 shot advantages, rerouting King speed and absorbing King power.

LA Kings are one of the largest forward units in the game.

Finally some music we can live with. Rockabilly thunder industrial with, sadly, a cheap beer high note heralds an RDS (Reseau des Sports) montage almost as satisfying. Kings and Devils spilt, goals and shards and the quickness of Quick … and the maudlin desperation of forty year-old Martin Brodeur.

Oh, my clone wars. The LA rink; the New Great Western Forum (Thumbtack Central, if you prefer) is darkened and lightsaber green bolts shoot here, there and across. A Journey-esque intro dissolves to quick, non-descript rock.

Pia Toscano, as made up as ever, is introduced as an Interscope Recording artist. Why not mention her hometown? Or her facial mask-maker?

Beside her, Gilligan of the Marines stands at attention in a refrigerator-white Maytag outfit, hand across his hat’s brim, his belt hunched high as a defensive backs coach. His expression denotes drowning due to ignorance. What button? What button?

Your troops, carrying colonialism everywhere. And glistening into the 21st century.

Fuck the anthem. And fuck America. Canada, too, sure.

Dan O’Rourke and Chris Rooney are the refs.

First Period

The crowd settles into their cheese mode. No wine tonight. It’s crackers. Games won and lost suggest more and then less. Darryl Sutter is shown behind the LA bench and his energy ducks forth as he cranes his neck forward and back several times, a thin Bowser, a welcome interlude for the often stoic Viking native. It’s the adrenaline. It’s the hope. It’s the fear.

Play-by-play master of ceremonies Pierre Houde mentions Van Halen and the parliament of my mind erupts in nearly unanimous applause and “hear-hear” shouts. The ageing rockers were in Thumbtack Central quite recently. Glad to hear Pierre articulate the band name. (ease the seat back)

Brodeur evokes a sharp, thrilled rise in Pierre’s voice, a crease save. Now a right point shot is seen and struck away, the pad and stick to the left. Martin Brodeur. Flopping. Overly liked. Somewhat loveable. Overrated. But still Martin Brodeur.

Up here, hockey reporters, tired of Roy’s arrogance and Hasek’s inscrutability (and foreignness) were delighted with the humble, friendly and people-savvy Brodeur’s ascension to top-five (top one?) greatness. Yes, he’s good. Even very good. But he’s no great. He’s no Roy. He’s no Hasek.

But very good is good enough and he watches as the Kings go to a power-play.

One long shot on a sail-in. Now a King offside and Pierre and Marc discuss the team’s nervousness. Not only because of the home crowd but because of the pressure of having let the series slide to this point.

I forgive them, they’ve never been this deep and the road here has been one swift series after another. They haven’t faced adversity in terms of tightly leading or falling behind in a series.

The only Kings team to grace the finals was Kelly Hrudey’s 1992-93 group; none remain from that team.

Hey, some current NHL players remain in the league having played 92-93 hockey. Roman Hamrlik comes to mind. But, yes, it was a long time ago.

The penalty drains out and no quality chances are seen.

Thirteen oh eight left in the first. Puck rounds the King net. Trapped by Sykora with Alec Martinez behind him, a foot away.

Around and then out. Devils sludge back and now Sykora misses a certain goal, cracking the puck into glass above and behind Jonathan Quick.

What did he miss? laments Pierre.

A stoppage.

Kings go to the net. Brodeur sweeps-slicks the ice low and the low-sofa move works.

A King kicks at a puck from the upper circles. Anything now. And that’s what they needed two games ago. It’s arrived. It was a desperate kick to get desperate going.

Scuderi was hit behind his end line.

He’s on the ice on his stomach. Did he take an elbow for taking out Stephen Gionta?

Steve Bernier goes to the box. A hit on a Devil prior is shown. Looks like Jarret Stoll cheap-thwacked a Devil while leaving the ice. The old Joe-in-a-crowd move. Perfected by bearded bully, Joe Thornton.

Learn from the beast.

Here’s a replay.

Bernier got Scuderi in response for the hit on Stephen Gionta, as it turns out. Five minute penalty.

DeBoer’s expression indicates he can’t decide what to think on either a macro or micro level. What kind of league do I work for? No matter, seconds pass and his nearly inscrutable expression shifts to the task at hand.

A quick look at Martin’s mask shows the goalie’s familiar Bell Centre expression.

This is trouble for LA. Though they may not realise it. They don’t see Brodeur as often as we do. Um, yeah. It’s a “we” night.

Brodeur is standing in the crowd, shifting left and then right. Watching it long. Then short.

Finally the Kings get it under control.

Dustin Brown deflects a shot-pass wrister by Doughty from the circle-top. And it’s past the visiting Montreal native. The crowd takes the time to chant Marty twice in derision.

LA 1, New Jersey 0

The penalty was a major one and Bernier stays in the box. Just under four minutes.

Three oh three. King ice. They twist around Zubrus and three horizontal passes get them where they need. But an immediate interception ends the entry.

Two and two in the corner deep left. Two other players join. The Kings cut out from the spot. Brown. To the slot. Shot high. Wrister. Top corner over Brodeur’s left shoulder.

The chant. DeBoer lets loose; the f-word. Fie on you!

It’s 2-0.

The angle we saw showed a nearly innocuous hit and not close to the boarding suggested. Boarding can be a two-minute minor or a five-minute major at the ref’s discretion. I believe it can also be a ten or a game misconduct.

Bernier remains in the box.

Two goals.

With Quick, two goals is a big problem. Especially for New Jersey. Their goal outcomes this series: 1-1-0-3-2.

And another goal.

The train horn. And my inner Lady Byng warns me to prepare for an unpleasant scene to close the evening.

My recent houseguest’s words echo; Dustin Brown is a dick.

LA 3, NJ 0

The Devils have to take risks from this point on. That’s a question. One goal per period. Plus one.

I consider Hedberg. Unlikely. The backup hasn’t played a minute these playoffs. It won’t start now.

DeBoer has earned a lot of my respect in this series.

I watch and Brown and Clarkson discuss something. Brown nods and effects a Brad Pitt smirk. Clarkson is one of the more unpleasant men in the rink. The faceoff is outside the King zone and the Devils are in and hurly, heaving and urgent. This is the most urgent segment of the series.

The Kings want it. The Devils face death.

Forget Brodeur’s flopping pads and age. He’s every bit of the twenty-four that he needs to be. As for the Devils, they’ve got Quick and a quickening on the mind. And Quick? How much liquid, how much rubber and how much nerve courses under the jersey.

It’s a nubby, strange job. He leans forward. Jonathan Bernier is shown. Cap on his head he takes a spit on the ice.

His work here is done.

Another bouncer in the Devil zone but the visitors tame it.

One and thirty.

Long puck. Brodeur is out of his crease by four feet and he stands and then turns to his left, sweeping the puck to a lone Devil. The Kings lay back.

Devils are in control. Zubrus. Sykora.

The puck. And the shot. Tink. Off the red.

What an awful outcome for a team that deserves better.

Lady Byng reminds me of the three posts the Devils enjoyed last game. Brodeur was beaten each time.

The LA crowd sounds like a moonful of poured rice. This is how it should sound in a Stanley Cup final.

The Kings led on shots 13-4. It’s been a struggle for them. But the Devils are meeting their assignments.

First Intermission LA Kings 3, New Jersey 0

Oh. It is Norman Flynn. Been a while. He’s a bit wider than before. Didn’t recognize him from the group shot.

Now we’re tight on the cactus. Raising the pen, grabbing at Mario’s arm and clutching the usual empty wineskin.

Mario says the Canadiens don’t need someone like Radulov (of the Nashville Predators). Short montage. Radulov can veer, back straight and drop defenders like bags. He holsters his stick, smoothly styling, after one Nashville goal and I recall how annoying he was during these playoffs. He’s brimming over.

And Andrei is done with Nashville according to David Poile, their GM. He’s the late Bud Poile’s son. Bud Poile used to own (ok, manage but it felt like own) the Flyers.

Ah to be a son.

As for Radulov, he’s able to score all types of goals (as per his montage) but he’s bounced and he was out late with Andrei, both suspended for the next Nashville game, a playoff must. Radulov is a bad influence.

Very talented but undisciplined, adds Mario. And the current Canadiens don’t need to risk a poisoned atmosphere.

Mario feels that Bernier’s penalty was merited and worth the five minutes.

Second Period LA Kings 3, New Jersey 0

Three goals in five minutes.

And now a fourth. Ninety seconds gone. Skate and shoot. It’s Jeff Carter from the circle top, taking a pass from Dustin Brown and lofting it over Brodeur’s right shoulder. Did it touch Parise’s stick, asks Houde.

LA 4, NJ 0

An official gets touched up by a King medic.

He can still use his whistle and he nods.

Some blood escapes the lips and I reflect on the hysteria following Magic’s HIV admission. Cuts and blood spills were serious business. We didn’t know how easily it could be transferred. It never occurs to anyone. A generation of sports fans probably doesn’t even know Magic played for the Lakers, let alone his being HIV positive.

His wife. Cookie. These forgiving wives. And the rumours. Isaiah kissing Magic before the start of each finals game. That was 88-89.

Twitterific that era. Imagine.

Rodman saying Bird would be “just another good guy [player] if he was black”. It’s all out there, now. Maybe this is for the best. The Facebook furor, though. Jimmy the Greek. His restaurant comment. Marv Albert’s faux pas. Or was it just wrong to get caught. The Len Bias and Don Rogers deaths.

Three and twenty gone.

Four goals. Seems certain.

Especially given the personnel, recent history and current tenor. Everything is stacked against NJ.

But we’ve 36 minutes of hockey. I regain interest.

The Kings might let slide. They might give up a goal… two. They might paralyse. But the crowd. That expectant, crazed bunch. It’s like the FC craze that will grip this city one day.

The drunken hues of novelty.

The Kings are an older team now. One might even (with some shouting disagreement) consider LA a heritage franchise. The 1967 partition (ok, expansion) which saw the league split into two divisions; East and West and the introduction of six new teams (added to the original, um, six) included the Los Angeles Kings.

This is their 45th anniversary. That’s a half-century.

The silver and black heritage team goes to another power-play. Four minutes.

They were better in purple and gold.

Royal robes are best mauve.

Simmer. Dionne. Taylor. Whatever order you want. One of the greatest teams never to win the Cup. They called them the Triple Crown Line. Not too smooth. But repeated as many times as it has, it has its lustre. The gloss of history has helped smooth out the rough edges of that story.

Meanwhile the Kings boom one shot after another. They’re like a heavyweight firing bombs, hoping to knock their man out.

And the wasted shots are typical of the Canadian mentality. Just shoo-ooot. Just intimidate. It’s the great weakness in our national hockey persona. To go with our poor skills emphasis. To this day, the best Canadian stick-handlers, skaters and shooters are accidents of greatness; genetics that couldn’t be under-taught. But the embarrassing truth is; we don’t have the very best in those skill areas.

We should.

The penalty ends. The crowd shuts like a door.

The organist is nearly Joel in his begging. Maybe he is. I recognize those strains.

We Want The Cup. The chant is a dazing blow for anyone who ponders it. It’s not just another hockey night.

Quick leaves his net to play a disc. He lets it go round and at the left corner it’s handled, passed and then sent in. The Devils move them out quickly.

Quick makes a stop. And Carter chooses the moment to tire-track the Milford Man. The crease run-over doesn’t yield an immediate call but after this moribund Boors Light commercial we’ll find out.

Sykora is in the box. A two-minute for roughing. And a ten-minute misconduct. The ten minute penalty means a player can’t participate but there won’t be a man-disadvantage.

Martinez karracks Travis Zajac on entry. The Devils respond in kind four seconds later. Kings retain and set up.

Voynov’s right point shot is off a leg and then the Kings get in trouble deep left. Henrique steals it, pushes it forward for himself and then cuts to the net and shoots. Rebound. No.

Devils keep it in the Kings zone, Zubrus applying two hits on the shift.

The Kings get to their men and the passes move them out. Brodeur kick saves. He’s the last toe-swing goalie in the NHL according to Marc Denis. I’d add Thomas to that list. There may be a few others.

Roloson? And Dominik Hasek is considering returning to the NHL. Again. He’s 47. He’s a goalie. We’re post-lockout, a faster game. A younger man’s game. It’s intriguing. But so was Ali’s fight against Holmes. Intriguing til the night it happened.

Maybe that isn’t a fair example. We’re told that Ali was prescribed the wrong medication, that his reflexes were slowed as a result. But his speed was gone. And that was his game.

Point-blank one-timer. Stephen Gionta is down. Denis says it was a hit to the head. Off the side. He wears a visor. He’s up. He hears a round of applause from the King crowd; too happy to be hateful. And too long out of the dance to bear a grudge. The Devils? Who are they?

Planet of the Apes resumes; the Kings and their haggard beards.

Devils score. Low slot. Henrique. Won the draw. Went to the net. Two men and the puck free and Kopitar unable to take his man, played the stick and puck rather than blocking the lane and the disc is past Quick.

LA 4, NJ 1

Kings win the draw just over a minute in the period.

Kings are on horseback.

They go to the boards. They forget, the score muddling their hockey senses, that NJ is better on the boards and they lose one battle after another.

Volchenkov is shown. The Devils have more mustaches than beards.

Beards are for North American sports fantasists.

Sixteen.

Kings penalty.

The officials have been hearing it from the Devils all night and Penner goes for roughing.

The replay shows nearly nothing. A slow-speed high shoulder bump as the puck leaves the King zone. Again the officials are not at the level we expect MLB umpires, NFL back-judges, NBA refs or even CFL stripers.

We’re, ah, still growing up.

Period ends.

LA led on shots 8-6. They lead 21-10, overall.

Second Intermission LA 4, NJ 1

For Benoit the goal-differential is directly proportional to his confidence in commentating.

Tes meilleurs doit etre tes meilleurs.

Why won’t Reseau dump this guy.

The stars must circle the sky.

Blue will be blue.

It is what it is.

Don’t snort milk between periods.

Pierre interviews Pierre. Lebrun. And another goatee.

We’ve gotten used to it (to them) but it is (they are) weird. Goatees.

Pierre is watching Lebrun closely.

Lebrun is one of the better hockey analysts. He’s a long-time ESPN contributor and collaborates with others including RDS.

Some Jameson talk. Lebrun talked with Bill Daley today. He opines, nods, tilts his head deeply from side to side. He’s a man that would know. What pages he might fill with the things he doesn’t share.

Lebrun is quite comfortable on camera. Does he have a regular show?

Third Period LA 4, NJ 1

Henrique, Zajac and Zubrus start it off. They’re whistled in King ice and the puck is cleared. Devils remain on the power-play.

Kovalchuk fires from the left point. All of it. Brown slid to block and the puck lost all nerve, leaving the zone, unsteady and weak.

Another stoppage. Devils carry it in. Kings clear it around. It’s out. And then back just as quickly.

Carter intercepts. He’s in over the blue. To the net. Shoots. Wide. Wide from twelve feet.

We hear Cup to come in the crowd response as the penalty ticks off.

Marty, Marty chant begins and lasts its longest this series. And this one seemed unfounded.

The Cup is here. We’re shown its path from outside the arena into the darker, dank regions of the building. A man with white cloth wipes the trophy. It’s always being wiped. What is being wiped off I wonder. Sweat? Oil? Some untoward lubicrant? Why. Why must it be wiped. So frequently.

Why.

Sutter is too snakebit to settle on any emotion.

The Cup quivers coaches.

I pull back from the keyboard and just watch. The details are lost when pressing keys in this series. It’s not the Canadiens. I hope for a game seven. But I hope it ends tonight, too. I’ve had enough of having to muse. It’s a trap when it’s another team. Of course once it begins, it’s good, clean fun.

We’re shown a King assistant. He’s all Snape intensity and under-the-breath potions and poison.

Brown came in late and dumped Sykora. And Brown is called. He sits in the box unrepentant. Ah. So he is a dick.

Did not know that.

High elbow.

His slightly open lips don’t help.

The Kings’ Stanley Cup win tonight will, sadly, justify all methods used and all people involved. Team sports. There’s a pickle or two on every team. Isn’t there? Football rosters are gigantic; forty-five or so depending on the year and league. Basketball can be managed. It might be possible to gather twelve character guys. But the culture around these games is hazy.

Sykora goes to the box. Another Devil beside him.

Moments later a chop-slash sends a third Devil.

It’s four on four for a time.

Andy Greene tries a fake and dainty end-of-his-stick move and loses the puck at the blue. His nerve brings the puck to him again. A short flank pass. Zajac’s slot pass fails. No target. Wasted urgency.

Wanting it is so much more important in this game than the others. Emotion influences more often and profoundly than most other factors.

Five on four. Ten and a half.

The Kings work the perimeter.

Gionta finds it on the boards. It’s cleared.

A fifth goal would settle the game. Three is still too close. The Kings’ Quick has been important but he hasn’t been shelled and his toughest tests have been infrequent.

Zidlicky stops one at the blue. Quick release. Gets through. Deflects. Quick touches it. It’s to his left, the goalie out three feet from his crease. Moments later the Devils ice.

Eight minutes. I doubt it. I lean back into the beanbag, folded like a giant’s plush kidney, behind me. The network goes to a commercial. Unreality rules the moment.

When will studies show that we respond best to authenticity in television? When will deception in advertising be banned?

Artificial body parts. What a town. So much more pressure to be, uh, something else. We’re shown a few celebrities. One is texting. Another is chatting. A third, contemplative.

Under six.

Stoppage. The crowd roars louder. The score and reality settle closer together. A man in a royal crown dances about unable to believe; his flailing clown-white gloves and botox trembling make me wonder how long he’s waited. It’s a heritage team.

It’s hard to be fair with LA at this point. My inner Lady Byng reminds me that it could be worse. Luongo didn’t win last year. Be glad for that. There would have been a DVD. A speaking tour. His gelled hair and arched eyebrow. Who’s the video genius now?

I’ve often claimed I like Jonathan Quick but I know nothing of the man; just his athletic grace; perhaps the most athletic goalie of the Western Conference. He’s been ready when asked. He’s been great. And he, according to Luc Robitaille, helped save their regular season.

Four minutes. The Devils have pulled their goalie.

They can’t keep it in the zone. A hook. Uncalled. A pass. There’s a black bee down the middle. Bees don’t need to stickhandle. Trevor Lewis poings the netting.

LA 5, NJ 1

Martin Brodeur is asked to return.

And another goal.

Missed puck at the hash. Right point shot. Eludes Brodeur.

All here hail the Kings.

Beards of relief. When the anointed (and pushed) get, receive (or sometimes earn) their due, I’m reminded that they’ve been unplugged. And most change. For the better. The ugly look human again. Marino would have been an exception. But we’ll never find out.

There’s a relaxed air that the Aikmans and Montanas have. But both were balanced beforehand.

As for Jeff Carter. We’ll never hear the end of this trade. But maybe he’ll mature.

Maybe.

LA 6, NJ 1

Ninety seconds. The crowd is risen but they don’t seem to know how to work this moment.

They resume chanting. We Want The Cup.

Zubrus misses one at the crease-maw. Backhand fan.

The cadence becomes drawn and swing-seat high. Every phrase needs to end with the knowledge of the moment.

Finally Pierre just lets it go silent. He elegantly stays out of the moment.

The crowd counts it down.

The best train horn in America blares long and loud. Brodeur’s face relaxes and goes too long.

Final Score LA Kings 6 NJ Devils 1

Los Angeles Kings win the 2011-12 Stanley Cup, four games to two over the New Jersey Devils.

Sutter is congratulated by DeBoer. Robinson pauses with a smile for Sutter; offering an additional word. Sutter must be giddy. He keeps it in. His twisted down mouth as he crosses the rink is contrary to the situation.  I hear he might be a nice fella.

The teams line up to shake hands. Brodeur decides to take the high road. He’s humble and gives it all back.

Ca c’est Martin Brodeur, says Pierre.

Mike Richards is interviewed by Renaud Lavoie.

The culture of the Canadian hockey interview informs too many interviews. And the need for interviews is part of it.

The red carpet is extended. The Conn Smythe is carried out.

The most valuable player of the playoffs.

Bettman seems to absorb invisible arrows as he makes his annual announcement. The boos aren’t pronounced but they’re there. Jonathan Quick wins the Conn Smythe.

Now the Cup makes its way to the ice surface

It’s the same guy as last year. The other guy, I don’t recognize. That same guy has been the same guy for a long time. White gloves. American Express commercial. Stay grounded, hombre. Pierre and Marc recite names; King names; great players who never got their names on the trophy. Rogatien Vachon is mentioned.

Does Mario Lessard count?

It takes hard work and determination and great fans, says Gary. He says Looo-oooc Robitaille and the crowd responds with the near booing sound. Gary raises his eyebrows. Gary Bettman presents the cup to LA captain Dustin Brown who, after a juggling moment or two, is able to hold it together with Gary. Bettman shifts his grip to hold it from underneath. It’s much heavier than it looks.

Brown, teeth missing, his smirk erased, mouth open with joy, holds it up and kisses it. Luc Robitaille is forced to talk to Renaud. The Kings championship hat is perched as the former left-winger (now King administrator) answers questions with his usual in-the-moment analysis and honesty.

He says hi to his mother and refers to her as “mon mere”. In a sentence directed at her.

Drew Doughty’s cup-raising is predictably off-putting.

Simon Gagne says it’s been twelve years. He says its weight was surprising. He says that lifting the Cup makes you realise all the things that led to this moment; the mornings, the workouts, the sacrifices by family. Gagne’s authenticity is typical of the Ste. Foy native. As for Lavoie … he knows everything.

The cup moves from player to player. That stupid forcefield song plays over the PA (how can you feel close to someone as a forcefield?).

The melancholy and unscriptedness of the championship moment is always unsettling. The crowd cheers loudly as Sutter holds it up.

And he hands it off too quickly for us to enjoy it and think about the years we’ve watched him, listened to his press conferences and so forth. He’s in LA now. And they love him. Brown is a kid. Renaud interviews him and there isn’t much more he can articulate than the feeling can’t be put into words.

The group shot in front of the Cup, a tradition now, is rooted in a gesture led by Gretzky in the 88 final; he called his team together on the ice for what was, then, a non-traditional shot.

The Kings hold still, grins, gaping and new sweat on hats; the number one gesture more meaningful than on any other night, and the bulbs flash.

The Los Angeles Kings, your Los Angeles Kings, Brian, have won, have finally won, The Stanley Cup.

The cup continues to move about, person to person.

HDS Stars: Dustin Brown, Jeff Carter, Adam Henrique RDS Stars: Dustin Brown, Jeff Carter, Mike Richards

[nicicles]

Gros Bill, Ti-Guy

see the band of red, the one of blue warp light blood,digital brittle sapphire power in hockey socks felt lines, not velour, but rough white polyester see the unaural, the campfire ugly blue canadian tire sleeve stench urethane the pants of spiderman blue a horse stretches the expected hear the shocked ice, tooth metallic, a silver swipe stride curves and glissade, speed lumbers here gathers force, leans toward, beckons a thunder finger one-eye leather hear the whir and whisper, a tourniquet baton a stick in chase name it koho, imbue it greased grace, chock licked wood power sense cryptic, the human iris, the fire wire bleu, the blonde and the unsmile grimace, a goal in blue smell the rink, the Forum, the seats, the suits, the crinkle, the bay red is dark here, Mouton, Doucet, les pierres watch the liquid sense the disgrace Ferguson and face Bruin displace Nordique not heaven Eleven minus seven Francophone Orr Lafleur and score

[nicicles]

Crypt and Puck

She found the puck late that night. At the bottom of the stairs where the crypt door met grainy, tough, salted old grass.  Stone and earth met in tuft country shapes on that stairwell floor.  There was a drain grate of grim iron and the smell of lime and lactating stone. The puck was in the corner.  Made of seeming speckled ivory, the thing had shrunk and was half the treasure it once was. She recognized it immediately.  Stooping, she pocketed it.  And then she considered the door. The cold was nearly forgotten.  Her clothes were wet whispers against her clammy skin. All she heard was the echo of code.  One-one-three-five.  One-one-three-five.  Under, over, across and then under.  The metal looked immovable. She put on the gloves she’d been given and tried.  Once.  Twice. The second time worked.  And it was smooth.  Smoother than it looked.  Smoother than she expected. She paused but more in response to her third eye which had a sense of the dramatic, even now. A useless, automated gesture for an absent audience.  Then she entered. She should have been afraid.  But she’d forgotten that emotion.  She shut the door behind her. And she forced her hand into a tight corduroy pocket.  The flashlight, a cold, red tube, issued a thin, rude wire of light through the ante-room. Her sense of smell was nearly gone.  And the putrid vapour entrails that wafted under the next door went unnoticed. That was the only door. And she advanced. Her shoes hissed quietly.  And that she heard.  She expected it. Now the door. But first a listen. Dank silence. She’d have to be quiet.  But she remained bold. The clank didn’t come.  A tight, slow and easy squeeze of black metal was what worked. She pulled.  And then the door swung back. She moved with it and then peered in. She could feel if not smell the rot and essence of the atmosphere under and beyond. And she heard the sounds of the ghoulish play.  The stalagmites,  the stone and the half-rink untended beyond. *** Under and beyond, a sifted spirit sang.  Shifts of digital aroma klept or klamber, concrete dungeon, slabs of petrified kelp and the entrance beyond. Through that stone aqua overhang. Understand this locked lake drained to cracked face of a giant’s dust.  Slaked osmosis ovium. Innocent names, fabrics of another century, the spoof sentry spits sinister, drools venom, shadows and joy, the splinter of a heavy, doomed chain. What movement was a sort of green magma.  And the flitter hint of that spoof sentry. She and her ear canal. Stepped forward something. Descent infernal. Colder.  It’s colder, she thought.  She reached for wall and found none.  She shuddered, her imbalance stopping her.  Waiting for the goose pebble flesh to warm, she listened. She listened for drip and heard none.  Her sense of smell was negated. She felt the air move, a large oxygen vacuum around her. It moved less.  And then was still. She was a listener again.  Then she was on the move. Down the wall-less staircase. One sure step and then another.  She could see the steps.  They were deep-sea and cave-dark green. The puck was an orb undulate in her left pocket.  The flashlight shape remained in the other. The air followed her. The steps came to an end. From here, she saw the old scoreboard; rent plastics and shorn otherworld woods. Stone hanging.  Pipes, once-neat.  Rooms, she fancied, beyond the corridors. The splotch or dim glow, greens of several kinds, were what helped her see.  Old sea-creatures devolved to soft masses, mooshed jellies able to synthesize something into vague latrine memory lights. It was colder.  Colder. Back here again.  She knew where north led to warmth.  Where south led to an endless staircase.  And where east was wicked. Somewhere, about fourteen miles down, a sentry stirred. *** Her face was heavier.  Copper sagged.  Her neck stiffened. Iron waited.  And a jackal soothsayer. The steps ended. With it, language of the upper plates. She’d descended nearly a year of stairs.  But time was uttered differently here. She was copper limbs and torso now. The puck was still in her pocket. The cold was meaningless. And the old scoreboard drew her.  She knew but it didn’t matter.  She knew why it was older than any man-object above.  And that things above were extensions, controlled by these sometime things below.  Buried here.  And elsewhere. But she was here.  She was Copper.  And Iron shuffled slowly somewhere near. Fourteen miles down, the sentry with long jackal muscles and a sheared face grin began its lope. She knew. The scoreboard was closer.  She stood still under it.  It jutted.  Its smashed countenance was a purposed, polished shape of its own.  Of wrecked millenia and memory though it was. A different code echoed in her.  She remained still. The warped wood was something of this planet but much older than those above could know. There were the great curves and letters.  Vocabulary of damned tree shards or leaf-water hope.  Those numbers slumbered, soft patternless blinking under nearly oaken closed eyes.  The word scoreboard was some other thought-entrail now.  All words. She was a pure sunset metal colour. And the flitter and spoof sentry was nearly near. She waited for the old, blasted majesty above her to creak and turn.  Scoreboard. Around her, a half-rink leered.  It was a cup, deep and it was an egg-circle, cold and large. The scoreboard did crack and lean, finally and even as the sheared face appeared, a small loon light in the distance beyond the rink and board. Iron wasn’t far. And the jackal sentry smiled, its ancient yellow teeth, fraught powder and yellow clay under nature-made rubber lips. There were no lights under here. Some things proved light themselves.  And darkness wasn’t enough for eyes of these kind. She saw the jackal sentry and absorbed the language of first woods above. Her copper form turned to leave. The jackal sentry lolled and paused for brief thought. *** Iron’s creek teeth stretched across its gilt-black, carved crystal crag countenance. Beyond shame, beyond avarice, beyond its sparkle would-be cheeks. Gossamer spittle of glee webbed the arched roof of its mouth.  Iron croaked lust, burden beetled forward in shamble shadows, a monolith lurch, a volcanic odour.  This was the new game but the old game.  There was no scoreboard.  Iron snorted and moved slowly across lime letch and coopered stalagmite.  A quiver gait ahead flickered green; his jackal consort. In its furnace heart, Iron was cold envy, a hearth of hate newborn but with sallow wisdom of doom pulsing in brackish blood to belicose brain. Under and beyond, there was no real wisdom, no real truth.  Galaxies corrode in hurt vision.  This foil ventricle and chalk tunnel shale are vortex to finity.  Each battle can be lost.  Almost none can be won. She knew this.  The jackal sentry sensed it.  Iron, this chapter, would forge the stone-turned rule. She would leave the puck behind.  She would lead a chase.  And her Demitur speed and elixir-eloquent bronze frost would sparkle as she set her fluid trap. So she hoped. Under that batless sky, a solemn roof here under years and at the end of plate stairs, she would turn.  And skate. Copper flesh and cubed ink eyes were in wait.  She heard Iron first.  She saw Jackal emerge.

[nicicles]

Billy Draft Tatter

like a snake doesn't need the water it swims in the pea shooter skating on wood, equipment from a barn, one churlish toy clown as companion and the greatest thin man long stride run-the-ball run-the-ball yells his wino uncle. barn house strength, force of anger worse than a storm door bang (ka bang) like billy the kid blue and thin gotta lotta work to do. rocking horse denim comet. an elephant makes ragdoll death his anger was easy but not seen. flashpot moves elastic as a python mouth tobacco juice on the scout sheets baseball marble sweat the gold summer glass harmonica meets hope hockey satchel diamonds a coon song crimson (as sunset) silent lightning pellet thunder in the night an old enemy a basement beast (for you suburb kids) it's the game he played against a man thing with skin like breaded rust husk ka husk chee trusk ka frusk chee trusk cheeng ah tchak cheeg flusk ah clea druk kah chusk ka trusk trudge on home

[nicicles]

Blades by Bauer

Blades by Bauer Shoulders by Cooper Elbows by Easton Figures by Reebok Sticks by Sherwood Nike’s goddess was co-opted

Almost none of the following text is mine. Maybe one phrase here or there. A comma, an apostrophe, perhaps. Ok, maybe a bit more. Credits dot and follow.

Blades by Bauer

From Middle High German "bure" or "bur" meaning farmer or peasant.

Canstar Sports Inc., Bauer Hockey’s parent company, acquired the famed Cooper’s hockey division in 1990, and was itself acquired by even more famed Nike five years later.

In 2008, Nike sold Bauer to a partnership comprising Graeme Roustan of Montréal and the private-equity firm Kohlberg & Company (started by a couple of the principals of Kohlberg Kravis & Roberts). Presumably, the Cooper brand was included in this deal.

I exercise the Anglo frailty of making the accent optional. I feel some shame.

Unrelatedly, Father Bauer is one of the great names in hockey history. As per the Hockey Hall of Fame, “Father David Bauer has been described as an inspirational coach, a caring educator, a master motivator and a dreamer. He was devoted to the concept that education and hockey could mix. He viewed hockey as a means to develop a better person. He believed that building men came before building hockey players.” Bauer was an instrumental figure for Canada’s national hockey program and was considered an innovator and visionary.

"We try to give our players a well-rounded education, not merely ice skills but mental and moral conditioning as well," he told reporters in 1961. "We can't help but be better off in the long run."

Shoulders by Cooper

Wikipedia says: “Traditionally, a cooper is someone who makes wooden staved vessels of a conical form, of greater length than breadth, bound together with hoops and possessing flat ends or heads. Examples of a cooper's work include but are not limited to casks, barrels, buckets, tubs, butter churns, hogsheads, firkins, tierces, rundlets, puncheons, pipes, tuns, butts, pins and breakers.

The word is derived from Middle Dutch kūpe, "basket, wood, tub" and may ultimately stem from cupa, the Latin word for vat. Everything a cooper produces is referred to collectively as cooperage. "Cask" is a generic term used to describe any piece of cooperage containing a bouge, bilge, or bulge in the middle of the container. A barrel is technically a measure of the size of a cask, so the term "barrel-maker" cannot be used synonymously with "cooper." The facility in which casks are made is also referred to as a cooperage.

Cooper Canada Ltd. was a sporting goods and fine leather goods manufacturer based in Toronto, Canada. In its heyday, the 1960s through to the 1980s, the company was Canada's leading producer of leather baseball gloves and protective ice hockey equipment. The company pioneered team-colored hockey equipment and the use of nylon, foam, and modern plastics in equipment manufacturing.”

Cooper also invented the futuristic but ultimately denigrated cooperall hockey pants.

Elbows by Easton

The Easton Assassin is Larry Holmes, former world heavyweight boxing champion, often underrated, sometimes embittered and always engaging. A statue was recently erected in his honour. In his hometown of Easton, Pennsylvania.

Easton also makes walking shoes along with skates and other hockey equipment. Larry Holmes has almost nothing to do with hockey. But his craft sometimes has application. Unfortunately.

Figures by Reebok

Reebok is a relative newcomer in the hockey business. They claim to have cleaned up their actions and may or may not be a reputable figure in the ethical consumer world.

From Wikipedia: “In the past, Reebok had an association with outsourcing through sweatshops, but today it claims it is committed to human rights. In April 2004, Reebok's footwear division became the first company to be accredited by the Fair Labor Association. In 2004, Reebok also became a founding member of the Fair Factories Clearinghouse, a non-profit organization dedicated to improving worker conditions across the apparel industry.”

Women silenced by hockey? Don’t say that. And figure-skating is an art. A demanding, athletic art. But an art.

Reebok makes women’s figure skates along other hockey equipment. There have been some gaffes along the way.

Sticks by Sherwood

Sherwood Forest, north of the city of Nottingham, England; the place where the legendary Robin Hood is said to have lived. Sherwood is also an American rock band.

Sherwood is one of the last remaining Canadian companies in the stick business. The hockey stick business. Unfortunately, they have recently moved much of their production to China.

NIKE

Britannica: In Greek religion, the goddess of victory, daughter of the giant Pallas and of the infernal River Styx. Nike probably did not originally have a separate cult at Athens. As an attribute of both Athena, the goddess of wisdom, and the chief god, Zeus, Nike was represented in art as a small figure carried in the hand by those divinities. Athena Nike was always wingless; Nike alone was winged. She also appears carrying a palm branch, wreath, or Hermes staff as the messenger of victory. Nike is also portrayed erecting a trophy, or, frequently, hovering with outspread wings over the victor in a competition; for her functions referred to success not only in war but in all other undertakings. Indeed, Nike gradually came to be recognized as a sort of mediator of success between gods and men.

Aside from co-opting Goddesses’ monikers, running sweatshops and spending lots of money on clever advertising, NIKE also makes hockey equipment.

Activists have long targeted NIKE for the company’s questionable employment and shoe production practices. Some target the bigs in the hope that their movement might have a trickle-down effect on the rest of said industry. Regardless of whether this practice has long-term merit and effect, the options for those who purchase ethically have multiplied.

An optimist might conjecture that it’s a matter of time before one of the major leagues follows suit. Will your National Hockey League lead the way? The answer is yes, if enough time has passed and if enough dinosaurs have whithered in the setting sun of consumer opulence. Just you wait.

In the meantime, I’m buying these shoes. And you can, too. They’re Canadian.

Related Links

Nike in the News – A recent advertising faux pas by the big shoe company" Labour Behind the Label – A site that seeks to show who makes what … how Ethical Supply Chain Guidelines – An overview of exploitative issues in commerce Coke and Pepsi Agree to Stop Advertising to Children – Just browsin’

Online Sources

Bauer Cooper

And many thanks to Lloyd Davis of the Society of International Hockey Research (SIHR) for his ongoing assistance, insight and dazzling information puck-handling.