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cantstopthesignal2005 · 5 years ago

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kill yr gods

Anton Stewart sat transfixed by the panels of the graphic novel he recently checked out from the school library. The odd, melancholic spell cast by the kitchen-sink realism of the story was broken as his Journalism teacher, Ms. Combs, snapped her fingers. “Anton. Anton! Excuse me! Hello! Thank you!” “Yes, ma’am?” “How are you coming along with your story? Kali needs it by Friday for the paper.” Anton looked over to Kali Wheatley, who sat hunched over with a large iced coffee, feverishly editing papers and adding comments. “Uh, I’ll have a rough draft tomorrow, Ms. Combs,” he replied. “Tomorrow? What happened to tonight?” “I’m going to the concert tonight.” “A concert? What?” “The Canceled Alcohol show,” he brusquely informed her, his voice carrying an unmitigated bite to it. “It’s the concert I’m covering for the story. And since I haven’t gone to where the story is yet, I don’t have the story.” Anton caught a few side-eyed glances and expressions of incredulity. “Smart ass,” she blithely retorted. “See where that gets you in life. See where it gets you in school, or even in this class.” Anton shook off his teacher’s cautionary attack with a brief, involuntary shudder. He returned to his poor posture and resumed the story. Comics were an integral part of Anton’s life. As a young child, he found solace in the altruism of the muscle-bound men and women who, burdened with great powers, sought to look after the meek and timid. He aspired to similar feats of greatness, albeit without any supernatural ability. Throughout middle school, Anton would obsessively write the phrase “I Will Grow Wings,” filling the lines of his composition notebooks. This was his mantra to remind himself of his personal endeavor to grow stronger and feel capable, soaring above his feelings of impotence. After discovering the cruelty of unprovoked violence and the ecstasy of masturbation, Anton rabidly tore apart the pages of his superhero comics, marking an estrangement from what he began to feel was the mythos of morons and losers. Reality bloomed as Anton reached tenth grade, where he was fearful of the impending future and consistently horrified by the mistakes of the past. Without a car or a job, he didn’t have money of his own and would constantly depend on his mother for rides or pocket change, a chip on his shoulder regarding his own lack of agency had spread like a fever. The stories to which Anton gravitated were confrontational and brutal, concerning entropy, alienation, and depravity. Unable to reconcile his anxieties and a lust for debauchery, Anton would vicariously approximate the insanity and genius of drugs by reading journals about the rough side of an acid trip at the devil’s hour. The bell rang and Anton somberly ambled down the steps of building three to the courtyard. It was his lunch period and he planned to meet his friend, Peter. Peter was a friend whose binding tie was a similar love of literature and art. They would occasionally skip school and go to their local dollar theater and movie hop. Anton was unnerved as he saw Peter surrounded by people peripheral to their social circle, holding court at a brick wall, waxing poetic about the perils of too much vulnerability and compassion. He was wearing a black shirt with an image of Joe Strummer with bloodied knuckles and a towel carelessly draped around his shoulders. Peter looked over the circle of friends and nodded Anton over. Characteristically overzealous, he extended his hand to shake Anton’s. “What’s popping, bruh?” “I’m good. How goes it?” “Yo, these are . . . this is Larry. This is Dom. This is . . . oh wait, you know Chaz, right?” “We’ve met,” Chaz curtly confirmed, gritting his teeth. Anton bristled at what he felt was an unmerited disdain. “Uh, yeah. Uh, we’ve met,” Anton said, through staccato bursts of nervous laughter. “What’s good, bro?” Peter asked, flashing his toothy smile, which appeared closer to demented than charming, as he hoped. “Um. Just . . . just saying hey?” “Well, you said Hey, kid,” Chaz said, rolling his eyes. “I’m talking to Peter. If I wanted to talk to you, I would look at you. Chaz. Your fucking parents named you Chaz! What kinda shit is that?” “You’re a fucking asshole, Anton.” “Aight, aight, chill, chill.” Peter locked eyes with Anton and with a nod, dismissed him. Anton walked off, shaking with the rage of rejection. He fought the urge to, as he had when he was younger, scream, curse, and beat his fists against the ground into bloody pulps. He wondered if remaining with his circle of friends was worth it. He tolerated the occasional hectoring and outburst if only to stave off loneliness; his friends were a means to an end, and whether they knew that was unimportant. Anton was made to feel little, but always assured himself that they were even lesser than him since he never needed them. The rest of the school day was an interminable slog, the only saving grace being that he would attend his first show later that night. As he approached the exit doors to the bus loop, Anton felt a firm tap on his shoulder. Violently whipping his head back, he saw his friend Alex, wearing a shit-eating grin. “Anton. Buddy. What’s up?” “What’s up, what’s up?” “What’s up. We were supposed to go to the diner, right? This is every Tuesday, we had plans, no?” “Fuck, you’re right, I was just . . . it didn’t feel like a Tuesday.” “Yeah, alright. So, we’re good to go?” “Sure are.” The two walked over to the school parking lot, which Alex was grateful to have a spot in. He was the subject of great envy in their orbit for being the first to get a car, a job, and a girlfriend; there had been innuendos of him losing his virginity before his teen years, though no one asked to verify. Alex’s relatively advanced social acumen inspired overzealous praise and myth making from his friends. Alex drove at reckless speeds to Lynn’s Diner, a 1950s Americana themed coffee shop. There were black and white images from the days of yore for much of the wallpaper, framed photos of notable figures like Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman occupying what little wall wasn’t taken by signs that said “M A L T S,” “S H A K E S,” or “F R I E S.” Alex fiddled with the cylindrical straw container, delighting briefly in watching them umbrella. The two walked over to a booth in the far corner, the seats cherry red, the table was eggshell white with sporadic bursts of dots making no discernible pattern. Alex and Anton made it a habit to attend Lynn’s Diner every Tuesday at 3 PM, directly after school. Tuesdays was when the waitress, Greta, would be working, and they were as much a part of her ritual as she was a part of theirs, having become one of her regular guests, to the point where staff would tease her about it. (“Hey Greta! Your boyfriends are here!”) Alex and Anton waved off offers of menus, fully aware of what they wanted. Greta walked up to them, her hair a lot shorter than it used to be, dyed a fluorescent orange. “Hey, loves,” she said, putting her hand on her hip. “Two doubles, no onions, extra cheese, pickle spear on the side, two cherry colas?” “You practiced that,” Alex smirked. “You know I did,” she smiled coyly. “I ever tell you I was in theater?” “No, but I saw you as Puck when you did Midsummer Night’s Dream with my sister, Shirley.” “Your hair’s a lot shorter,” Anton abruptly remarked. Alex and Greta cocked their heads back, shocked by the jarring, unprompted comment. “Uh . . . yeah,” she said, visibly perturbed. “Yeah, it is. I uh, I cut it . . .” She self-consciously primped the ends of her hair and shook her head. “Uh, I’ll . . . I’ll be right back with your orders, love.” Alex shook his head disapprovingly, rolling his eyes. Leaning in, he whispered, “Probably shouldn’t just like . . . shout something out while two people are talking. You know what I mean?” “Yeah, but you said . . . you said it’s normal if someone like . . . it’s okay if someone inserts themselves into a conversation.” “Yeah, but you have to know when to do it.” “How would I know that?” “Trial and error. This? Not the right time. Now you know for the future.” Anton found himself resentful of the way people like Alex could float through life, aware of the right thing to say, when to say it. He would often conflate their confidence and sociability with arrogance. “I think I could get her number.” “Isn’t she in college?” “And you’ve never wanted to date a college girl?” Alex paused. “Or guy?” “I mean, yeah. But guy or girl . . . I don’t think it would be, you know, appropriate.” Greta brought out their order on a plastic blue tray, forcing a grin. She dropped the order off and left without her usual parting banter. Alex observed as Anton anxiously peered over to his watch. “That’s maybe the third time I’ve seen you check the time since we got here,” Alex said, his mouth full of fries. “What’s going on?” “Sorry. I have a show to go to tonight,” he explained. “Who are you seeing?” “Canceled Alcohol. I bought the tickets from Crates.” “Crates . . . Crates . . . Crates, the record shop, Crates?” “Yeah. Canceled Alcohol doesn’t really have a website or internet presence. I couldn’t cop them except locally.” “I’ve heard of them. I know their shows are supposed to be like fucking super intense. I heard someone got knocked into a fucking coma there once.” “Really?” “This is what I hear,” he shrugged. Anton began to panic, his mouth drying up, his heart palpitating. He forgot to bring anyone for support to the show, and if he met harm as he was sure he would, there would be no help. “Do you want to go?” he asked earnestly. “I’m sorry, I should have asked you earlier. I can buy—” “Nope,” he replied, unfurling a mischievous smile. “Why not?” “I think you should go this one alone. This one. I think, anyway.” The unspoken tension between the two was palpable, and so they completed their meal in silence. Anton became anxious with anticipation, expecting unspoken acts of violence to be visited upon him. He’d realized that, upon stepping foot into the venue, he surrendered his control to the crowd and to the band; Canceled Alcohol was a band Anton was used to listening to at his own control. He could turn their volume up, down, or truncate entire verses. The dynamic at the show would be diametrically swapped, his body now having to bend to the sway of the crowd and the ferocity of the band, which he assumed would be mighty; if his ribs were crushed, Anton was certain that the show would proceed without mercy. Alex drove Anton home, generously playing Canceled Alcohol before ultimately deciding they “weren’t my cup of tea.” Anton heard a vicious argument between his mother Marina and his brother Juan as he reached the front door. Knees shaking, he braced himself for the unfolding maelstrom. “You’re a fucking cunt!” Juan yelled. Whipping his head back, he saw his little brother and dismissed him with wave. He returned to the object of his scorn and balled up his fists. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like!” “You still have to work, Juan!” “Fuck you, bitch. I’m trying so fucking hard!” “Smoking resin out of PVC pipes with your drop out buddies isn’t effort! You don’t do anything! I didn’t raise you like this!” “You didn’t raise me at all! Abuela did! You lazy fucking bitch!” “You’re so ugly . . . you’re fucking . . . you’re just like him. You’re stupid and you’re lazy. And angry. And you’re angry because you know there’s no place in this world for stupid, lazy people.” Marina shivered and shrieked as Juan tossed a cup of stagnant water at her. She stood, frozen with indignation. “I fucking HATE YOU!” Juan made a beeline for the door, shoving Anton against the wall. Shriveling inwardly, he bit up the nerve to walk over to console his upset mother. Though Anton’s upbringing had been rife with turmoil, he failed to grasp the dialect of conflict and found himself at a loss for words. “Hey,” he said, his voice breaking. “Sorry.” Marina, wearing the humiliation of disrespect by her son, looked over to Anton with a fury scorching her face, her eyes bloodshot, her teeth jutting out from her lower jaw like a diseased dog; Anton went pale, unable to find his mother beneath her anguish. He rubbed his chest softly, hoping to nurse his racing heart back to normalcy. “I hate you!” she exclaimed. “You’re ruining my life!” Anton was fatigued from the day behind him, unwilling to contend with the mercurial tempers flaring in his house. While times spent with his mother were not all bad, he was frightened by how swiftly she could vacillate between Victim and Tormentor, just as he towed the line from Caretaker to Whipping Post. “Mom, I love you,” he said, disgusted at his impish attempt to placate her. “Yeah, your kind of love I don’t need.” She walked up their stairs, groaning. Anton took note that it was an hour and a half until doors. Despite having negotiated the ride several months prior, he was aware that it would take an immeasurable amount of consoling to get his mother to drive him there now. He’d considered his options briefly before grabbing his ticket and darting out the door to catch the number 48 bus going to Ardenton, a town he knew by reputation (their high school football team often beat his) only. The venue, he read on a worn and faded flyer, was The Empire, 1709 Waterhead Boulevard, Ardenton. (“Real Hole In The Wall Shit,” as crudely promised at the bottom.) He looked for any signs assuring him that he was on the right path, to no avail. As he shuffled through the streets, scanning the buildings for addresses, he came across a couple adorned in pelts, leather, and chains, and summoned the strength to approach them. As he neared, his eyes began fluttering, much to their bewilderment. “Excuse me,” he said, gentling his voice. “I was . . .” “Speak up, youngin,” the older woman said. “Yes, hi. I was um. I was seeing. I was. I was wondering if you knew where The Empire was?” “The Empire? Is that a store?” she asked. Her partner, a much younger woman, chuckled. “No, babe. It’s a concert place.” “I don’t know this shit.” “Sweetie, you’re gonna go up a block and two over.” “Oh, okay. Thanks . . . thanks so much.” “Who’s playing?” “Uh, Canceled Alcohol?” “Roughneck shit,” she grinned, nodding approvingly. “First show?” “Yeah.” “Fuck shit up, dude.” Her partner admonished her with a playful slap to the back of her hand. “Be careful!” she’d warned him, shaking her head. He politely laughed and walked off. Anton walked the blocks and clocked the addresses, most of the buildings’ aluminum numbers tarnished or fallen off completely. He was uncertain of the directions given to him until he noticed a procession of people walking in unison, murmuring amongst each other. Latching onto them, he made it to The Empire, a narrow building with a towering spire piercing the swiftly migrating clouds overhead. The marquee read: Princess Annie & Canceled Alcohol. 7 PM. Sold Out. A few groggy, disgruntled men wearing shirts bearing the venue’s name set up barriers, prompting Anton to look at his watch; noticing it was a quarter to doors, he grabbed the ticket and felt his heart flutter. His stomach began to churn, his mouth drying, gluing his tongue to the roof. An older, obese man began tearing tickets and allowing people inside, nodding happily at each person. Anton was swiftly approaching the front of the line, and he excitedly handed his ticket and made a beeline for the door before the formidable man’s hand blocked him. “Hold up,” he said, screwing his face. Anton felt innately that there had been a mistake, that he needed identification or a parental guardian, neither of which he had. “I gotta search you, first.” After a brief pat down, he was ushered inside. The walls were lousy with graffiti, faded stickers, and flyers from past shows. Stale cigarette smoke stuck to the walls as a reminder of past shows, the granite floor was sticky with the residue of spilled lagers. The air was thick and muggy, he struggled to catch a breath, which was exacerbated by the space becoming occupied to the point of congestion. Anton centered himself by navigating a way to the back, where there were life-size banners of Canceled Alcohol’s most recent album, Gag And Bind—a ghastly image of a dominatrix caving a hole into an old man’s head, bloody gray matter spilling onto the white backdrop, his eyes replaced with shimmering gold coins, his tongue hanging slack from his gaping mouth, spittle pouring out. As he looked at the sensational image, he felt immense feelings of guilt and desire, which he couldn’t reconcile. To his left, he saw two slovenly dressed young lovers under the spell of some dangerous pill they couldn’t pronounce, idly peeling paint from the wall, near catatonic. A tap at his bicep sent him shuddering, spinning around rapidly which elicited a laugh from the two young women who’d tapped him. Dressed in mainly all black, with the exception of some red stripes on their track pants and the white pentagrams on their shirts, one had aqua blue hair which reached just above her hair, the other had bleach blonde hair, the left side of her head shaved entirely. They both donned piercings across their face, the woman with the aqua blue wearing a nose piercing with a chain that reached to her ear. “Hi! Can you take our photos?” He obliged and took a few pictures of them: them holding their hands above their heads, them hugging, them kissing each other, them confrontationally staring into the camera with stoic fierceness. Handing it back, he smiled. “Thanks so much!” “Was that like, a photo set?” “We just wanted some photos of like, gay love. We’re a gay couple . . .” “Right.” “And we just felt like this was our non-violent protest. This was us, showing we can be gay and feminine and super sweet and hardcore and we can also enjoy the music. It’s not binary and we felt like it would be cool to show it.” “It’s for a project she’s making,” her partner explained. “She’s trying to normalize gay love by documenting it in unconventional places. This is her part where she puts us in the middle of it.” “I always show up in my art,” she said, defensive. “It’s my art and, intentional or not, I’m gonna be in it in some way or another, I can’t emancipate my expressions from myself, so I might as well implement myself.” “That’s fucking rad.” “Are you here for Princess Annie?” “Uh, no. Just . . . just Canceled Alcohol.” “They’re okay, we’re here for Annie, cause you know, they’re a really great part of the gay community in Seattle, so it’s kinda rad that they’re here.” The lights dimmed and the background music stopped. Everyone did an About Face and directed their gaze to the stage, which was massively unimpressive, being composed primarily of driftwood, electrical tape, and worker’s spit. Feet began to stamp on the ground, and aimless cheering and applause erupted. Princess Annie took the stage and the lead singer demurely waved to everyone as her bandmates readied themselves and took their positions. “Hi,” Annie Sutton, the lead singer, greeted everyone. “We are Princess Annie. And uh, we’re very happy to be here, thanks very much for having us. Um. Do you guys mind if we fuck shit up?” Her facetious request was met with thunderous approval, a mischievous grin unfurling on her face. The bass and drums began rolling out, cymbals being hit with great ferocity and Annie began to roar the lyrics to their song, The Stranger. The words were fully realized as she threw her body into the anguish of the song, her torso contorting, her arms wrathfully throttling the microphone. The orchestral hook allowed for some time to beat the device into her head, a bloody gash opening as she shouted:

If I catch you! If I ever fucking catch you! Death will be too good! But I’ll never be good! No, I’ll never be good! I’ll never be good again! I’ll never be fine again! Never go to bed again! Never again, not never again, Never again, not never again Not never-FUUUUUUUUCK Annie motioned for the crowd to make way for her to descend downwards and she gracefully stepped down. Anton was taken aback at how readily the crowd parted as though it were the red sea. Annie sewed sutures on the wounds she opened every night she sang the song which she knew would keep her honest. They washed her bloody face with love and adulation, crying with empathy, holding her to keep the panic away. She concluded the song by saying, off mic, “Thank You. Thank You So Much. I Love You So Much.” Making her way back to the stage, she sat hunched over at the edge, breathing heavily into the microphone. “Hey, our set is gonna be like me, it’s a little short. We only have about five songs left. Then you guys get to see Canceled Alcohol!” She held for applause, which filled the room. “You guys are gonna love ‘em. We’re so so so so so honored that they brought us out on tour with them, they’re so fucking cool. Really. They’re real roughnecks on stage but total sweethearts in person. They’ve even invited us to join their knitting circle.” Jessica, the drummer, etched a hammy smile on her face and played a rim shot. “This is our 49th state. First time in Florida!” “I’m sorry!” one person yelled out, which received some chuckles from the audience and an admonishing finger wag from Annie. “Hey now! We like it here. We like what we’ve seen. Well, we’ve only seen the inside of this venue. But, hey. It’s a nice venue. This uh . . . this next song is called Stupid Bitch. It’s about white guys. And please, all white guys. Don’t get upset when we play this, it’s never a good look.” Anton felt at home with the warmth of her generous stage banter. Everyone was experiencing exactly what he was, there was a truth to this moment in time and it was a sweaty, blood drenched woman believing in herself and engaging with four hundred disparate people. He knew he would never be alone if he remained in the comfort of human body odor and weed smoke. They soon left the stage which was to be empty for another forty minutes. Then, the lights dimmed once again and the crowd showed their love by bleeding their throats dry. The band swaggered on stage, and simultaneously Anton was delighted to be in proximity to such greatness and crestfallen to discover that they were a little short and appeared to be unassuming men, ready to do their job. However, once the front man, Sean, looked out to everyone, his eyes were searing and demented, striking fear. He took the pulpit and delivered his sermon:

Kill God if you feel like it, Kill me if you feel like it, Just make sure you know why, I’ll never be anything other than that which I am, I’ll only be a part of the plan, My body is a prison, Break me out of this prison, Take me out of this prison, The fury of the crowd reached a fever pitched, everyone being pushed to the front and shoving elbows into each other. Everyone edged everyone else out and a swirling vortex of pain erupted, young men in cargo shorts performing spinning kicks, their chests slamming into one another. Anton was reminded what it was like to feel vitality coursing through his veins as he was pushed into a snake pit of antagonism. He recalled placating his mother, contending with supercilious teachers, recoiling from his brother’s wrath, and how tired of it all he was. Something atavistic responded to the busted, bloody lip he suffered. He found his voice in pushing back and visiting violence onto others and receiving it, becoming baptized by pain. He screamed until his lungs felt on the verge of collapse. He knocked his head into someone else’s and gripped the back of their neck, being met in kind with an identical grip. “I love you!” he yelled, locking horns, knocking into him, shoulder first. “I love you too!” The ritual eventually petered out and the show concluded as plainly as it began, the band members departing with a cold casualness. Anton felt beautiful as he walked home drowning in a pool of collected sweat, the wind whipping against him as he shivered waiting on the bus. Creeping into his room, Anton confronted the new, primal version of himself and noticed a congealed patch of blood on his face. Removing his shirt, he was thrilled to observe the black and blue tattoos he received. The bumps, bruises, and scars served as a reminder of the fight he had to keep in his heart to refrain from timorously occupying the fringes of life. Galvanized to report on the part of the world he just saw, he swiftly grabbed the composition notebook and a pen from the computer desk, his foot anxiously tapping a hole in the ground as his hands, tremulous from adrenaline, wrote:

Tonight, I found God in the grooves of a combat boot.

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flauntpage · 6 years ago

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A Guide to Understanding All the Clichés You'll Hear This NHL Season

A real pro's pro plays the game the right way, especially in the dirty areas, by getting pucks in deep and on net while consistently making good hockey play after good hockey play with a high compete level for a full 60 every time they step on the ice.

If you have literally no idea what that means, then this guide to hockey clichés is for you.

It's often not clear exactly what commentators, coaches, and players mean when they spit out cliché after cliché during day-to-day broadcasts, media scrums, and pressers, so let us enlighten you.

These are the gems you will hear most during the NHL season, and a translation of what they actually mean.

Play the Right Way

This versatile cliché is a favorite of both broadcasters and players alike, but the media especially likes to really lean on this baby. A commentator or analyst may use it in the context of praising a mediocre talent who has no notable skills or stand-out talents but is still somehow cashing a regular NHL paycheck. Can also be used to describe a team that sucks but is very entertaining to watch.

"They really play the game the right way."

Translation: This dude and/or team can't particularly skate, shoot, pass, create turnovers, score on the powerpay or kill penalties—and really does nothing of note, ever—but they're in the NHL somehow, so, here we are.

Pucks on Net

Legendary. This puppy has been around since the dawn of time and is most often used by players during pregame and intermission interviews, where deep, analytical in-game strategy such as this is discussed.

"Ahh, we just needa get more pucks on net and good things will happen."

Translation: Uhhhh, I got my head smashed into the glass several times in the first period, so, not exactly sure what you just asked me, but I do know we're just going to take some shots on that big ol’ mesh thing over there for the rest of the game and hope for the best.

Dirty Areas

Refers to anywhere on the ice where one boasts a particular high risk of getting destroyed via an elbow, shoulder or stick to the chops. These areas include along the boards, in front of the net, at each blueline, and in the corners. They are the spots where legends are made and brain cells are murdered at a rapid pace.

"We need to get to those dirty areas and fight for those pucks."

Translation: Lol by 'we' I mean that talentless goon playing on my left wing. I get paid to score, bruh—Imma chill right here in this cozy high-slot area until you find me.

Worst Lead in Hockey

This here is an extra weird one because no one can really figure out what the worst lead in hockey really is. Is a two-goal lead the worst lead in hockey? Or is it a three-goal lead? Both variations have been used time and time again, and both variations are extremely dumb. A broadcaster and commentator favorite.

"Everybody knows a three-goal lead is the worst lead in hockey!"

Translation: l don't understand simple math, as most would agree that one goal is, in fact, the worst lead in hockey.

You Know / And uhh, but uhh

These are space fillers used when the proper words simply aren't surfacing during a presser or postgame scrum. Some guys, like Brock Boeser for instance, have gloriously taken these to the next level.

Translation: l have no idea what I'm actually saying, nor do I even, in the slightest bit, wish to speak with you right now, peasant reporter.

Heavy Shot

Another way to describe a hard shot, for some reason. Really couldn't tell you the difference between heavy and hard (hint: there's none) when it comes to puck velocity, but many broadcasters and players will drop this term when someone who doesn't look like they can shoot hard actually does.

"His shot doesn't seem that hard but it's deceptively heavy."

Translation: That dude weights like a buck-30 and shouldn't be able to shoot that hard so we need to throw another adjective in there to confuse people as much as we are.

Along the Wall

One of the dirty areas. The trenches! That large plastic wall that surrounds the entire 200 by 85-foot ice surface, AKA, the boards.

"We need to play harder along the wall."

Translation: No one on our team wants to get their skulls crushed into the boards or glass to retrieve a stupid puck. We don't care THAT much.

Compete Level

A nice, less-insulting way of saying a player and/or team sucks ass. Also dropped commonly when a player or team as a whole is extremely hungover. Compete = work ethic.

"We know we have the skill and talent but our compete level just wasn't there today."

Translation: We didn’t work hard enough to win because we logged too many hours at The Tavern last night and most were scared to piss themselves right on the ice.

Goal-Scorer's Goal

Technically, every goal that enters the net is a goal-scorer's goal because, well, the person who scored is officially a goal-scorer and that would be their goal. However, this particular term refers to those highlight-reel tallies that really only a select few players can pull off.

"See Ovi on that one? Just an absolute goal-scorer's goal there, wow!"

Translation: Player who is good at scoring indeed scores a nice goal.

He's Going to Want That One Back

Very dumb term describing a goaltender's mindset after allowing a weak or soft goal which doesn't take into account the fact that every goalie who has ever played the position wants every single goal they've ever allowed back. Another commentator favorite.

"That one slid right through the wickets. Andersen is definitely going to want that one back."

Translation: I have zero idea how to analyze goaltending so I'm just going to shit this generic saying out of my mouth because I heard someone else say it before.

Pucks in Deep

The simple art of flipping the puck into the offensive zone or rimming it around the boards (rather than carrying it into the zone) with hopes that some good work along the wall will result in possession down low. "Deep" refers to behind the net, below the goal line, and in the corners. Some of the dirty areas, if you will.

"We gotta get more pucks in deep on this defense." Translation: Let's just dump the puck in constantly and crush some opposing defenseman's skull, shall we?

Good Stick

A player who is efficient at retrieving pucks and forcing turnovers is often said to have a good stick. A skater (or goalie) with the ability to sneak in some greasy, undetected slashes, spears and trips without getting penalized is also utilizing a good stick. Also referred to as active stick.

"Ahhh, Fergy had a good stick going tonight."

Translation: Fergy jabbed some dude right in the junk without getting caught. Good for him.

Play a Full 60

A hockey game is, usually, 60 minutes long, so this is, in fact, the least confusing of any clichés we've presented here. It literally just means a team or individual plays fairly well for the entire game and doesn't shit the bed for part of it.

"We needed to play a full 60 tonight but just didn't have it."

Translation: We're way too out of shape to giver full-out for that long every night.

A Good Hockey Play

Usually refers to an absolutely egregious hit or controversial penalty that Old School Hockey Men feel is a part of playing the game the right way (see above).

"You hate to see anyone get hurt but that hit was just a good hockey play."

Translation: Though it resulted in a severe concussion and spinal cord injury, that was very entertaining to watch from the stands or in front of my TV.

A Real Pro's Pro

Basically, a player who isn't very good but he sticks in the league because everybody likes him a lot.

"Bobby's best days are behind him but man oh man is he ever a real pro's pro."

Translation: Bobby can barely skate anymore but no one, and I mean no one, organizes team benders like him. We gotta keep him around.

A Character/Glue Guy

Similar to a pro's pro in the sense that the glue guy is universally loved and does a lot to keep morale in the dressing room high, but these are the lads who specifically take on the role of trying to beat the shit out of anyone who messes with their teammates.

"Chubbs is just oozing with character."

Translation: Chubbs is a meathead and is willing to punch anyone in the face who looks at him or his teammates sideways—we love Chubbs.

Giving it 110 Percent

Yeah, this one really sucks. Rather than break it down for you, we'll let this clip from arguably the greatest episode of The Simpsons take it from here:

We Wanted it More

No, I assure you that you did not.

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports CA.

A Guide to Understanding All the Clichés You'll Hear This NHL Season published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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flauntpage · 6 years ago

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A Guide to Understanding All the Clichés You'll Hear This NHL Season

If you have literally no idea what that means, then this guide to hockey clichés is for you.

It's often not clear exactly what commentators, coaches, and players mean when they spit out cliché after cliché during day-to-day broadcasts, media scrums, and pressers, so let us enlighten you.

These are the gems you will hear most during the NHL season, and a translation of what they actually mean.

Play the Right Way

"They really play the game the right way."

Pucks on Net

"Ahh, we just needa get more pucks on net and good things will happen."

Dirty Areas

"We need to get to those dirty areas and fight for those pucks."

Translation: Lol by 'we' I mean that talentless goon playing on my left wing. I get paid to score, bruh—Imma chill right here in this cozy high-slot area until you find me.

Worst Lead in Hockey

"Everybody knows a three-goal lead is the worst lead in hockey!"

Translation: l don't understand simple math, as most would agree that one goal is, in fact, the worst lead in hockey.

You Know / And uhh, but uhh

Translation: l have no idea what I'm actually saying, nor do I even, in the slightest bit, wish to speak with you right now, peasant reporter.

Heavy Shot

"His shot doesn't seem that hard but it's deceptively heavy."

Translation: That dude weights like a buck-30 and shouldn't be able to shoot that hard so we need to throw another adjective in there to confuse people as much as we are.

Along the Wall

One of the dirty areas. The trenches! That large plastic wall that surrounds the entire 200 by 85-foot ice surface, AKA, the boards.

"We need to play harder along the wall."

Translation: No one on our team wants to get their skulls crushed into the boards or glass to retrieve a stupid puck. We don't care THAT much.

Compete Level

A nice, less-insulting way of saying a player and/or team sucks ass. Also dropped commonly when a player or team as a whole is extremely hungover. Compete = work ethic.

"We know we have the skill and talent but our compete level just wasn't there today."

Translation: We didn’t work hard enough to win because we logged too many hours at The Tavern last night and most were scared to piss themselves right on the ice.

Goal-Scorer's Goal

"See Ovi on that one? Just an absolute goal-scorer's goal there, wow!"

Translation: Player who is good at scoring indeed scores a nice goal.

He's Going to Want That One Back

"That one slid right through the wickets. Andersen is definitely going to want that one back."

Translation: I have zero idea how to analyze goaltending so I'm just going to shit this generic saying out of my mouth because I heard someone else say it before.

Pucks in Deep

"We gotta get more pucks in deep on this defense." Translation: Let's just dump the puck in constantly and crush some opposing defenseman's skull, shall we?

Good Stick

"Ahhh, Fergy had a good stick going tonight."

Translation: Fergy jabbed some dude right in the junk without getting caught. Good for him.

Play a Full 60

"We needed to play a full 60 tonight but just didn't have it."

Translation: We're way too out of shape to giver full-out for that long every night.

A Good Hockey Play

Usually refers to an absolutely egregious hit or controversial penalty that Old School Hockey Men feel is a part of playing the game the right way (see above).

"You hate to see anyone get hurt but that hit was just a good hockey play."

Translation: Though it resulted in a severe concussion and spinal cord injury, that was very entertaining to watch from the stands or in front of my TV.

A Real Pro's Pro

Basically, a player who isn't very good but he sticks in the league because everybody likes him a lot.

"Bobby's best days are behind him but man oh man is he ever a real pro's pro."

Translation: Bobby can barely skate anymore but no one, and I mean no one, organizes team benders like him. We gotta keep him around.

A Character/Glue Guy

"Chubbs is just oozing with character."

Translation: Chubbs is a meathead and is willing to punch anyone in the face who looks at him or his teammates sideways—we love Chubbs.

Giving it 110 Percent

Yeah, this one really sucks. Rather than break it down for you, we'll let this clip from arguably the greatest episode of The Simpsons take it from here:

We Wanted it More

No, I assure you that you did not.

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports CA.

A Guide to Understanding All the Clichés You'll Hear This NHL Season published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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