Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

The wonders that a little overcooked Ovechkin goal celebration will do.

Thanks to his too-hot-to-handle 50th goal celebration the other night, the likes of the esteemed Thomas Boswell have seen fit to wade into the fray and comment about the game of hockey.

Boswell is a well-respected sports journalist, and the author of one of my favourite tomes on the great game of baseball, “Why Time Begins On Opening Day”.

Apparently he has a new book in the works, “Why The NHL began with Alexander Ovechkin”.

And maybe it did.  Maybe the creative, hot-dogging talents of the Russian sniper are what the league has been sorely lacking.

Ovechkin’s antics in Tampa no doubt made a number of sports highlight shows across the United States, which may have been the first time some of these programs lowered themselves to talk about hockey, other than when they get atop their moral high horse and show the shocked masses a hockey fight.

American hockey fans are as passionate and as knowledgeable about the game of hockey as any Canadian fan is, and they’d be the first to tell you that the overall coverage of the game is spotty, at best, in the lower 48.

Up here in the Great White North, one gets a sense of that when listening in to ESPN All-Night, which delves into detailed breakdowns of everything pertaining to football, baseball, basketball, college football, and college basketball, but offers nary a word about hockey.  And since one can’t listen to the program all the time, if they have done a segment or two on hockey, it pales in comparison to the coverage of those other sports.

And that’s the way it should be.  ESPN would go out of business fast if they didn’t tailor-make their program to suit the tastes of their audience.  For that same reason, TSN up here in Canada doesn’t devote a large part of their updates to cricket, even though there’s a growing, passionate audience for the sport in this country.

The plight of the American hockey fan is further underscored by the patchwork of cable television access to the Centre Ice package and the NHL Network.  Having manned the phones for the call-in portion of the NHL Hour with Commissioner Gary Bettman here on the NHL Home Ice, I know first-hand the constant frustration that U.S. fans have with gaining access to these services they are eager to pay for.

Depending on the market, some have the services, while others are patiently waiting, even though that wait appears to have no end.

Maybe the theatrics of AO is enough to convince those broadcast barons still holding out that NHL hockey is enough of a money-maker for them to include it in their overpriced, watered-down cable bundle.  The NHL will never come close to equaling the other major U.S. pro sports, but so what.  It is a niche product, one that appears to still be growing, and if handled properly, there’s money in dem der hills.

So, as Thomas Boswell basically writes in his column today in the Washington Post, the fans of the NHL should be rejoicing in the rejoicing of Ovechkin.  Time to drop the conservatism that has shrouded this league for years, and get with the other big time sports.  Time to act like you haven’t been in the endzone before.

What irks me is not Ovechkin and his pretty slamdances into the glass after a goal, or his Jimi Hendrix impersonation the other night.  I can live with it, though I don’t believe that all his celebrations are unplanned.  I’m not a Washington fan, so while I appreciate the beauty of most of his goals, I’m not cheering for the guy.  Yes, he’s good for hockey, but he’s not hockey.  Bobby Orr wasn’t hockey, neither was Wayne Gretzky.

What does irk me is two-fold.

First off, is the defensive reaction of a large contingent of Washington Capitals fans who believe that Ovechkin is above criticism.  Now granted, having motor-mouth Don Cherry take on Ovechkin does make one want to circle the Ovechkin wagons as well, but one has to rise above such pettiness.

Ovechkin is one of the true superstars currently at work in the National Hockey League, one of the few players people will pay good money to watch, even if they’re marginal hockey fans.  Regardless, he is still a member of the Washington Capitals, not the Harlem Globetrotters.  The opposition is, well, it could be the Lightning, or the Thrashers or the Rangers, they’re not the Washington Generals.

It’s alright for opposing fans to boo the guy.  It doesn’t mean they’re bums, or have no class, or don’t understand the game of hockey, or don’t appreciate what a stud like Ovechkin brings to the sport.  Rather, it means that they are fans of their home team.

Don’t worry that Thomas Boswell, or Boomer Gordon, or Elliott Friedman, or even Mick Kern, tells you otherwise.  You are the fan.  You paid your money.  You decide how you should react.  Well, outside of acts of violence.  Oh, and please keep your shirts on, fat guys.  Someone might get hurt.

The world is not the same as it was in 1950, or 1960, or 1985, and thank goodness for that, and the culture of hockey reflects these mostly positive changes.  Still, within the very matrix of the game we all love so very much, there beats the heart of some simple truths, be they actual facts or dearly held on to beliefs.  At some point, the line blurs between the two distinctions.

Hockey is a sporting culture onto itself within North America sport.  Its true sporting cousin may be Australian rugby, more so than any pampered American past-time.  To equate how hockey players should behave in relation to players in the NFL or MLB or the MBA is to miss the point by a wide margin.

Sports, to a large degree, is an everyday, peacetime substitute for the tribalism that still pulls at every person’s heart.  Us against them.  We’re better than you.  You’re not one of us.  It’s in your DNA.

Hockey, in some part due to its marginal place at the table when it comes to media attention on this continent, has taken this outsider’s status and has made it a part of its identity.

We don’t need ESPN or USA Today or ABC or the Washington Times to acknowledge our greatness, or even our very existence.  The game of hockey, meaning all the players at every level, and the coaches, and fans, and hockey moms and dads, and all the support staff, we know who we are, and we’re more than alright with that.

Which may explain why fighting, despite all evidence to the contrary, remains near-and-dear to most hockey fans on both sides of the border.  The very fact that a game of hockey can be disrupted at any point by (at least) two men fighting is, on first, and second, and even third glance, highly anachronistic.

It can’t logically be defended, and even the most zealot supporters of fighting in hockey usually fall back on well-worn clilches to justify its continual existence in the game.

Yet, like so very much of this game, regardless of where you personally stand on fighting (and I, for one, wouldn’t miss it if it disappeared tomorrow), fighting is a key part of the mosaic that makes up hockey, a game that is so passionately loved by its fans for daring to swim against the tide in today’s streamlined, edges-sanded-down society we have molded for ourselves.

While it’s not the only dangerous sport out there (auto racing comes to mind, as does facing a heater at home plate, as does facing a blitzing linebacker), the very nature of this sanguine sport sets it apart from every other sport on this continent.

It’s played at a very high tempo, they wear blades, they carry sticks, they are encouraged to hit one another, they fire a virtual bullet around the unforgiving ice, and there’s boards to contain all this, no real out-of-bounds, unless the puck goes over those boards.

There is nowhere to hide out there.  Hockey exposes you.  Its very disposition is one of violation.  Hockey is inherently a violent game, and no amount of rule changes, and equipment tweaks, and philosophical discussions is going to alter that fact.

Which brings me back to Thomas Boswell, and the almost paternalistic tone his article takes regarding some of the negative reaction to Ovechkin’s on-ice antics, and the second thing that irks me about this whole affair.

The arguments in favour of Ovechkin celebrating goals in this fashion are persuasive.  The NHL does need to inject some colour into its players, who are its greatest asset, yet are often hidden behind helmets and visors and over-protective PR departments who act as though they’re pertrified that one of these guys might actually say something quotable.

When Ovechkin puts the celebratory cherry on top of the ice-cream sundae goal he just scored, he will garner attention, even in U.S. media outlets who couldn’t be bothered to throw the NHL a few scraps of bread at the best of times.

That’s all fine.

What irks me is the likes of Boswell scolding the hockey fans/media/establishment who either do not care for the antics of Ovechkin, or have no problem with them, but would rather he do it sparingly.

Such theatrics are not a part of the culture of hockey.  Oh sure, Tiger WIlliams rode his stick a couple of times, and Theo Fleury slid across the ice after that big goal, and others probably did the Funky Chicken, for all we know, but overall, the culture of hockey has always been about Team, not Player.

It’s part of why hockey fans, whether American or Canadian, bleed the sport when cut.

It’s about shared identity with the group, it’s about the others in the foxhole.  The NFL comes closest to matching that, but even then, the wide receivers, and running backs, and quarterbacks, and the odd superstar linebacker, pull against that collective.

Hockey is about Us, not Me.

And while Ovechkin is just as likely to do his happy dance when one of his teammates scores, he still manages to pull the spotlight towards his antics.  Nothing wrong with that, and after all, there are different unwritten rules for superstars, but I really doubt that new people, who have shunned the sport for years, are suddenly going to watch the NHL just because Ovechkin likes to jump around after a goal.

Most hockey fans, with the obvious exception of supporters of the Washington Capitals, understand that some players in the league will have a problem with Ovechkin’s theatrics.  These same hockey fans will also understand that such differences have a way of being settled, which doesn’t have to mean fisticuffs, but the on-ice frontier justice has always been a part of the game, even though it logically cannot be defended.

A hockey fan understands that reality, whether they approve of the goal celebrations or not.  An outsider does not.

The outsider is correct in questioning such archaic thinking, but then again, they haven’t been baptised yet.

Hockey fans shouldn’t worry about the arrogance of Thomas Boswell, attempting to shame us into grafting onto hockey the culture of the other big money sports in America, though I have a feeling the NHL head offices in New York would be all for that integration into the sporting mainstream.  After all, that can only mean more money.

Yet, if anything, over the years, NHL hockey has managed to survive the actual NHL.  The small-minded dictatorship of the Norris Family and Clarence Campbell.  The bumblings of the likes of Gil Stein.  The misguided notions of league grandeur and phantom network TV contracts of Gary Bettman.  The crimes of Alan Eagleson, and the scorched Earth policies of the likes of Bob Goodenow.

Somehow, the actual game continues to thrive, thankfully with rules changes now-and-again to correct its course.

Hockey is different from every other big sport in North America.

Mr. Boswell, stick to baseball.

What you write about that game connects me with a sport that is my favourite.  And as a Canadian, even though the game of baseball has deep roots in this country, I will always remain just outside the lines when it comes to truly being a part of that culture.  Your books, and articles, allow me a glimpse into that world, one I wish I had been born into.

While baseball is my favourite sport, hockey is my religion.  It’s in my blood, so much so that it continually calls me back, even when I try to deny its pull.

It’s all around me, on a constant basis.  Every month of the year.  There is no off-season for hockey in Canada.

Hockey is Canada, even though only about 3 million people may watch Hockey Night In Canada on any given Saturday night.  Even though, particularly with a changing demographic, less and less people have suited up and played it.

That may matter forty, fifty years from now, but not right now.  Hockey is Canada, and Hockey is also specific parts of the United States, just as much.  But only certain parts.

While it’s great that the game is in markets such as Washington, D.C., and Nashville, and Atlanta, and Phoenix, and Dallas, it’ll never, NEVER, have the same resonance that it has in Edmonton, or Winnipeg, or Montreal, or Halifax, or Saskatoon, or Moose Jaw, or Toronto, or Glace Bay.

Or in Detriot, or the state of Minnesota, or New Hampshire, or Vermont, etc.

So on behalf of the so-called “hockey purists” you dismiss in your article, I’m going to trump you, Mr. Boswell, and ask you to keep your professorial musings about the game of hockey to yourself.

Ryan Malone isn’t a moron, as your article claims.

Ryan Malone understands how hockey works.  You don’t.

Hockey ain’t baseball or football.  Somehow, someway, even in today’s video game society, hockey is purer.  Not by much, but by enough.

And that is something you’ll never understand.

Leave my game alone.

I appreciate it.

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Rod Black and Craig Button man the helm this week, as they talk with The Golden Jet, Bobby Hull.  Other guests include Randy Jones of the Philadelphia Flyers, Rich Peverley of the Atlanta Thrashers and Mike Ribeiro of the Dallas Stars. Listen now.

Live From Wayne Gretzky’s is 2-hours of interactive radio from Wayne Gretzky’s Restaurant in Toronto. Listen every Saturday afternoon on NHL Home Ice, your local radio station or by podcast.

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Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Thursday night at the Shark Tank, the mighty Sharks were holding on to a 3-2 lead against the Hurricanes halfway through the third period, when Matt Cullen made a beauty of a backhand pass across the slot to Ray Whitney, who buried it.  It was Whitney’s 17th goal this season.

Carolina would go on to win the game 4-3 in the shootout, but what caught my eye was The Little Engine That Could…and Still Does.

Ray Whitney.

Okay, I knew that he still played in the league, so it wasn’t a surprise to see him score a goal, but every time he lights the lamp, I’m reminded of this talented player, who has been around the league since, well, it seems time immortal.

In reality, Whitney has been in the NHL since the San Jose Sharks took him in the second round of the 1991 Entry Draft.  Their first selection had been Pat Falloon, and the two young guns were held up as the future of the young Sharks.

It didn’t exactly play out that way.  Falloon, who was the second overall player chosen, after phenom Eric Lindros, played 575 career NHL games, suiting up for the Sharks, Flyers, Senators, Oilers and Penguins.  His high-water mark was his rookie season, when he scored 25 goals and added 34 assists.  For a number of reasons, Falloon only had one more 20-goal season in his nine-year NHL career.  He ended up with 143 goals and 322 points in those 575 games, a far cry from what had been expected of him.

But there I go…an article about Ray Whitney, and it detours into an examination of the career of Pat Falloon.

Both players were teammates with the WHL Spokane Chiefs for three seasons, and each one led the team in scoring for a year.  It seemed a perfect fit that both would be drafted by the Sharks, though to many, Falloon was considered the better prospect.

Whitney was chosen 23rd overall that year, the first player taken in the second round.  Players chosen before him include Scott Lachance (4th overall by the Islanders), Alek Stojanov (6th by Vancouver), Brent Bilodeau (17th overall by Montreal), and Trevor Halverson (21st overall by Washington).  Halverson got into 17 career NHL games while Bilodeau never made the big leagues.

1991 was considered a pretty strong draft class, yet a number of teams decided to pass on Whitney.  While any draft is a crapshoot, Whitney put up strong offensive numbers with the Chiefs.   He led Spokane with a whopping 185 points ( 67 goals-118 assists) in 72 games in his final year of junior, while Falloon put up 138 points in only 61 games.   Whitney’s efforts garnered him the MVP for the WHL.

Both players had amazing years, and Spokane went on to win the Memorial Cup that season.  Whitney still holds the club record for assists and points in one season.

So why was Falloon favoured over Whitney?  They’re both small men in a big man’s game; Whitney standing 5 feet 10 inches, while Falloon towered over him at 5 feet 11 inches.

Whitney had to play 10 games in a German league before spending most of his rookie pro season with the San Diego Gulls of the IHL.

The former stick boy for the Edmonton Oilers obviously had some of that offensive magic rub off on him.  After Thurday night’s win in San Jose, Whitney has played in 962 regular season NHL games, and has scored 295 goals and added 481 assists for 776 points.

In addition, Whitney has 32 points in 65 NHL playoff games, and was a member of the 2005-06 Stanley Cup Chamption Carolina Hurricanes.  During that run, Whitney played in 24 games and scored 9 goals and 6 assists.

While these numbers are not Hall-of-Fame calibre, they speak of a long and productive career.  Seven times he’s cracked the 20-goal plateau, and is well on pace to do it again this year.  Whitney’s career high was 32 goals with the 97-98 Florida Panthers; he also had one with Edmonton that season, for a career season high of 33 goals.

And that was during the dead puck era.  If anything, the hockey played since the lost season of 04-05 should favour a player of Whitney’s size and abilities, and it appeares it has.  Since the lockout, Whitney has put up 55 points in 63 games, 83 points in 81 games, 61 points in 66 games, and, so far, 42 points in 52 games.

The gentleman is a point producer.  No, he will never challenge for the Art Ross Trophy, but talk about secondary scoring.  Whitney is a reliable offensive player.  Ask the Sharks.  His goal on Thursday ran his total to 10 goals and 10 assists in 20 career games against his former team.

Whitney is currently in his 17th NHL season, though he only got into two games during the 1991-92 campaign in San Jose (and still had 3 assists).  He’s played for six teams (San Jose, Edmonton, Florida, Columbus, Detroit and Carolina), though the bulk of his playing time has been divided between the Sharks, Blue Jackets and Hurricanes.

The Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta native got to wear the colours of his beloved Edmonton Oilers for only 9 games during the 97-98 season (1 goal-3 assists), but hockey fans further south in Wild Rose Country no doubt remember Whitney.

May 19th, 1995.  It was his goal in double-overtime in Game Seven that enabled the Sharks to upend the Calgary Flames 5-4.  That was the year where the league experienced another work stoppage, and teams played a 48-game regular season sked.  The fourth-year Sharks had 42 points, while the Flames took first place in the Pacific Division with 55 points, and were expected to go far that spring.

Whitney and the Sharks saw to it that the Flames playoff woes continued.  Calgary lost in the first-round the next season as well, and then missed the playoffs for seven straight years before their run to the Cup Final in 2003-04 against the Tampa Bay Lightning.

As for Whitney, after that big goal, he played 60 games the next season in Northern California before splitting the 1996-97 season between the big club and Utah in the IHL and Kentucky in the AHL.  It was time for him to move on.

After that brief cup-of-coffee in Edmonton, Whitney’s career really took off when he was claimed on waivers by the Florida Panthers, where he scored those 32 goals in 97-98.  I recall that many of us at the time were surprised that Whitney reached such numbers; we had basically written him off.

Yet eleven years later, he continues to roll on, putting up the numbers, and finally getting his name on the Stanley Cup.

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Host Rod Black is joined by former NHL’er Tim Taylor, as they talk with Toronto Maple Leafs hero, Doug Gilmour.  Doug joins the radio show right before his jersey retirement held at the Air Canada Centre. Other guests include Bob Errey, Dustin Penner and Phil Esposito. Listen now.

Live From Wayne Gretzky’s is 2-hours of interactive radio from Wayne Gretzky’s Restaurant in Toronto. Listen every Saturday afternoon on NHL Home Ice, your local radio station or by podcast.

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Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

The first NBC Game-of-the-Week this season featured the Penguins and the Rangers.  During the second period, Sidney Crosby was hooked from behind, negating a good scoring opportunity.  The referee gestures towards centre ice.  There’s gonna be a showdown in Steel City.

Sidney Crosby one-on-one against Henrik Lundqvist.  Two marquee players face-to-face.  And on U.S. network television.  This is what you want.

Or do you?

If one looks at it from a marketing angle, the answer is a resounding yes.  Crosby is one of the young superstars of the National Hockey League.  Lundqvist is one of the top goaltenders.

Often called “The Most Exciting Play In Hockey”, the penalty shot has lost some of its lustre with the implementation of the shootout.  Even so, it’s still a relatively rare moment when a penalty shot is called.

In all the NHL games I’ve attended, it has only occurred twice.  The first one was at Madison Square Garden, as the Rangers hosted the Detroit Red Wings in February 1987.  Petr Klima took the shot against John Vanbiesbrouck.  The joint was rocking as Klima lined up all alone at centre ice.  It was hockey theatre at its finest.  The decibel level rose even higher when The Beezer stoned Klima.

Second penalty shot I witnessed live was at Maple Leaf Gardens in the mid 90’s during a Leafs-Canadiens exhibition game.  Joe Sacco took the shot, and I can’t recall who was in net for the Habs.  Hey, it was an exhibition game.  From what I do remember of that sleepy affair, the penalty shot was the highlight of the evening.  Oh, Sacco didn’t score.

Last season, there were 64 penalty shots.  Only 19 of them found the back of the net.  Valterri Filppula of Detroit scored twice in a week; the first goal on Nashville’s Dan Ellis, the second against Florida’s Tomas Vokoun.  Vincent Lecavalier also converted two penalty shots last season, albeit four-and-a-half months apart.  Eric Staal also scored twice.

Lundqvist faced three penalty shots in the 2007-08 campaign, stopping Jordan Staal, but yielding goals to Lecavalier and Sergei Kostitsyn.  He got the better of Crosby on this day, getting Sid the Kid to shoot the puck into his chest.

The Rangers were trailing 2-0 at the time of the penalty shot; could this have been a turning point?  Not this time.  The Penguins would score the next goal, and won the game 3-0.

Regardless, a penalty shot featuring two marquee players is notable.  If Crosby had scored, the clip may even have made a few sports shows that don’t usually linger on hockey.  The penalty shot is one of the signature events of the game of hockey.  Unlike soccer, the goaltender has a reasonable shot at stopping the shot.

So it was intriguing when Pierre McGuire, working on the NBC telecast, suggested that coaches should have the option to decline the penalty shot, and take a two-minute powerplay instead.  The reasoning was something to the effect that the penalty shot is only one chance, and as earlier discussed, arguably the odds favour the goaltender.  If a team were to decline the shot, and take the powerplay, odds are that they would get more than one chance at a quality shot.

Then again, the argument the other way is also convincing.  Many times, a team fails to generate a quality scoring opportunity on the powerplay.  Sometimes it looks at though the team with the man advantage is trying too harder to set up the perfect tic-tac-toe goal.  Why surrender the clear cut scoring opportunity that a penalty shot provides?  Like they say in football, never take points off the board.  The equivalent in hockey being, never deny yourself a scoring chance.

McGuire maintains that the option to choose should be there; let the head coach make that decision.  While I see this point, I still think the penalty shot as it is now should stand.

If Michel Therrien had elected to decline the penalty shot, and went instead with the two-minute powerplay, a number of things would have changed.

First and foremost, hockey fans would have been denied the Crosby-Lundqvist matchup.  Depending on which team you’re pulling for, the result was either wonderful, or a disappointment.  But that’s not how to judge the moment.  The anticipation was wonderful, something a two-minute powerplay rarely generates.  It was perfect for television.

Second, the fact the penalty shot featured one of the young guns of the league allows sports media outlets to isolate this moment, as opposed to just another powerplay.

Third, the Penguns were pretty much guaranteed a good scoring chance, unless the player taking the shot loses control of the puck, or falls.  (Even then, that play would have lived in infamy for years).  If the Pens had taken the two-minute powerplay, they may have never generated a similar scoring opportunity.  Sure, you take your chances; Pittsburgh might have manufactured a half-dozen good chances.

Or, they could have had their power-play time cut by being called for their own penalty.  So many variables, some good, many not so good.  By taking the penalty shot, you’re pretty much guaranteed one stellar scoring opportunity, which is what it’s all about.  Giving back to the player the scoring chance the defence illegally took away.

Keep the penalty shot the way it is.

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

The best hockey talk in the business returns for 2009.  Listen now as Rod Black talks with star centres; Marc Savard from the Bruins and Andrew Cogliano from the Oilers.  Also hear from the Islanders, Bill Guerin, Team Canada star, Jordan Eberle and Devils GM, Lou Lamoriello.

Be sure to listen each week on NHL Home Ice, your local radio station or podcast.  Live From Wayne Gretzky’s is brought to you by Diet Pepsi Max and KFC.

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Christmas came and went with astonishing speed, as it does every year, leaving behind a jumble of packages and boxes, ripped paper and the spectre of New Year’s bills.

By the time Boxing Day rolled around, we all needed a break from the festive cheer, so the wife trooped us outside into the backyard for a game of hockey.

Two years ago, during a consistent stretch of frigid weather during February, we iced the backyard and fashioned ourselves a rather ragged rink for about three weeks, before the first stirrings of Spring took it away.  Last year, the weather was too unreliable to even consider undertaking such a task.

As for this Winter, no-one seems sure how the season will unfold.  Here in Toronto, we got hit with three major snowstorms in the ten days before Christmas, which not only guaranteed a Bing Crosby Yuletide, but also resuscitated the wife’s romantic notion of having a backyard rink.  The trouble is, the forecast for Saturday, December 27th was for rain and more rain, which gave us a window of only one day to prepare, flood, freeze and enjoy our own Winter Classic.

Time for Plan B.

Around 2 pm that afternoon, the whole crew moved into the snow-covered backyard, shovels-in-hand, and proceeded to clear a sizeable area, large enough for our regulation-sized net and three hockey players.  The wife supervised the work, assigning herself to the snow pick, while I cleared the debris.  The four-year-old quickly lost interest in the proceedings, and instead practised his Bill Barber dives into the nearest snowbank.

After about a half-hour, we had the semblance of a backyard rink…minus the ice.  The only effective way to pat down the surface of snow into a consistent packed base was to tread on it.  The four-year-old and I began a game of keep away, and I’m not embarrassed to say I kicked his ass!

Yes, I know, how sad is that?  A grown man in his mid-forties bragging about outplaying his four-year-old son.  But c’mon, Father Time was sitting on the snow-covered picnic table, taking notes.  I know my window for channeling my inner Rick Nash, going around some pylon defenceman, is very narrow.  With each passing season, the pylon will grow and gain more confidence.  Sooner than I think, we will have switched roles.  Heck, he’s already got a better shot than I had at that age, or when I was eight.

Okay, it’s still sad.  And the boy let it be known he didn’t appreciate it, either.  He enlisted his mother, and suddenly my puck handling skills were put to the test.  I still ruled!  Everyone knows girls can’t play hockey.  Right?  Right?

The wife would exact her hockey revenge later.

As for the puck, we were using one of those bright orange street hockey jobbies that I picked up from Canadian Tire for a buck each.  Loaded up on about a dozen two years ago, and after banging a bunch of them off the goalpost during that deep freeze, we only have a couple left.  My wrist shot will never strike fear into the heart of any goaltender, still it was rather satisfying to watch the puck explode into two pieces after rattling it off the crossbar, allowing me to pretend I was some backyard Kent Nilsson.

After about twenty minutes of action, the snow surface under our feet was finely packed down, in perfect condition for the wife and I to later lay down the first layer of water from the trusty old garden hose.  But the weather forecast hadn’t changed.  Today it was a perfect late December day.  Tomorrow, it would look like March 29th.  There would be no need to use the hose.

But that was all in the future; at the moment, the three of us were immersed in a serious game of shinny.  One game pitted me against the wife and child.  The objective was to see who could score on the unguarded net.  Sounds easy, but you’d be surprised how difficult that can be when one has to navigate two hostile bodies, a finite amount of space, and an unpredictable playing surface.

At one point, the wife had possession of the puck about halfway towards the net, and my only recourse was to bodycheck her into the snowbank, tie up her stick with mine, and then extract the puck with my boot.  This was going rather well until the four-year-old saw that his teammate, his Mommy, was in need of help.

With all the speed he could muster, he slammed into me, which resulted in me losing the puck, and the little guy falling to the ground.

Suddenly, we snapped back to being concerned parents.  As we went to help him up, he brushed away any helping hand, and picking himself up off-the-ground, muttering something to the effect that I had knocked him to the ice.  If there had been a referee on duty, no doubt the kid would have made his way over to him, petitioning for a penalty.  And he may have been right; maybe I did knock him down.  How sad is that?

Then again, if one adheres to The Gospel According To Bobby Clarke, I was innocent.  The four-year-old entered the scrum, and got what was coming his way.  His mission was accomplished; I lost possession of the puck.

The boy showed that everything was alright by dropping his plastic stick, and his winter gloves, and charging at me, gleefully shouting out “Hockey Fight”.  The fight was a draw; he got in a few good left hooks, while I managed to sneak in a noogie before the wife separated the combatants.  I’m not a big fan of hockey fights, nor do I let the kid watch The Loud Man, as he calls Don Cherry.  Somehow, he just knows that hockey guys drop the gloves every so often.  Apparently, a four-year-old understands The Code.  Make of that what you will.

The sun was beginning to drop low on the horizon, and thoughts turned to supper and hot chocolate.  But first, time for Showdown.  Mano-a-mano, or, in this case, Mano-a-Womano.

I went to the mudroom and retrieved my old Mike Richter goaltender stick.  Last used it on-ice as a pickup goaltender way back in June of 1995.  Lovingly taped it to perfection, and then took to the ice on that steamy late Spring evening.  Which meant that my glasses steamed up terribly, which meant I battled to stop even the most rudimentary shot, which led to the spectacle of me violently chucking my goaltending equipment, piece-by-piece, into the corner, accompanied by every swear word I ever learned in the playground during grade school.

Since that day, I haven’t played ice hockey.  Do I miss it?  Sometimes very much.  Then again, after a while, I grew tired of fighting over a black piece of rubber.  And fighting was the word; often, the action would grow far too heated for a friendly pickup game, and the fun would be drained out it.  This even happened during our weekly Sunday morning ball hockey game, which I used to live for.  A person can only take so much testosterone-fueled macho crap before he’s had his fill.

I used to marvel that most of my friends in Ottawa stopped playing hockey during their mid-20’s.  A couple of these guys were very good, having played Junior “B” hockey, and when we’d organize a pickup game, they looked like Bobby Orr and Mike Modano out there, cutting through the rest of us scrubs.

Why weren’t they playing in a recreational league?  One friend explained that, while he missed the competition, what he didn’t miss were the guys who came straight from work, loaded up on beer, and then took to the ice in an effort to work out whatever frustrations they were experiencing with the wife or the boss.  It wasn’t worth the chippiness and the petty violence.  They’d much rather slum it with wannabee’s such as myself.

The trouble was, soon they grew bored by the lack of competition, and invited a few acquaintances who were also pretty flashy on a pair of skates.  Within weeks, the ringers began to crowd out the ankle-skaters.  While the level of play rose accordingly, the original purpose of getting all the guys together to have some fun soon was forgotten.  And before you knew it, many of the guys stopped showing up.  In my experience, this dynamic happens every time, another reason I don’t play ice hockey anymore.

These days, my hockey playing is reserved for when the two older neighborhood boys knock on our door, and invite the four-year-old and I to play street hockey.  The kid puts on his Pavel Bure Rangers’ jersey and I usually slip on my Canucks’ sweater, though this Christmas the wife got me a very nice Washington Capitals road jersey circa 1985, so I can now channel my inner Pat Riggin.

Which is another way of saying, I’m terribly out-of-shape; most my exercise these days consisting of running for the bus in an effort not to be late for The War Room.

Which brings us back to Backyard Showdown, Husband vs. Wife.  Me in net, the wife with her Sidney Crosby yellow stick.  Three shots.  Winner gets bragging rights.

Sometimes I’ll throw on the old goaltending equipment, in part because the kid loves it, but also because I love it.  Today, no such protection, not even a jock.

First shot, the wife unveils her world-famous move…stand about fifteen in front of the net, and hack at the orange puck, missing it completely the first time, which sends me into a twisted, body-protecting position, which frees up a good portion of the net.   She then reloads, takes a second swipe at the puck, and sends it towards my exposed shins.

I stop the first stop with my right leg, the brighly coloured orange frozen plastic puck feeling like a shot from Bobby Hull.  Regardless, I stopped it.  One for the good guys.

Second shot, the wife follows the same game plan.  She whiffs on the first attempt, which again sends me into a spasm of body protecting motions, which leaves most of the net uncovered, which allows her to deposit the puck into the bottom right-hand corner of the net.  One for the bad guys, err, girls.

Next shot would determine everything.  If there had been a crowd watching, they would have been on their feet, particularly since all of our lawn furniture was buried beneath the snow.

I clenched my teeth, gathered up my Mike Richter goaltender stick, and vowed to not flinch this time, summoning up the courage of yesteryear, when getting hit with a puck or an orange street hockey ball was a badge of honour.  This time, I would be ready.  Thou Shalt Not Pass.

At this moment, the four-year-old, having had enough of this middle-age drama, enthusiastically reinserts himself back into the action, steals the puck and sends it sailing towards my unprotected shins; this time the puck looked like a Dennis Hull slapshot.

Luckily for me, it skittered wide left, and it was time for hot chocolate.  The Showdown grudge match would have to wait until tomorrow.

Correct that; it would have to wait until the next extended cold snap and snowstorm.  Turns out the weather watchers were right.  It rained all day Saturday, and the next.  By Sunday afternoon, it would have been more appropriate to play football in the backyard.  The leaves I never got around to raking were exposed, mocking me from beyond the grave.

Our hockey net looks out-of-place on this muddy field, where once it was the crowning glory on a modest backyard hockey “rink”.

The three of us stared out the back window, a little sad at how things turned out, but very grateful we went outside on Boxing Day.  Maybe it was the first in what would become a family tradition.

Weather permitting.

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Hosts James Cybulski from TSN and NHL Legend, Rick Vaive get the latest from Brian Burke and talk directly to Barry Melrose about his sudden firing during this week’s edition of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s.  Other guests include Derrick Brassard of the Columbus Blue Jackets and Kyle Quincey of the Los Angeles Kings.  In addition, Hockey Hall of Famer Phil Espoisto checks in with his take on things.

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For the six years that “Live From Wayne Gretzky’s” has been broadcasting from Gretzky’s Restaurant, the show has hosted a who’s who of the hockey world.  On Saturday, November 8th, none other than Mark Messier added his name to that impressive roster of hockey talent, and we have the photographic evidence to prove it.