It's Not Large, But It's Good

There's nothing quite like good news when you were kinda expecting it to be good news, but if it had been bad news it would have been really, really bad news.

Especially when it's the sort of stuff you don't want to tell people about because it's probably nothing to worry about but you're still kind of worried about it: don't want to share because it's nothing, but need to share cuz it could be something.

So my lovely wife knew, but friends mostly didn't and family definitely did not.

A couple of months ago -- heck, it was back in November -- I went for a physical. Just to get things checked out, nothing important demanding attention. But then I had to go to another office for blood work and get my blood pressure and such checked out.  Again, no big deal.

And then, in the new year, I contact my doctor to get the results. She hadn't called me, so I figure everything is hunky-dory, but it's always a good idea to follow up.

When we finally talk she tells me that everything has come back fine, but...

(And gawd knows I was not expecting a "but")

... but my heart rate is quite low. And it's probably nothing and sometimes a low heart rate is fine, but given my family history, she'd like me to see a specialist.

My father died of a heart attack years ago (one day at work, leaned over to pick something up and *boom heart attack gone* just like that) so when my doctor says it's probably nothing, I'm still thinking "Umm, no. It's something."

I checked with Stan, one of the guys on my hockey team who happens to be a doctor, happens to be a recipient of the Order of Canada, and happens to be one of just the nicest guys I know, and I asked him for his 2 cents on the matter. He told me that he's seen my play hockey, seen my heart rate go up and then come back down and there I shouldn't worry. It's good that my doctor wanted to get it checked out, but Stan felt that I shouldn't worry.

So I try not to worry.

But getting the bloody referral to a specialist takes a huge friggin' long time; as in, several calls to my doctor's office to have them chase down the specialists that are not getting back to them quick enough for my peace of mind.

Finally I see someone. He checks my heart rate, my blood pressure and also tells me that my heart rate is on the low side of normal, so let's wear a heart monitor for 48 hours and then come in for a fitness / stress test.

And the results go like this...

I do have a low pulse. Average is considered 60-90 beats a minute while at rest. My heart rate is 58-59.

At night, when according to my wife I am snoring more like a banshee, my heart rate is 35.

I happened to be playing hockey while wearing the heart monitor and my pulse climbed to 180.

And when I did their fitness test I was 58 at rest but then my pulse peaked at 166. The doctor also said he was impressed that I completed the whole 12 minutes of the fitness test.

In short, while my heart rate is below normal at rest, it shows the range that they want to see -- low at night while sleeping, goes high during exercise but then goes back to normal. He explained that if a person's pulse is low but is unable to rise with exercise, that is when they become concerned.

Oh and he also said that my low heart rate suggests that I "don't think a lot". I laughed and told him that my wife would probably agree; he then corrected himself and said that he meant I don't *worry* a lot -- that I handle stress well. I'm not sure if that's true, but I guess the heart doesn't lie.

It is strange, having a concern that you can't share. It's probably nothing, but it could be everything. I was worried that the doctor would say something like "Well, it's a good thing we caught this when we did," and I'd be told that it was a lifetime of diet and pills and very careful exercise and eggshell fragile carefulness. Knowing that things are probably okay and not to worry is not the same as being told that "Yep, it's fine. You're good. Keep doing what you're doing and go have fun."

And having that stamp of approval is pretty wonderfully awesome.

So I don't know if I'm big hearted, but I can now confirm that at the very least I am not broken hearted and from the looks of things I am good hearted.

When Hockey is More Important than Football?

(When is hockey more important than football? -- When you're playing it, not just watching it! Team reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

(Please note: there is an important contest near the bottom. Oh sure, you could skip to the bottom, but what about Paul Anka and Gordie Howe? Think about them!)

No comfy chair this week. No Starbucks. No non-existent bespectacled French librarian to be tempted by and then ultimately resisted.

Instead it's an evening of Doctor Who, some gargling and it's "Not Penicillin!" medicine, all because of a dry cough that's trying to loosen up some not-quite-green awful stuff and a sore throat that occasionally feels like razor blades when I swallow.

In other words, an evening of rumpy-pumpy with the missus is probably not in the offering.

Be that as it may, the Dragons *will* take to the ice on Sunday.

And yesyesyes the Super Bowl is this weekend and if I was feeling better I'm sure I would have started with a message about Canada's national sport and the importance of hockey over football and the start time of OUR game versus the start time of THEIR game and how after OUR game you can still manage to have wings and beer in a post-victory celebration and how it's your giant, patriotic duty to play hockey this weekend, and I would have had an attachment of many, many photos of Rosario Dawson to weaken your resolve, coupled with an mp3 attachment that would have had Paul Anka, Gordon Lightfoot and Gordie Howe singing "O Canada" in a powerful and moving Bee Gees-like falsetto.

It would have been an email of such wondrous magnificence that you would have swelled up with manly tears of empathetic hockey-loving astonishment and it would have made the siren call of the Dragons impossible to resist.

Instead it was an "oh poor, poor me, I've got a sore throat and ear infection" egocentric introduction followed by...

Gentlemen!!!

Hockey!! This Sunday!!! At a perfectly suitable afternoon start time that will allow you to play our game and then watch the other game. The Halloween start time of years past has now been karmacally balanced by the start time of this Sunday's Super Bowl weekend hockey game.

Dragons! 4:40!!! Dragons versus Black Dragons!!!!! More exclamation marks than ever before!!!!!!

And don't forget about our first ever, never-before-mentioned, probably never to be mentioned again contest as our "yes or no" summer Dragons get to vote and then potentially win a date with their choice of the sexiest woman in the world.

So far the votes for the Dragons' unofficial mascot Rosario Dawson are astonishingly low, with the surprise front runner being German Chancellor Angela Merkel, closely followed by Betty White and then a feisty third place position for Canadian chanteuse Carole Pope.

Get your votes in! But remember, your vote will be counted only when you accept (or pass) on your place in the summer 2012 Dragons roster.

So your "yes" or "no" to a summer of magnificent hockey will allow you to vote and perhaps win an evening with Rosario Dawson, German Chancellor Angela Merkel, Betty White or Carol Pope. (Contest rules to be cooked up later.)

Yes, the Super Bowl is this weekend and, yes, I am finding it difficult to talk, but wouldn't it be simply wonderful to play a game where there's the potential that I might not be able to speak louder than a sultry Jessica Rabbit-like whisper? Damn, since I've put it that way, I'd sign up myself. Pasquino quieter than usual? That would be friggin' Christmas, Hanukkah and a decade's worth of birthdays rolled together.

And there you are. The aardvark is fine, the meat was not spoiled and it was the taste of a Kit Kat that proved her salvation. So, it's all come together, hasn't it?

Enter the contest! I sincerely hope you didn't skip to the end. Start at the top if you have to.

Sunday afternoon! I'm hoping to see you there.

And apologies for the short message. I'm not feeling quite myself.

All the best,

Kevin

Dragons Attack Penguins

(When team rep's away, the team still has to play...)

My Fellow Dragons:

So, I ain't gonna be there tomorrow night.

Therefore on someone else's shoulders will lay heavy the responsibilities of making the lines, motivating the team, risk offending the entire squad with some only moderately acceptable swearing, while keeping all of it in-check with some obscure literary reference.

As a warm-up for the game and perhaps as a cheat sheet should someone need it...

Alex will be on defence with Veeg. We're tied in points with the Penguins so there's no reason not to beat them but we have to watch #29. I want to apologize for the funny way your mom was walking after the Canada Day firework excitement (if you know what I mean!). And did anyone else catch Christopher Hitchen's analysis of David Mamet's newly discovered right-wing leanings? -- American Buffalo Gets Slapped Down!

There you go. At least that'll get you started.

9:00 in # 3 against the Penguins.

And don't think of that cute little cuddly penguin from the Bugs Bunny cartoons when you take to the ice. No-no-no!

Think instead of the vicious penguins from Garth Ennis and John McCrea's "Hitman" comic book story entitled "Zombie Night at the Gotham Aquarium". And remember: zombie penguins -- they deserve no mercy.

Have fun tomorrow night. I'll be thinking of y'all taking a spiritual and symbolic bat to those red-eyed brain-hungry fiends.

Best of luck,
Kevin.

The Smell of Stinking Palms in the Morning

I had a rude awakening last Wednesday morning when my wife asked me why I smelled so foul.

“You smell bad,” she said.

“’Bad’? What do you mean ‘bad’?”

“You’ve got a stench. And you usually don’t smell. Did you shower after your hockey game?”

“Of course I did.”

“Really?!? Did you win last night?”

“No. We lost. Three-nothing.”

“Ahhhh. That must be it.”

“What? ‘That must be’ what?” I could see her immediately back away from the conversation, hesitant to say anything more. “What’s the game got to do with it?” I asked.

She at least had the decency to frown as she told me. She shrugged as she said it, as if it were no big deal. “You smell a little bit like defeat. You kind of stink of loss.”

“Oh.” I had no idea what else to say. “Oh. I see.”

“It’s okay,” she assured me. "I’m sure it will get better.”

But gone was my morning smile, my top of the morning joie de vie.

Because at that moment I realized that I had become the Lady Macbeth of hockey and no matter how much I washed and cleaned and scrubbed, it was going to be near impossible to get out this damned spot. Something more drastic would have to be done.

Never one to admit defeat (or at least not until the buzzer goes and the game is over) I have taken certain steps to help rid myself of the stench.

First thing I did, I went and bought myself a new sports shirt. Granted, the shirt was on special for $6.99, but I’m sure that even King Arthur must have thought he got a deal when he found the free sword that was stuck in the stone.

The shirt is ‘moisture wicking’, has ‘fabric breathability’ and ‘good looks on the go’. It goes by the monicker of Rec Tech Performance Gear. How could I argue with all of that? And it is brand spanking new. In other words, there is no stink on this shirt. It may not have been dipped in an oasis of victory, but it most certainly has not been dunked in a stagnant cesspool of defeat.

After buying the shirt I contemplated incinerating my old shirt. But then I realized that I might accidentally inhale some of its ashes. And ingesting some of that foul, ignoble stench seems entirely counter-productive.

So I’m keeping the old shirt in the hope that the new shirt will act an inspiration, a beacon of hope, for the old shirt and help remind it of how good it once smelled. Maybe through its clean-smelling example the new shirt will help its older counterpart find its way back down the righteous path towards victory. By doing good deeds, the new shirt will help the old one correct its ways.

As for my hockey sticks – they of the 'can’t receive a pass, can only hit the goalie in the crest and can’t put the puck in the back of the net' – I was going to throw them out or donate them to the Vancouver Canucks where they would feel right at home with all of the other sticks.

But when I mentioned this idea to my wife and asked her what she thought the shipping costs would be out to Vancouver, she commented “You mean those super-nice, very expensive hockey sticks that I got you as Christmas and birthday presents? Do you mean those sticks?”

I love my wife. And I also love receiving presents. Not being a complete doofus, I quickly realized that throwing out the sticks would be like throwing out the baby (that’s holding a gift in its chubby little hands) with the bathwater as it bites the very hand that gave it the gift. I therefore decided to re-think my strategy and instead re-taped the sticks and then cut the old tape (which had become worn and tired due to the despairing dissatisfaction of defeat) into dozens of pieces and scattered them in garbage cans all across town.

New shirt and new tape. They were definitely steps in the right direction, but they didn’t seem like quite enough.

And so, after much thought, I have decided to go the anti-REM path. I am un-losing my religion. I am going to revert to Catholicism.

Unfortunately I personally have never actually been Catholic, but I figure for this one I can tap into my ancestral roots. Somewhere back there one of my great-great-great Italian-dwelling relatives must have been Catholic. So I figure with my last name and the fact that the church is always looking for new flockers (flockees?) to join their ranks, that they will welcome me and embrace me in their pious arms.

My hope is that, after an hour or two in the church, I will then be able to approach the priest and have him exorcise the curse off of my freshly re-taped hockey sticks.

If by some unfortunate chain of events he’s one of those non-specialty priests who has to call the Vatican in order to approve an exorcism or needs to arrange with a specialist to rid my rods of their demonic demeanour, I'm hoping that the least he can do is bless the sticks, have me say a few “Hale Maries” and then send me on my merry way. If I get some wine and some cookies out of the deal, all the better for me.

But I look at it this way: the Catholic church gets me as a member for a couple of hours; and in return I get to have some holy water tossed on my sticks which will make them great for both generating goals *and* killing vampires. I figure it’s a win-win.

All right, I'm not completely ignorant. I realize that this temporary pilgrimage towards Catholicism may earn me a non-refundable coach class ticket to aitch-ee-double toothpicks, but at least it should help my team's game. And if that’s what it takes, I’ll take the risk and joyously enjoy my time on this beautiful, beautiful earth and walk in blissful, ignorant denial of my eventual fate.

It'll be worth it. Because I’ll be doing it for the team.

Victory. Sweet, Sweet Victory

I've decided: winning is fun.

And it was a week ago tonight that I came to that realization.

Oh part of the fun is definitely just playing the game, especially if you're fortunate enough to be playing with a bunch of people who are a pleasure to spend time with (because I've heard many a horror stories about teams that are driven to madness due to the poisonous actions of a couple players).

But winning is the cherry on top of the ice cream on top of the brownie on top of the Baked Alaska on top of the delicious glass of ice wine on top of the dvd of the best movie you're ever seen being held by your favorite person in the whole wide world who says, "I've never seen this film before, but I know you really love it, so let's watch it together."

That's how good victory feels. And it's even better when you've had to slush through a year of ups and downs and too many losses and yet somehow made it to the finals and then miraculously managed a victory.

Okay, "miraculously" is perhaps over-stating the matter, but part way through the 2nd period I don't think any of us were expecting to pull off the win.

But with minutes to spare in the game we tied it all up. And then with less than 2 minutes to go in the game, we took the lead for the first time.

And even when they pulled their goalie and had the extra attacker, it wasn't even close.

At the end I think we were shocked that we had won. After being behind the whole game and tying it up only to have them take the lead again and again, the go-ahead goal was astonishing. And the victory goal and then to keep the lead until the final buzzer -- friggin' astounding.

Because it had been a pretty bad season for us. A lot (and I mean A LOT) of losses. But after getting shifted from division to division and finally finding (or falling to) the right level, it started to go in the right direction.

And now, a week later, I'm still kind of amazed and thrilled and proud.

I'm fortunate enough to play hockey with a great group of guys. Winning simply adds to the pleasure.

And while it's only been a week, I'm already missing playing alongside them.

Thank god summer hockey, simply the most decadent kind of hockey, starts in a just a matter of weeks. Cuz what's summer -- with the heat, humidity and patios -- without a little bit of hockey thrown in?

See what I mean -- it's a wee bit decadent.

The Thuggery Continues (but this time, it's corporate)

I've resisted writing about the Zdeno Chara - Max Pacioretty incident for a multitude of reasons.

First of all, I wrote about the thuggery between these two teams a month ago and didn't feel the need to add to this latest bandwagon's weight.

After all, given the fights, penalties and savagery of the Bruins-Canadiens game of February 9, it could not have been a surprise to anyone that the re-match between the two teams was going to be incredibly physical. Having said that, I don't think anyone could have expected the severity of the physical damage caused to one of the players. It was an ugly incident and I simply cannot imagine anyone not being shocked and repulsed upon seeing the replay of the encounter.

But the thing is this: I don't think Chara intended to injure Pacioretty. He meant to hit him, he even meant to *nail him* but there doesn't seem to be enough history between the two players to suggest that he meant to do serious physical harm.

It was, to all extents, an accident.

But having said that...

If a player accidentally clears the puck over the glass out of his own end, he gets a penalty. If he accidentally high sticks an opponent, he gets a penalty. And if he knocks a player unconscious and gives him a serious concussion and fractures his opponent's vertebrae, he also gets a penalty.

But should the penalty be made more severe because of the resulting injuries? Even if those results are unintended? In short, should the penalty fit the crime?

According to the NHL the answer is a firm and definitive "No". The league spoke to Chara and he said that he did not mean to cause harm. The NHL looked at his record and determined that he does not have a history of being unnecessarily rough and is neither an enforcer or a thug.

Regardless of the injury, the NHL stood behind its standards and regulations and, in effect, protected Chara because players know the risks involved in the game. It was an accident and, while it's unfortunate, these things happen.

And with that decision the NHL wanted the whole thing to go away.

In hindsight one could argue that the refs made a bad call that night. But one certainly cannot argue that the NHL made a horrible call by declaring the case closed as quickly as it did.

For some reason the league refused to see or, worse yet, was unable to see that it had a political and public relations nightmare on its hands. And rather that dealing with it like managers or like professionals, the league went into Tough Guy mode.

Air Canada warned the league that they might pull sponsorship unless changes are made to prevent occurrences "involving career-threatening and life-threatening head shots".

They wrote, "From a corporate social responsibility standpoint, it is becoming increasingly difficult to associate our brand with sports events which could lead to serious and irresponsible accidents; action must be taken by the NHL before we are encountered with a fatality. Unless the NHL takes immediate action with serious suspension to the players in question to curtail these life-threatening injuries, Air Canada will withdraw its sponsorship of hockey."

NHL commissioner Gary Bettman responded by saying the league takes on-ice incidents very seriously, that he and many team representatives feel that the incident was handled properly and that the NHL will find other means of transport if necessary. Basically he says, don't try to bully us.

That Saturday on Hockey Night In Canada Don Cherry explained that the solution to the problem is to change the physical configuration of the stanchions. Which, in typical Don Cherry style, completely ignores the opinion that this was one incident in a major, collective problem. He shows how to extinguish one single burning tree and is smugly satisfied with the result while the forest continues to rage in flames behind him.

Cherry then went on to attack Canadiens owner Geoff Molson for the layout of the rink in Montreal (as if it was Molson not Chara who caused the injury to Pacioretty) and then said "You should be ashamed of yourself" to both Air Canada and Via Rail (and he also implied that the only reason that the two corporations are voicing their opinions is because their head offices are in Montreal). Like Bettman, Don Cherry basically says, don't try to bully us.

It is both amusing and sad to watch both Bettman and Cherry dismiss anyone who has a differing opinion by humiliating them and ridiculing them under an accusatory cloak of "You're trying to bully us. Shame on you."

But the icing on the cake and the moment when the collective emperors were revealed to have no clothes occurred last night in Montreal when Washington Capitals coach Bruce Boudreau rolled into town with his team and told the Montreal fans who were protesting the growing violence in the sport, "If you don't like it, don't come to the games."

Yes, he actually said that. "If you don't like it, don't come to the games."

In other words, why should we in the NHL listen to your concerns? -- If you were *real fans* you would understand that this is part of the game.

He then went on to say, "I don't want to get into a controversy, but what if that was Hal Gill that hit David Krejci? I don't think there would be a protest going on here today."

First of all: if you don't want to get into a controversy, it's always a good idea to keep your mouth shut and avoid saying things such as "I don't want to get into a controversy" because if you say anything after that statement... well, then it's already too late.

Secondly, of course it's unlikely there would be a protest in Montreal if a Boston player had been injured, but hopefully there would be the same sort of outrage back in Boston. It would be the same thing if one of the Capitals was injured in the game, then of course Bourdreau would be more concerned than the Montreal coach. To state otherwise is ludicrous.

But, more important, all of this dismisses the fact that a player was severely injured and people are worried that the worst is yet to come.

Max Pacioretty was taken from the ice on a stretcher in front of an arena filled with shocked fans. It is unlikely he will ever play professional hockey again. Many other players have also suffered head traumas this season. The perception is that this is a dangerous trend that must be stopped. And as the general managers are meeting in Florida to try to figure out the correct response, the fans are left waiting for their decisions, wanting to know what changes are going to be made to make the game safer, and wondering what has happened to the sport they love.

Corporate sponsors are concerned. Politicians are concerned. Fans are concerned. What does it take for the league to also get concerned or, at the very least, convey the notion that there is a problem and they are taking all of this seriously?

Gary Bettman, Don Cherry and Bruce Boudreau have now become the three poster boys for the league's refusal to take any thoughtful action as they thumb their nose at anyone who dares to speak against them. All they seem capable of doing is repeating the drunken parrot mantra of "Integrity of the game. Integrity of the game" over and over again.

Hopefully the league can rise above these attitudes and start to make some serious decisions. Because right now Rome is burning and these Three Stooges are telling the peasants to shut up and just eat cake.

Dragons greetings: Playoffs begin!

(Here's the weekly team greeting. I am tempted to embed the videos but I'll leave the links as is. But oh my are they foul-mouthed fun.)

My Fellow Dragons:

Playoffs my friends. The playoffs. And it's not "thuh" playoffs -- it is "Thee" Friggin' Playoffs!!

Statistically the Toronto Maple Leafs might make it, but we are already there!

"I think you're the greatest, but my dad says you don't work hard enough on defense. And he says that lots of times, you don't even run down court. And that you don't really try... except during the playoffs."

This is when we separate the men from the boys, the wheat from the chaff, and the carpets from the drapes.

"If you want to have victory, you have to grab it by its haunches and you gotta hump it into submission!"

This is the "Do or Die" of the playoffs. There is no room for doubt, uncertainty or hair tinting products because it is time to show our true colours. Time to get down, get dirty and get funky!

Ahhhh DAMNIT! Blew it. Had it right there, in my sights, within my grasp and I friggin' blew it. We should not get "funky". We should get down, dirty and DANGEROUS. See? -- That would have worked. DamnitAllToHell. It was right friggin' there! "Funky"?!? Like what the hell!?! Wrong damn word.

(Oh!! I gotta tell you this...

On the plane ride back from Mexico I watched three episodes of "The Thick of It". I don't know if you're familiar with the show but it's British and political and just really, really good. Oh and it is ear bleedingly vulgar with its language.

And, yeah-okay, as we all know I have a fairly loud and incredibly unselfconscious laugh. Now, multiply that howling King of the Banshees laugh by a factor of "Oh my god he's wearing really good noise reduction headphones!" Okay, got it...?

Now, picture the looks of horror and shock I glimpsed as I was DYING with laughter as I watched the show and other passengers are watching "The Social Network" and "The Kids Are Alright" so they can vote in their Academy Awards office pool and claim they saw the film but didn't think it was all that great and oh yeah You Saw It On A Friggin' Airplane So It Really Doesn't Count As A True Film Experience Does It Now and while they're doing that I'm watching the most funniest most rudest most vulgarest tv show in history, a show that makes "Deadwood" and Quentin Tarantino look like "Gone with the Wind" and Jane Austen in comparison.

So I'm watching "The Thick of It" but I'm noticing my fellow passengers staring at me and so I decide to be somewhat courteous and resolve that I should try to perhaps maybe kinda hold in my laughter a tiny bit.

And so I try, honest to god, I try not to laugh aloud, but as I do so I find myself shaking so hard with the laughter that I'm trying to self-contain that it's almost like I'm having a seizure. I am laughing so hard and trying so hard to keep it On The Inside that it must look like I'm having convulsions. And at this point I'm expecting the stewardess to come running down the aisle and give me a stick to put between my teeth so I don't bite my tongue off as she cuts into my leg and sucks out the snake venom that is obviously causing these convulsions -- that is how hard I'm laughing.

And I would love, simply luv, to share some of the bits from the show with you, but I realize some of you might be reading this at work, so for a taste go here for Tucker's Law...

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=malcolm%20tucker

And, yes, if you dare you can go here too...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ULrsPgAToBU&feature=related

But let me once again warn you that it is foul. And not like 'Daffy Duck fowl' but foul like 'George Carlin is sitting up in his grave and applauding cuz it's so foul' foul. There is a tremendous use of the "c-word" and I do not mean Christmas or Chlamydia.

You have been warned.)

DRAGONS!

We are up against the Bulls who you guys friggin' Ka-Rushed on February 13th. I have it on good authority that they then spent the entirety of the next day searching through Facebook for old girlfriends who they would then desperately attempt to contact in order to find out if they ever thought of them, if they still thought they were special, to just kinda ask what went wrong and maybe just maybe they'd like to get together for a drink so they could, yknow, just talk.

Gentlemen, you friggin' massacred their Valentine's Day and made each and every one of them courier teddy bears across the country to each and every woman they had ever hurt, offended or led astray and you made them BEG for their forgiveness. It was a 12 Step Program of romantic atonement and emotional devastation that you forced upon them!

And because of that, this Sunday they are going to be very dangerous.

So, be prepared for a game where these guys are gonna be pissed and angry and are going to be looking for a 50% discount on their post-Valentine's Day candybox of revenge. Therefore allow us to frustrate #11, 13 and especially #33 and grant them the opportunity to make stupid mistakes and take dumb penalties. Let us give them the opportunity to turn against one another like rabid guinea pigs as they fight over the table scraps of vegetable produce that we cast down to them. Let us watch as they squeal and bicker and, ultimately, lose.

Let us, in short, take them down to Funkytown.

I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.

Get ready for the playoffs,
Kevin.

Summer Dragons invite

(It's only February but my team is already prepping for summer hockey. And my invitation / reminder even had a Feb 14 theme. After reading this, wouldn't you want to play...?)

Yeah-yeah-yeah, I know...

It's cold outside and it's mid-February and you just realized that it's that it's February 14th on Monday and you're in a friggin' panic trying to figure out what the hell you can get your sweetie/significant other/hot co-worker/imaginary partner for Valentine's Day.

May I make this suggestion...

Give her the gift of Dragons summer hockey.

With this gift you will be able to say, "Honey, I love/adore/admire/kind of like you so much that I'm willing to give you the night off. For the entire summer. One night a week I will get out of your hair and let you have the place all to yourself. I won't bother you. I won't be underfoot. It will all be your own personal time. This is how much I love/adore/admire/kind of like you: I will even show you how to operate the remote control so you can use it all on your own to watch whatever you want on your night off. One night a week. Every Tuesday. It's my gift to you. Happy Valentine's Day. I love/adore/admire/kind of like you."

There you go. Problem solved. Happy friggin' Valentine's Day.

GENTLEMEN!!!

This summer! Tuesday night! Dragons hockey!Yes or no?

Are you willing to take to the ice when everyone else is requesting ice for their drinks? Are you willing to wear shoulder pads, knee pads and woolen socks while everyone else is skimping down to summer skimpiness? Are you friggin' man enough to say "Hell yes! I play hockey in the winter AND I play it in the summer! I play the sport I love every gawddamn season of the friggin' year. Cuz that's what being a gawddamn Canadian means! Americans can have their guns and their limp-wristed beer and their hot former governors from Alaska who scare the beejeezuz out of me and kind of turn me on at the same time. I would rather take my powerful, tasty, knock you on your knees after six of them Canadian beer, my minority federal government, my homegrown (from every country in the world) friggin' beautiful women and my year 'round, every season, hot-cold-raining-snowing gawddamn hockey any day!!"

So, yes or no?

Let me know asap. Which kind of means "now".

Much thanks. Enjoy your weekend. Be kind to people. Especially people who are bigger than you and have been drinking.

Bruins Canadiens thuggery

I'll state this right up front: I think fighting in NHL hockey games is stupid.

Stupid, unnecessary and the absolute lowest aspect of a terrific sport.

I've had debates with people about it. One guy even explained to me that obviously I just don't understand the game (he hasn't seen me play every week with my team and see how well we play -- or perhaps he's saying that because he *has* seen me play. I guess that's an 'either-or' kind of thing.)

I understand the rough physical nature of the sport. A good solid body check is a beautiful thing to behold. And because of that physical aspect of the game, the NHL is hesitant to take action against head shots and the concussions that can be the result. They seem to collectively shrug their shoulders and say "It's part of the game."

And heaven forbid the NHL ever do anything to stop the fights that occur on ice. No other professional sport has fights the way hockey does and fans seem to eat it up; therefore, once again, the league doesn't want to do anything to keep it controlled. After all, it's the fights that allow clips of the game to play on sports networks. It goes like this on the sports clips shows: "Here's a tiny bit of hockey, here's a nice play, here's a nice goal and WOW look at the fight that broke out during the game! Let's take a good long look at that fight!! WOW!!"

Last night's game between the Bruins and the Canadiens is sure to have all the sports shows buzzing, not because it was an exceptionally good game, but because it had 192 minutes in penalties.

A regulation game lasts 60 minutes. This game had 192 minutes in penalties between the two teams. Any way you do the math, that's a lot of penalties.

But the worst of the night came from Boston player Gregory Campbell. In his fight against Canadien Tom Pyatt, Campbell is seen taking his elbow pad and swinging into Pyatt's face. (I honestly don't feel like embedding the video, but it occurs at the 4:14 mark here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KEz0khSQtk0 if you're inclined to take a look.)

Pyatt gets a punch in, Campbell yanks Pyatt's helmet off and he then starts whaling at him with his elbow pad. It's difficult to see if Campbell even made contact with his fist or even tried -- he just gives Pyatt uppercut after uppercut with the elbow pad.

And make no mistake: elbow pads are not soft and they are not foamy -- they're like bumpers on a car. So, imagine someone ramming your face into a car bumper over and over again. That's what Campbell did to Pyatt.

I don't know the history between the two players and I don't care. What Campbell did was disgusting and thuggish and criminal.

If fighting is a necessary part of the game (and it's not, because if it was, there would be more fights during the play-offs) then let the players fight and break their hands and ruin their careers. But when a player uses a piece of his equipment to attack an opponent, it's like using a weapon.

It's a deplorable and sad part of the game when something like this happens.

And as you may notice, no one will take note of it. Because it will make the sports channels. And that's all the NHL cares about.

After the universe's sneeze

(Here's the team greeting. My lovely wife and I actually did manage to have our First! Ever! evening alone in our own house, but then...)

My Fellow Dragons:

I've got some good news and some bad news.

The good news: I'm now below 200 pounds! I hopped on the scale this morning and I was 199.5 pounds! And it's been so easy to do! I simply haven't eaten since Tuesday!

The bad news: I've had the flu. I've had no appetite. And one of the after effects of the flu has been a facial infection that has me on antibiotics with the doctor's warning "If it gets worse by Saturday or there's no improvement by Sunday you need to go to the hospital for an i.v. of antibiotics."

It has been a week of "Typhoid Mary Meets Piotr the Plague Master" at the household: I had to do a quick bail on Sunday's post-game victory drinks because my lovely wife was sick and, as it turned out, I had to rush her to the local clinic because she came down with horrendous strep throat. Geel, who had a fever Saturday night when he was off skiing with friends, had to go to the doctor on Monday because he also developed strep throat. And Zed still has the cold he came down with last Friday, but last night it came with an ear infection.

As for me, I was feeling like a million bucks until Monday night around nine o'clock when I began feeling chilled, I started shivering and my teeth started chattering. I then spent the whole sleepless night sweating through t-shirt after t-shirt and pissing like a race horse. That was Monday. Tuesday was sleeping all day. And Thursday was yet another trip to the doctor because my glans were swollen and my cheek and the upper bridge of my nose were sensitive to the touch. Hence the antibiotics and the "get to the hospital if it doesn't get better" suggestion.

The only cool thing about all this is that I have no appetite whatsoever and my usual "I'm hungry therefore cranky" state of being has been eliminated. I am completely and utterly indifferent to food. Today is the first day I'm kind of hungry, but up until now it's been lots of liquids, the occasional banana and piece of toast and tons of Gatorade. The last full meal I had was Monday night's leftover steak and garlic mashed potatoes from Saturday's evening out.

All of which is a long-winded explanation of why it's damned unlikely I will be playing Sunday. It would be foolish to even contemplate playing but (a) we're off to Mexico and if I miss this game I won't be playing for three weeks, and (b) I'm too dedicated/stubborn/stupid to take a stand today and say I cannot play on Sunday.

Unless of course I'm in the hospital with an i.v. in my arm. I guess that would be a pretty good excuse for not playing. Oh if only there was a doctor reading this e-mail who could give me some guidance!

This Sunday is a re-match against the Zulu's. They skunked us 4-0 in our last outing, but they were recently beaten by the Beer Raider 6-2 and we just beat them last week, and last Sunday they lost to the Tiger Sharks 5-2 who we also demolished a couple of weeks ago. They are on a three game losing streak; we are on a three game winning streak. Momentum is in our favour.

In other words: revenge will be ours and tears they shall cry into their collective losers' beer!

I'd like to say I'll be joining you, but as you can see it is most unlikely. I'm hoping a bunch of you still have the team roster I forwarded a couple of weeks ago. Please make sure the names and numbers are all correct.

And that is all. Please let us know if you are unable attend -- and hopefully your reasons are healthier than mine.

Stay well,
Kevin.

Universe smiles and sneezes

(Last week's Dragons greetings. It's ironic how things later played out. But that's another tale. But on Sunday we won the game 4-3.)

My Dragons:

Sometimes the planets move into perfect alignment and the universe smiles.

This weekend Gee is heading skiing with friends of ours. The little monkey likes to ski and we've got friends who (a) have only one son who happens to be the same age as our boy who, (b) enjoys Gee's company and (c) they happen to be really, really nice people. They took him skiing with them for a couple of days during the Christmas break, they all had a great time, and so they've invited him again this weekend. It's very, very kind of them.

And, on this exact same weekend, a friend of Zed's (who came up from our old neigborhood for his birthday party) has invited him for a sleepover. We're dropping the boy off Saturday afternoon.

None of it was planned. None of it was organized. It just happened. It just clicked together. Therefore, look if you will at this equation... Geel away for the weekend + Zed away for the evening = parents at home on their own for the first time EVER!!!

An evening that will perhaps consist of a delicious restaurant meal, perhaps to be followed by an Academy Award nominated movie, and then perhaps to be followed by... well, we'll see how if goes; if nothing else, at the very least we will be able to sleep-in Sunday morning.

An all-adult, child-free evening! No looking at the clock and worrying about the babysitter, no need to concern ourselves about what the boys are doing, no need to answer the youthful question "What are we going to do today?" First! Time! Ever!

But, as so often happens, the universe, after aligning the planets perfectly, smiles, then giggles, then laughs, and then emits a guffaw of potentially teasing cruelty.

Because it was then that the sneezing began.

Last night Zed starting sniffling. And his nose started running. And he woke us up at two in the morning because he was so congested that he couldn't sleep. And today it's kleenex after kleenex after kleenex.

He is drinking lots of water and he looks pretty good. He is in good spirits as he sits and watches tv. He is close to being on the mend after a quick and moderate cold. But is our weekend of wonder and joy now shot to absolute and total craptitude? -- I guess tomorrow will tell the tale.

So, come Sunday if I'm smiling it might be for a multitude of reasons. It might be because he got healthy enough to visit his friend; it might be because my lovely wife & I had our first in-house child-free night EVER; or it may simply be in account of victory...

That's right, Dragons victory is yet again on the horizon.

This Sunday at 5:15 down at the MasterCard #3 we play the Toronto Beer Raiders. Their name suggests that they don't pay for their own drinks. When means they're cheap Scottish basterds who must be destroyed. (Of course I derive my knowledge of the Scottish people from a Kids in the Hall sketch
and if the Kids in the Hall can't be trusted, who can? It's because of KitH that I hate the Swiss and know the answer to the movie title you can't remember is "Citizen Kane! Citizen Kane!! It was CITIZEN KANE!!!"

So, a weekend of potential child-free pleasure followed by potential victory. How big will the grin on my face be at the end of the day on Sunday? -- Well, we'll see if the universe smiles or just laughs its teasing, tantalizing butt off. Time will tell.

So if I'm grinning before the game on Sunday, you'll know why. And if I'm grinning after the game, we'll all have reason to be grinning together.

Education of a Young Man

(Please enjoy the weekly hockey reminder that I send to my team. One of the guys suggested "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life". My team is brilliant.)

My Fellow Dragons:

So, last night my wife and I are watching "The Big Bang Theory" with our boys. Gee, soon to be 11, loves the show and Zed, now 8, likes it but usually laughs because we laugh and then asks "Why's that funny?"

The show is on at eight o'clock. They deal is they watch it and then head straight to bed.

Usually the show is okay, but last night's was ruder than most. A lot ruder.

The episode had the four guys and three of their lady friends heading out of town for a conference. So far so good. But when they get there, one of the character's girl friend bumps into her old boy friend, so of course the issue of penis size is alluded to; and there is a discussion that occurs because one of the guys has to sleep with his old girl friend, and she warns him that nothing is going to happen below the waist and he then replies that there's lots of fun they can have above the waist; and this then wakes up one of the other characters and he asks if the others are going to engage in "coitus".

All of this on a friggin' show that is on at 8:00.

I'm no prude (at least, "velvet-covered vibrating spanners of tantric delight" I don't think I am), but damnit at eight o'clock I'd like to watch a comedy without having to explain why it's funny when one of the male characters smiles happily when he gets into his hotel bed with a box of kleenex beside him -- and then the joke is revealed that he is going to have a good cry while watching "Bridget Jones' Diary".

And the kicker is my wife then says to me after we've tucked the boys into bed, "Have you had a sex talk with Gee yet? Because you should. He's going to be eleven soon. Or I could do it if you'd like." This coming from my lovely wife who always says "I could do it if you'd like" when there's a dead mouse in a trap or a clogged toilet to be fixed and later tells me "Oh thank god you did it. I could have done it, but I would have thrown up."

(Which is not to say that my wife would throw up having the 'Sex Talk' with my son. I'm sure it would be a lovely and inspiring mother/son discussion. But I know when I hear "I could do it if you'd like" it really and truly means, "I could do it, but please be the man and step up to the plate on this one.")

And I don't mind the idea of having THE TALK with the boy. I've already had THE WARM-UP TALK a couple of years ago when I explained how I was previously married and divorced many years ago. So I think THE TALK will be fine.

But the thing is this: I want to explain the *logistics* of the whole thing (Tab A goes into Slot B) and all of the *emotions* that go with it and the *physical responsibilities* because of STDs, potential pregnancy and other stuff, but I really, really want to somehow convey the fact that the *whole thing is just so just so much damn fun*. And, as a distant relative once kindly pointed out, if you play your cards right sometimes you don't even have to pay the woman!

I think, what I'll do, is explain it as if it's hockey. I will use our favorite sport as an analogy for the challenges and pleasures of sex. I will try to bring my passion and fumbling understanding of the game to the forefront as I try to explain the passion and fumbling complications of sex. For instance...

This Sunday! 3:25!! Rinx 2!!! Congrats on last week's victory and ending our long dry spell. Please make sure your equipment is fine tuned and ready for use (i.e. logistics). We're going to get into it with the V's. We've played with this bunch of girls before (physical responsibilities) and they're coming off a 8-3 bruising last week so they're going to be feeling fragile and on the rebound and therefore will have to be handled with care (i.e. responsibilities and emotions). Let's treat these little girlies with respect, but give them a thorough and satisfying pounding and I'm sure we'll come out of there grinning from ear to ear (i.e. whole thing is damn fun). Oh and please remember that they're all a bunch of whiny bastards who enjoy flying to Newfoundland so they can personally harvest their own baby seal pelts and then wear handmade fur t-shirts under their hockey sweaters SO THEY MUST BE DESTROYED!!!

Ah crapdamnitccrap. I'm gonna have to work on that. Baby seals and sex rarely go well together. I'll have to find another approach. Or maybe I'll just do what my distant relative suggests and let Gee watch "Sleepless in Seattle" and "Showgirls" and then he can figure it out on his own. That still has gotta be better than having his mother explain it to him; she'd do a great job, but I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that one. Damnitcrapdamnit.

Sunday afternoon!!! Hope to see you there. And get angry over the slaughter of those seals.

Kevin.

Life, Hockey and Ice Cubes

(As team rep for my hockey team it is my responsibility to send them a weekly e-mail which gives the details of where and when our game takes place. It could be a brief two-line reminder; it rarely is.

Below is what my team got to read last week...)

Dragons!

As I'm glancing at the Globe & Mail's web site this morning, I noticed the five most popular stories in their Life section...

MOST POPULAR STORIES

1. Is it okay to share your bed with your pets?
2. Should circumcision be outlawed? 'Intactivists' think so
3. Jan. 14: Your daily horoscope
4. I’m haunted by my girlfriend’s past
5. Why your zodiac sign might have changed

And I can't help but think that a lot more women must read this section compared to men. Because while the article on a man's penis and the article on the relationship said penis has with his girlfriend's past should be the *top two* stories, somehow the article about sharing your bed with pets is numero uno. Also included in the top 5 are two articles on horoscopes: most men care about horoscopes as much as they care about Sears having a sale this weekend.

Nowhere to be found are articles on breast implants, hangover cures or how long you have to stay awake after you've done your honest-to-god very, very best to care for your partner's sexual needs. Somehow men's priorities and concerns are not being properly addressed. I can understand how the on-going and neverending debate on circumcision can be an issue for men but isn't it more important that our penis is happy no matter its shape, size or posture?

After all, a happy penis makes for a happy man.

Allow me to illustrate: Picture, if you will, an ice cube: alone, untouched, unloved. And now, picture a beautiful woman taking that ice cube, gently cupping it in her hands and then slowly putting it into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around and smiles as she feels the chill turn to warmth. Her eyes sparkle with satisfaction and knowledge at what she's done.

Phew. I don't know about you, but I'm already feeling better at the thought.

And yes, obviously, that ice cube represents the now-growing value of your RRSPs. Congratulations on those long-term investments finally paying off.

It's that simple. More articles like that in The Globe and Mail and more men would read their friggin' Life section.

And not one mention of hockey in their Top Five!!! How wrong is that?!?

This Sunday you will be beating the TS. Envision your victory and their humiliating defeat (you can come back to that ice cube imagery later). At this very moment, picture yourself thrilled as you triumphantly leave the rink. Now, hold onto that image and treasure it until you exit the game Sunday afternoon.

And the arithmetic is simple: the TS played the Voy last week and lost 5-1; we've played the Voy and lost 1-nothing and tied 3-3; ipso facto, statistically we are the TS's superiors not only on the ice and spiritually, but also in the bedroom because they are the sexual equivalent of a pot of limp, overcooked linguini in a cold and frustrated clam sauce compared to ourselves who are, of course, velvet-covered vibrating spanners of tantric delight. And, as I always say, you can't argue with math.

Alas, with heavy heart, I will not be joining you in victory this Sunday. Yes, in the 21st Century version of Rock/Paper/Scissors, eight year old's birthday party trumps Dragons. Laser Quest and chocolate cake awaits for me on Sunday afternoon; but at that exact same time Victory shall have her arms open wide as she awaits for your glorious return. Who knows, she may even have an ice cube in her mouth.

Best of luck on Sunday,
Kevin.

The Hockey Scarecrow

I sometimes hang my hockey equipment outside.

And to be honest, it's not as romantic as it sounds.

I would like to say I put the equipment outside because there is a definite need to air it out, but, being a guy, I have never felt an overwhelming urge to freshen it up. I could, to be embarrassingly honest, just leave it alone and let it grow more and more disgusting and eventually cast it aside and buy knew equipment. Much in the same way that bachelors are eventually forced to buy new dishes.

More than anything the equipment gets sent outside because it's good for peace in the family. When my wife says something along the lines of "Wow, does that ever stink" it's a good idea to actually do something about it.

(It's a none too subtle hint along the lines of a co-worker saying to you "So, when did you run out of deodorant?" -- if you do nothing, you risk the other person taking action into their own hands.)

This morning, when I brought the equipment in to avoid the rain, Zed asked if it was outside to act as a scarecrow. I thought that was an interesting image -- my equipment guarding the backyard against aggressive birds and raccoons that were interested in scoring on our house -- and I should have asked Zed to elaborate. Maybe tonight I will.

Instead I explained why it was exiled to the great outdoors and asked if I had ever shown them how sweaty my socks are after I take off my skates. I thought, y'know, just from a strictly scientific point of view that they might find it fascinating to see how drenched with perspiration one can get after a game.

I explained to them that "It's interesting, but disgusting."

And with very little hesitation Gee laughed and replied "I don't like those two combinations."

Now, one would think after years of reading Robert Munsch that the idea of some truly smelly socks would make them at least a little bit curious to touch the real thing. But that is apparently not the case.

Apparently 'interesting' would be fine. 'Disgusting' would be fine. But put the two words together and my boys lose interest.

Into the playoffs

(And what was extra nice was that we won 4-2. And I managed to score. For someone reason, winning and scoring a goal helps to make everything feel better. I'm not sure if that's childish or if it's just life.)

Dear Daring Dragons:

This Sunday at twelve o'clock will be High Noon for the frankly disgusting Screaming Eagles.

Now, you know that I don't like to tell tales about other teams, but the Screaming Eagles are known to go to funeral homes and make farting noises with their armpits.

They have been known to eat beans and cloves of raw garlic for lunch, make dinner reservations at expensive restaurants and then proceed to 'stink out' their fellow diners.

And they are known to make plans to visit your female relatives, send them exotic lingerie in order to build the anticipation and then cancel the rendezvous by texting them!

There are other disgusting things they are known for doing -- having to do with baby rabbits, beetle dung and duct tape -- but describing the horrible scenes of depravity would probably cause you to ralph on your keyboard.

Need I say that we must beat them on Sunday? -- If not for ourselves, but for the sake of our civilization?

Sunday. Noon. Rinx 3.

AND AS FOR SUMMER...

The cost is going to be approximately $275. There are still a couple of players that are question marks and pending and uncertain and other words of a 'maybe yes maybe no'

variety. Therefore the cost may change. But that's a darn good estimate.

Bring a cheque on Sunday. Or do that Interac-esque transfer thing. But do it now!! Otherwise you'll forget and I'll get upset and it will result in someone in tears. And it's tough to play hockey with your eyes stinging and swollen from crying. You know what I mean.

See you Sunday,

Kevin.

The Game That Will Decide

(Every week I send out a reminder to my hockey team about when and where we are playing. The time changes and the location changes each week. I sent this out Friday night before the Olympics match...)

I was tempted, sorely and most severely tempted, to send this e-mail in three hours or so.

Which would be *after* tonight's game which will decide who battles the Americans for the gold medal in hockey.

And the e-mail would be witty and eloquent and insightful and all of those P.G. Wodehouse kind of things.

But then, with a realization of Deadwood and Mamet eloquence, I thought "Fuck it" and decided to send it now.

Gentlemen. Dudes. My fellow Dragons: we are blessed -- *blessed* I say -- with a late evening game this Sunday.

Some might say that late evening games are a bitch because it's impossible to fall asleep before two in the morning because you're so incredibly wired after you've played a fabulous game.

But this week our game time is a gift from the Gods of Hockey (Howesky? Orrmieux?) because we will be able to watch the final Olympics game and then take to the ice ourselves. Blessed are we who can enjoy the battle for the gold, drink a bunch of beers and then still have time to consume a ton of coffee in the feeble but noble attempt to sober up and prepare for the Dragons game.

Sunday 10:20 Rinx 3.

The final game of the regular season.

The game that will decide our position as we head into the playoffs.

The game that will decide whether blueberries or broccoli is the more healthy food.

The game that will decide whether Raquel Welch or Julie Newmar is the ultimate '60s sex symbol.

The game that will decide whether Betty or Veronica would be better in the sack.

The game that will decide whether Greece's economy will stabilize or collapse like the will power of a nymphomaniac at a Chippendales convention.

The game that will decide whether or not I can keep doing these thing all night or will eventually give up and have some chicken wings and watch the Canadians in the semi-final match.

Gents, I hope to see you Sunday.

Bettman sings "Blame Canada"

Gary Bettman, NHL Commissioner and Guiding Light For All Things Professional Hockey in North America, does not want his league’s players to play in the Olympics.

Depending on the weather, he says it’s because of money. Or he says it’s because the Olympics cause the regular season schedule to shut down. Or he says it’s because of the owners and empty arenas. Or because he's worried about players getting injured at the Olympics. Or he says it’s “about the competitiveness of the season.”

But I think the real reason is this…

It’s all about the NHL making in-roads into the United States.

Everything originates from that one key and essential goal: how can the NHL be more popular in America? How can the current teams survive? How can we get more teams? And how can the we get hockey onto a major American network?

But, much like I would love grow another three inches in height and be six feet tall, that new found American adoration of hockey is just not likely to happen.

There is a terrific article on gawker* about the Canadian/American hockey game.

The great quote is this: “Not caring about hockey is a cherished American tradition, up there with starting to follow baseball right before the playoffs and being vaguely aware of how your alma mater is doing in the NCAA tournament.”

Americans, on the whole, don’t like hockey. They don’t get it and, perhaps more important, they don’t want to get it. They like the fighting and the body checks, but the skating, the passing and the 'watching a bunch of guys chase around a little black disc' holds no appeal for them.

But somehow, Bettman is going to convince Americans to like hockey. It is his Holy Grail: the goal of creating awareness and hockey luv.

And so, his greatest fear has to be this: the final game for the gold medal is Canada versus the U.S. -- and the Canadians win!!

Regulation time, overtime, shoot-out – it doesn’t matter. Canada wins, we go crazy with a patriotic frenzy usually only reserved for European soccer, and then the Americans care even less than they did before.

The NHL is now stacked so that it’s incredibly unlikely that two Canadian teams will compete for the Stanley Cup.

But the Olympics could create a Canadian vs. American finale.

And Bettman certainly doesn’t want that to happen.

* Reference made to Gawker found at http://gawker.com/5476851/everyone-cares-about-hockey-all-of-a-sudden?skyline=true&s=i