Which Is More Desirable: A High-School Suck or a Cup-Winning Puck?

This photo presently is making the Internet rounds. That's the Boston Bruins' Tyler Seguin grinning like he remembers those two pretty fans. Only twenty years old at present, that sweet memory should still be fresh in Tyler's mind.

I suggest that this placard be hoisted to the Boston Gahden rafters to hang alongside the retired number 4 of Bobby Orr.

Let's face it: Bobby Orr's exuberant Stanley Cup–winning leap is about on par with getting one's dick sucked by two high-school girls...

That's the Way Pittsburgh Became The Bylsma Punks

Game 3 of the Flyers-Penguins first-round playoff series degenerated into a barroom brawl between cross-state rivals that love to hate each other. En route to a third-straight loss that would put them on the brink of an early playoff exit, Pittsburgh got downright dirty, prompting several fights and ejections.

Sidney Crosby—long teased throughout the league as "Cindy" for his tendency to whine, and thus positioned in Cindy's square, at bottom-right—precipitated Pittsburgh's cheap play by jabbing several time at a puck already covered in goaltender Ilya Bryzgalov's glove. When Flyers captain Claude Giroux came to his goalie's defense and pushed Crosby, the Penguins captain—who missed more than 100 games over two seasons after suffering a concussion—shoved Giroux's head into the glass and, during the ensuing fight, took a swing at him while Giroux was wrapped up by one of the linesmen.

Then, after Flyer Brayden Schenn blasted Penguins defenseman Paul Martin with a booming hit, Pittsburgh enforcer Arron Asham (Mike Brady's spot, bottom-center) cross-checked Schenn under chin, sending him sprawling to the ice, pounced on him, and punched Schenn while he lay prone. Schenn clearly charged Martin, but for Asham—well known as a fighter—to cross-check a smaller player rather than drop the gloves...and then to hit a man as he lay defenseless on the ice...is the apex of cheap play. Asham received an immediate match penalty, and later a four-game suspension.

Early in the third period, James Neal (Peter Brady's spot, center-right) left his feet and intentionally blindsided Sean Couturier with a forearm to the head, leaving the Philadelphia rookie lying senseless on the ice for several moments. Philadelphia coach Peter Laviolette was understandably furious with Pittsburgh coach Dan Bylsma (Alice's spot, center square) for allowing—perhaps even encouraging—his players to goon it up. Unbelievably, Neal received no penalty.

So, altogether now... 

 

Here's a story

Of a lanky lady

Who whines and moans and knocks away others' gloves

Cindy scores a lot of goals

But like her mother

She cries like a little girl

Here's a story

Of a coach named Danny

Who was bringing up two dozen boys of his own

They were twenty-five men

Skating all together

Yet by the Flyers they were all owned

Til the one day when Cindy came to Philly

And they went head-hunting and threw a sucker punch

That this group might play like the Corleone family

That's the way they all became the Bylsma Punks

The Bylsma Punks

The Bylsma Punks

That's the way they became...the Bylsma Punks

Too Bad There Aren't More Like Brind'Amour

Unless in reference to the likes of a world-shaking superstar, I would rarely comment on the retirement of a professional athlete—it happens too often. But Rod Brind'Amour deserves recognition for an outstanding 20-year career in which he proved himself one of the most dependable, valuable, and admirable players in NHL history.

A first-round draft pick of the St. Louis Blues, Brind'Amour learned well under head coach Brian Sutter, one of the hardest-working players ever to skate. Rod logged a first-team All-Rookie Team season in 1989-90, racking up 61 points and, even more impressively, a +23 rating.

A workaholic, Brind'Amour left a strong impression on me when the Philadelphia Flyers clashed with the Blues during his first two seasons, and I recall wishing that this hustling youngster wore the orange and black. General Manager Russ Farwell had the same wish and soon traded captain Ron Sutter and promising defenseman Murray Baron for Brind'Amour and Dan Quinn. The deal turned turned into a steal, even with Quinn lasting only 67 games in Philadelphia. Born to be a Flyer, Brind'Amour never took a lazy shift and quickly became a Spectrum favorite, even on a team in the midst of a ghastly five-year playoff drought. Not just an offensive-minded center, Brind'Amour, like Bobby Clarke, Bill Barber, and Brian Propp before him, was entrusted by his coaches with every situation. He worked the power play, killed penalties tirelessly, and developed into one of the best faceoff men of his time. 

Brind'Amour quickly became a star in the shadow of Eric Lindros and the Legion of Doom. Never as flashy as Lindros, John LeClair, Mikael Renberg, or Mark Recchi, Brind'Amour seldom received ink or screen time equal to Flyers with round numbers, but he was always there, scoring nearly a point per game for more than eight seasons—a franchise-record 484 of those games consecutively, thanks to his fanatical conditioning regimen. Brind'Amour never registered 100 points in a season, or even 40 goals, but no Flyer throughout the '90s was more reliable. In 1996-97—a subpar 59-point season for Brind'Amour (the only full season in which he would score fewer than 77 points for Philadelphia)—he made amends by erupting for a team-high 13 goals during the Flyers' run to the Stanley Cup finals.

But a pair of first-round exits over the next two seasons—even though Brind'Amour rebounded with consecutive 74-point seasons and led the team in playoff scoring both years—coupled with allegations of locker-room friction between he and Lindros fostered a deal with the Carolina Hurricanes for Keith Primeau. It was a controversial and risky trade—Brind'Amour the epitome of diligence, still in his prime, and beloved of Flyers faithful in exchange for the bigger and swifter, but perennially underachieving, Primeau, who had netted a measly 6 goals in 70 playoff games. In Philadelphia, Primeau had one good season, two strong playoff runs, and the epic five-overtime game-winner, but it was a trade that never should have been made. Brind'Amour was only halfway through his career, playing nine and a half seasons in North Carolina, becoming the Hurricanes' all-time leader in assists and points, helping them to the finals in 2002, and captaining Carolina to its first Cup victory in 2006. Along the way, Brind'Amour finally reaped the rewards of his devotion to complete play, earning back-to-back Selke Trophies. Arguably, he grew even more popular in Raleigh than Philadelphia.

Twenty seasons after first skating onto NHL ice, Rod Brind'Amour should stand in reach of Hall of Fame induction. Some may chortle, but his numbers and accomplishments outweigh Hall of Famers such as Cam Neely and leave in the corners others believed worthy, such as Guy Carbonneau. Only fifteen players have participated in more games in NHL history. Brind'Amour's 1184 points ranks 46th, ahead of several contemporary Hall of Famers, including Bernie Federko, Glenn Anderson, and Joe Mullen. His 44th-most assists puts him in similarly esteemed territory. And he's got one more Cup than five players elected to the Hall of Fame in the last decade combined.

In an era of high-priced prima donnas who whine about signed contracts, clamor for media attention, skip games because of hurt feelings, and have run-ins with the law, Rod Brind'Amour hustled his tail off, displayed exemplary character, and prospered without complaint.

Thanks for twenty great years, Rod.

When Game Day Is the Same Day As the Wedding: "I Don't"

In October 1993, I attended the wedding of a close friend. The night of the wedding coincided with Game 6 of the World Series between the Philadelphia Phillies and Toronto Blue Jays. Forced to miss much of the game during the ceremony, virtually all of the males—myself included—repeatedly shuffled between the reception and a room that had a television to watch the fate of the Phils. This Sunday evening, I must attend another wedding (ironically, of the younger sister of this close friend). Thankfully, this night falls between Games 1 and 2 of the Stanley Cup Finals, so I won’t be deprived of watching my hometown team battle for a long-awaited championship, as in 1993. But that’s just dumb luck, and circumstance easily could have contrived another catastrophe for me and fellow Philadelphia Flyers fans.

I need not even go into the pain of a Sunday-afternoon wedding in November 2003 that obliterated for us invitees a key Philadelphia Eagles conference matchup.

I understand the personal need for marriage—and I suppose matrimony still holds some societal relevance—but I believe I speak for all sports fans in stating that scheduling weddings during sports seasons has got to stop. Let’s face it: sports are undeniably more important to the American psyche than a wedding—if they were not, then Say Yes to the Dress would have the multi-billion-dollar television contract instead of the NFL, NBA, and Major League Baseball. The hard truth is that sports—like the gladiatorial games of ancient Rome—are the glue that bonds society together. America shrugs off divorce, annulment, and infidelity, but it could never survive without the emotional decompression and financial gains of its major sports. Does anybody truly prefer wearing a stuffy outfit for three hours in an overheated hall, quietly bored out of their mind, when they could be rooting for their favorite team with beer in hand and t-shirt on shoulders? Of course not.

Therefore, I propose—in the most non-matrimonial sense of the word—blackout dates in which weddings can no longer be held, thus enabling the viewing of sporting events to go unencumbered. Considering that hockey and basketball seasons essentially overlap, October through June are out, which also safeguards the World Series. Also blacked out should be September, to include the first month of football season. That leaves July and August, which are, of course, the core of baseball season. By August, the pennant races are quite serious, so forget reserving the chapel during that month. Which leaves July. Nobody really wants to attend a wedding during the Dog Days of July, but the pennant races are still up for grabs, so missing a game won’t kill you.

This idea may ruffle the feathers of the betrothed, but we’ve all wished it from time to time—including the groom. Weddings that could only occur in this one designated month would make everyone’s life so much easier: we wouldn’t have to unexpectedly interrupt our lives, there would be no traveling in winter, and everyone would be happier not having to sacrifice a game for mediocre chicken marsala and line dancing. As Spock said in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

Or the couple.


(Third photo copyright The Daily Collegian.)

Russell's Muscle Could Provide Miracle on Broad Street

The inevitable happened in South Philadelphia last Friday as Flyers head coach John Stevens got the axe. At 13-11-1, the Chris Pronger–led Flyers—expected to make a serious run at the Stanley Cup this season—had plummeted through the Eastern Division standings, losing eight of their last nine games before Stevens' firing. Replacing him is former Carolina Hurricanes coach Peter Laviolette, who led the Canes to a Cup victory in 2006. But the maddeningly inconsistent and perenially underachieving Flyers promptly got blown out in their first game under Laviolette, surrendering eight goals at home to a Washington Capitals squad playing without Alexander Ovechkin. Now a bewildering 2-5 since the coaching change, the wheels have completely come off this Flyers team, and it needs nothing short of a miracle to turn its fortunes around.

So I can't understand why Flyers brass didn't just replace John Stevens with Kurt Russell instead of Laviolette. Yes, Laviolette has solid credentials, but the Flyers clearly aren't responding to his direction and have proved themselves overmatched in nearly every game over the last month. Kurt Russell, however, worked a genuine hockey miracle in getting a down-and-out, listless long-shot to win Olympic gold. Who cares that he did it in a movie and likely knows nothing about actual hockey strategy? The Flyers would probably skate their butts off for a Hollywood celebrity—certainly more than they're currently doing for a legitimate head coach. Kurt Russell not only brings both star power and the inspirational aura of the late Herb Brooks to the Philadelphia bench—he also brings the survivability of R.J. MacReady, the machismo of Snake Plissken, the ruthlessness of Todd 3465, the courage of Bull McCaffrey, the persuasiveness of Rudy Russo, and the leadership of Captain Ron.

Once a proud and feared franchise, the Flyers, both this season and over this decade, have become an object of derision and predictable failure. But Kurt Russell could reverse all that by utilizing his rugged on-screen personas to lead this reeling squad to a surprise Stanley Cup victory. Not to mention—considering the long line of unimpressive, and sometimes absent, coiffures of such former Flyers coaches as Mike Keenan, Bob McCammon, Wayne Cashman, and Craig Ramsay—Kurt Russell would provide the franchise with, unquestionably, the greatest head of hair ever seen behind its bench, especially if he grows it back to Escape From New York length. Sure, Peter Laviolette possesses an admirable hairdo, but we're talking about the most lustrous mane in Hollywood. Let's face it: a coach with great hair is going to inspire confidence in his players—and the rudderless Flyers are playing right now like they're led by Colonel Kurtz.

And, as Hollywood's foremost eye-patch actor—he's worn an eye patch for two separate roles in three different films—Russell with one eye behind black vinyl would be the most intimidating head coach in hockey. No Flyer would dare take a lazy shift with a maniacal-looking coach prowling the bench as if it were the deck of a man-of-war, and all other coaches throughout the league would shudder impotently in his presence.



For good measure, Russell could even hire long-time squeeze Goldie Hawn as assistant coach. Not just nepotism—Hawn proved herself able coaching material in Wildcats and knows how to reach testosterone-laden jocks.

All a wild-haired, eye-patched Kurt Russell need do to lead the Philadelphia Flyers to the Cup is to look good, act mean, and reprise his words as Big Trouble in Little China's Jack Burton: "[I] feel pretty good. I'm not...uh...I'm not scared at all. I just feel kind of...feel kind of invincible," and they'd follow him through the depths of hell.

It ain't Fred Shero's "Win now and we walk together forever"...but the Flyers need a miracle-worker.

(Photo of Kurt Russell in Miracle copyright Buena Vista Pictures.)

The Curse of Cato

Sports “curses” have haunted luckless franchises almost as long as professional leagues have existed: the Curse of the Bambino, the Curse of the Billy Goat, The Curse of Muldoon, and the Curse of Billy Penn, to name some of the most infamous.

I believe it’s time to add another “curse” to that list: the Curse of Cato.

Cato the Younger (95-46 BC) was one of Rome’s greatest senators, a staunch defender of the republic, known for his honesty, integrity, and his opposition to power-hungry militarist, Julius Caesar. A man of inscrutable moral fiber, Cato would be appalled that the Ottawa Senators franchise carries as its logo not the pride of the Roman republic, but a Roman centurion—the symbol of brute imperial dictatorship. As senator, Cato devoted his public life fighting to maintain Rome’s republican principles. Such a slight to republican ideals by the Ottawa Senators angers not merely the hockey gods, but Jupiter, Mars, and the entire Roman pantheon.

The Curse of Cato is starkly reflected in the fortunes of the Ottawa Senators. In fourteen full seasons in the modern NHL, the Senators have progressed from league doormats (losing 70 games in 1992-93) to paper tigers. Ottawa has registered at least 100 points in six of the last eight seasons—and is well on its way to a seventh—yet the talented Senators fall short of the Stanley Cup every year.

Prior to the Ottawa Senators’ re-institution to the NHL in 1992 and its adoption of the centurion logo, the first incarnation of the franchise won eleven Stanley Cups as one of professional hockey’s early powerhouses. In those bygone years, Ottawa donned a truer, more honorable logo—one that didn’t mock the franchise’s very soul by featuring its political arch-enemy. In fact, it could be argued—especially after a 12-pack of Labatt’s—that Ottawa’s original logo (seen here, on the sweater of Frank Finnigan) paid senatorial homage to Cato, who was known to friends, Romans, and countrymen simply as “O.” Even if you don’t drink Labatt’s, you can’t deny that the Ottawa Senators enjoyed infinitely more success sporting their Cato-friendly logo. When Ottawa shunned that in favor of an imperial image, the Senators lost power like their Roman counterparts in the wake of the Caesars.

Until the Ottawa Senators lift the Curse of Cato by replacing that centurion on their chests with the deserving image of Cato, Cicero, or one of the Gracchi, don’t expect a parade down Wellington Street any time in the next millennium.


(Ottawa Senators' logos copyright the National Hockey League. Graphic wizardry at center ice courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)