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'47 Dodgers

Each pinstripe represents a decade since their last world championship.

I'm on a string of conf. calls right now...

(I hate corporate America.  Really.)

chriscj83, on April 5, 2013 - 08:55, said:

cshookemHORNS, on May 19, 2013 - 11:35, said:

It's acute one, to be sure.

Maybe teams should hold official initiation ceremonies for their beat writers where they are not allowed to write about hockey until they have put on a pair of skates. So some old skates are handed out to the assembled press, they are made to skate a lap around the ice--even if they trip and fall, it's okay; players are standing by to help them along--and then when they reach the "finish line" as demarcated by a pair of sticks on the ice, they are officially allowed to write about hockey, for they have Put On Skates.

But it doesn't end there.

"Maybe they ought to take a check," a third-line winger shouts over the polite applause.

"Make 'em win board battles," shouts a thirteenth forward.

The light-hearted ceremony takes a turn for the sinister, as players and coaches start shepherding the skating writers back to their ad hoc starting line, mumbling "come on, let's go" and other such phrases which don't even begin to hint at what lies in store. "Skate, skate!", implores the head coach, as the writers embark upon their second lap along the boards. "We don't got all day!", shouts an assistant, as unconcerned with his grammar as he is with the welfare of the ink-stained wretches whose day will be one they won't soon forget.

The beat writers clumsily skate, holding onto one another in lieu of their once-helpful journalistic subjects. Their strides are graceless and tremulous. "Just like being out on the old pond, right?", a newspaper writer jokes to a blogger, trying in vain to defuse the situation. They hear behind them and on their left, "Here it comes!"

A thud is heard. The plexiglass rattles. A stanchion hints at dislodging. The other skating scribes stop as one of their own has been knocked to the ice by a well-placed body check. "Clean hit," a player laughs to the crowd. "Well, don't just stand there," he continues. They do. The winger's patience running thin, he checks each fear-petrified writer into the boards and down to the ice. The writers dutifully take their punishment, pervaded as they are by the overwhelming sense of guilt accrued from years of covering a sport they had never deigned to play. Shuddering, throbbing, fighting back tears of agony, the media contingent slowly pulls itself back up to its collective feet. Scared to say a word, they wait for further instructions from their "assignments," who have now become, at least in some sense of the word, their captors.

"I guess you can say now you've played The Game!", laughs the captain.

"Welcome to hockey, boys," adds the head coach.

The battle-scarred media, not knowing what to make of the situation, finds itself in polite applause, cutting the ponderous tension as only the waterfalls of golf claps can. They joke to one another, "some game, huh," "I guess now we really do know," "I hope our insurance will cover this!" They unlace their skates, their steel-bladed souvenirs of war, and throw them to the side for the equipment manager to round up and sharpen. In a way, one writer thinks to himself, you'd almost kind of want to take one home as a memory of what happened at the practice rink that fateful day. In another way, a way no one could have foreseen, the mere sight of an ice skate would mean a second mortgage to cover the therapy sessions. The writers trudge back to the dressing room to meet the players at their stalls for some soundbites. It seems, at the time, that the cloud of Never Having Played The Game has finally passed and given way to a sunshine of empathy and enlightenment. It seems.

"I took harder hits in junior!"

Footsteps cease. The din of friendly chatter turns to silence, which in turn gives way to anxious murmurs. The asswipe from the blog. Of course. Some people don't know when to let it go.

"Oh, you played junior?"

"You wanna talk about junior?"

"...well, it was USAHL. Or, well, a level below USAHL. I played."

He is lying.

The players are salivating like a ravenous pack of animals. This loudmouth. Shoves are exchanged. A defenseman is the proverbial Third Man In. Then comes a fourth, a fifth. The chirping blogger is quickly overtaken and thrown to the ground. Laces from the skates are used to bind his arms behind his back. A hand towel is fashioned into a blindfold. The players grab the writer, one at each end, and carry him out to the parking lot, where he is stuffed into the trunk.

"Oh, you want to talk about junior, you bitch? We'll show you what junior is all about."

The players drive for several miles, past the rink, into the suburbs, and into a nearby forest preserve. Turns are taken beating the man. Screams are heard before learned helplessness overtakes his pain, reducing him to the resigned silence of the condemned. He is stripped nude, as a mere matter of course. It's not long before critical areas of the man's epidermis are as pink as a Smithfield ham. Finally, the assault relents.

"Okay, okay. I never played the game," the man sobs. "I've never even covered hockey before. This was my first. This was. This was my first day."

The players knew this fact without his testimony, for no man who had ever Played The Game would have had the audacity displayed on the ice that afternoon. But they weren't through. If he hadn't played the game, and had no familiarity with hockey, then there was no better way to introduce the man to the game's unique culture than to supply him with a special treat.

"We're taking you to Timmy's," one of the players says.

"Who's Timmy?"

"Oh, for god's sake," mutters a player.

"And someone is waiting there for you," adds another, as a Cheshire Cat grin grows on his pockmarked, weathered face.

They drive to the local Tim Horton's, telling him that if this man were to continue to cover hockey, which in spite of the day's events he swore he wanted, there were certain procedures that had to take place. A procedure, the man would find out, that included none other than Dougie Gilmour, arguably the most rugged and Canadian of all rugged Canadians. But the blogger was aghast to discover how Mr. Gilmour would welcome him into the fraternity.

"...in...my mouth?"

"You have a better place in mind?" a player snickers.

"It's not exactly up to you," another player adds, owing to the eminently compromised position of the writer.

The car pulls up to the Tim Horton's. They enter through the back door, and the naked hog-tied blogger hopes that this will not prove to serve as a metaphor.

"On your knees!"

"Here's Dougie!"

The sounds, muffled as they may be by the ambient whirrs of donut-baking, are all too familiar to any post-pubescent male. The slapping. The heavy breathing. The hints of groans, barely held back. The endgame is inevitable, and the reality sets in. How will this man face his family at the end of this day, now night? How will he explain the late arrival, the sure-to-be-obvious limp? How will he undress for bed with these splotches and welts? How will he kiss his wife with a mouth that has unwillingly received another man's seed? even if that man was indeed the mighty spiritual leader of sports fans throughout Ontario?

"THIS IS FOR EVERYONE YOUR PEOPLE HAVE EVER WRONGED!", the man hears as the sounds of self-gratification escalate to the point where they can escalate no further. His jaw is held open to receive what he must receive.

It is there.

It is concussive in its release.

It is cloyingly vanilla.

"HAHA, WE GOT HIM, BOYS!", a player laughs. "Better give him the rest of a donut, too!" And so a plain donut is stuffed into his mouth. The blindfold is unfurled. Laughs are had. Hugs are shared. You see, the true initiation into the fraternity of hockey is simply to consume Tim Horton's donuts. The shenanigans beforehand were completely unnecessary, as they were for others before him, as they will be for those who follow. But hockey has its traditions, and we who have partaken in them know not to question them. I suppose it's obvious now.

"Now, my friend," he laughs with his arm around my shoulder, "now you can write whatever the hell you want about us."

"Now you've Played The Game."

TheSoundofThrowingPennies, on April 14, 2013 - 13:59, said:

Homie...I spent fourteen years in the service.  Don't even try to pull that mess with me.

BringBackTheVet, on April 9, 2013 - 07:58, said:

I know every day when I put on a shirt, "Tumble Dry on Low" inspires me to greatness. It's kind of become a personal slogan for me and a tribute to me, the way it captures how I really wring people out and toss them around, but warmly and gently.

End the era of white-vs-colour.  As long as teams don't have similar looks or colours, it shouldn't be a problem.  I'd love to see home and road jerseys be replaced with 'primary' and 'clash'.

Maybe they could change from the Raptors to...

*Sunglasses*

...the Toronto Saurus.

nuordr, on May 10, 2013 - 10:08, said:

The "PC Police" whine is a way for people to say "I want to be a jerk, and I'm sick of you trying to tell me I shouldn't be".

I know this has been posted before, but I wanted to share a story involving this video



My roommate is not a hockey fan. When I watch Blue Jackets games he's either watching TV in his own room, or out of our apartment, or he surfs the web without paying much attention. Hard as I tried, I just couldn't get him to care. He could probably name 2 Blue Jackets players if I spotted him Bobrovsky. He's more of a college basketball guy, which is just fine because I don't really care about that either. So the other night I played this HNIC video for him (because I've watched it 30 times and it's honestly one of the best sports montages I've ever seen). Then game 4 of the Islanders-Penguins series came on and a funny thing happened - he watched it with me. He watched the entire game with me. It ended up being the perfect game to start someone on the NHL playoffs. Major underdog, high scoring, high energy in an old barn, lots of visible talent on both teams, it was a good game, and the right team won. Last night he comes in and suddenly has knowledge of every series. He's asking questions about the teams and we watched parts of Pittsburgh-NYI and Ottawa-Montreal. And now he's asking me when they release the Blue Jackets schedule for next season because he wants to buy a 6 game pack.

One montage made him more of a hockey fan than I could in a year and a half of living with him.

Well, let's break down:

Is there some billionaire who has been in talks to buy the team?
Seattle: maybe
Quebec: yes
Advantage: Quebec

Is there a world-class arena being built to house this team?
Seattle: hopefully in a while maybe
Quebec: yes
Advantage: Quebec

And will the team be the anchor tenant at this arena, which is imperative for sufficient revenue streams?
Seattle: no
Quebec: yes
Advantage: Quebec

In the meantime, is there a suitable place to play?
Seattle: we sort of have 75% of a suitable place to play
Quebec: it's old but it's still bigger than Winnipeg's barn
Advantage: Quebec

Would you happen to own your own RSN, a virtual necessity these days?
Seattle: maybe later
Quebec: yes
Advantage: Quebec

Can you say with certainty that the team will be a success there?
Seattle: Of course! As long as you don't make us suffer the growing pains of an expansion team, I mean I think we're a little too good for that, those hoser bastards will watch any old crap but we're Seattle
Quebec: bien sur!

Wait, did someone just speak :censored:ing French.
Seattle: Wasn't me.
Quebec: Hi didn't ear anyting.


QUEBEC LOSES BY FORFEIT

WINNER: SEATTLE BY A SCORE OF A MILLION TO NEGATIVE INFINITY

The era before flacco5 signed up for an account here.

I was a teenager when the Bengals helmet was released, so I remember a bit of the uproar, and I think it's wrong to compare it to the complaints that this pile of dung is getting.  There are a number of big differences.  First, in the early 80's, there was no interwebs, no message boards, and just barely any ESPN. The talk about the Bengals' striped helmet came from your local TV sports guy, who was trying to be funny in his little 5 minute segment... show a quick image, drop a "can you believe this?" type line, and move on to the hockey scores. Other than that, it was face to face conversations, which as we all know, are quite a bit different than on line postings.  Second, at that time there wasn't even close to the creative explosion of ideas (for good or bad) we have now.  Back then, almost every helmet was stripes on top, logo on the side.  The Bengals' new design jumped out like nothing before.  But today, we are seeing crazy new "innovations" all the time. College football as dropped dozens of stupid designs on us to the point it's a bit numbing... and still, this new Jags helmets stands out as truly horrible.  That's quite a feat.

It's simple.

We re-brand the batman.

Ice_Cap, on February 11, 2013 - 12:54, said:

ahhhh i no wah be poe no moe thees jus boolsheet. Tell God and/or Jerry Reinsdorf they fire me i no care

For what it's worth, something like this would've been fine with me.

I almost can't tell which is which.

Also, in the new CBA, is there a clause that forbids the Islanders from designed alternate uniforms?

fnz, on December 29, 2012 - 18:05, said:

I could see where the phrases could get redundant, but I disagree - those who officiate best officiate least.  

Here's another lukewarm satchel of unchewable things that are pissing me off:

• The limp-penis ending of most close basketball games due to fouling, free throws, blah, blah, blah.  I get it - it could work, but stahp already with this crap.  Just because it works .00000004% of the time doesn't mean you need to employ it game in and game out.  Live and die with the game as it was meant to be played, not this tedious pong-esque hyper-deflation at the end of every competitive contest.
  
• Radio hosts who leave their guests on far too long.  Typically these are on overnight shows, and feature buffoons that call in with a point that takes about 4 seconds to expound upon, yet their bored hosts feed them questions like they've got Sal Palantonio on the line.  It inevitably startles the yokel caller, who then glibly farts out responses with all the eloquence of a stuttering, inflamed anus.
  
• People who get off on giving elaborate answers to personal trivia that you never asked.  How many times have I found myself in a totally one-sided conversation where the opposite party is talking solely about themselves, and yet each time I say something in response, it merely feeds them the precious guffmeal they need to spurt out more uninteresting anecdotes about their terribly mind-numbing life.  The essence of a true dialogue is forever beyond them, because their unyielding fascination with their own perfection is a terminal affliction cured only by masturbating.
  
• Bowl games.  I don't know or care who wins.  There's too many of them, and they're all so irreparably overladen with sponsors that watching a game feels like I'm sticking my tongue into Lindsay Lohan's cocaine-encrusted nostril.  It's like watching Lash LeRoux fight Disco Inferno for the Television Championship.  Who gives a rat's ass?
  
• Women who post every goddamn moment of their baby's lives onto facebook.  I get it - you love your children, what a unique and profoundly shocking trait, but let's face it:  babies are unpleasant to look at and mostly boring in their behavior.  Until they turn 2, most babies are the same amorphous fleshy blobs that spend their days vomiting, excreting reckless amounts of feces, squalling, and blindly fumbling around.  Nobody needs to see this except the immediate family, much less the entire internet.
  
• Shirts with attitude.  Usually you see these for sale at flea markets, gas stations, and sometimes wal-marts and other unfortunate locations where one should normally never acquire clothing.  These are shirts that say such nuggets of profound comedy gold like, "I'M LIKE MY MOTHER - I NEVER SHUT UP" or "IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU'RE STUPID," etc.  Sometimes they'll even go so far to gobsmack the text for these sassy sayings in randomly-sized fonts and if you're really lucky they'll even feature a famous cartoon character.  Nothing says "I'M FAT - SO WHAT?" like an XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXL tee featuring Foghorn Leghorn in a leather jacket telling you to go yourself.