Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Saturday afternoon.  3pm eastern standard time.  Nap time for some of us.  But not this afternoon.

On this particular dull, metal gray afternoon, naps would have to wait.  Mommy was busy preparing some broccoli salad concoction for a gathering of the clan later that evening.  Daddy and Son were busy, preparing to take the bus (and subway, and then another subway) to downtown Toronto.  We had been to Cooperstown this past August, and I felt it would be appropriate to finish the year by visiting the Hockey Hall of Fame.

Growing up in Alberta, most of my hockey knowledge was gleaned from the back of O-Pee-Chee hockey cards, dusty old hockey biographies checked out from the school library, and the occasional chance to read a copy of The Hockey News.  When Scholastic Books began offering selections such as Hockey Stars of 1974 by Stan Fischler, I felt like I had found the Rosetta Stone, and suddenly the once-murky world of NHL hockey exploded in glorious technicolour right in front of me.

Like most Canadian kids, I made my weekly pilgrimage to the front of the family television set in order to tune into Hockey Night in Canada every Saturday evening at 6 pm…mountain time, remember.  Dinner was usually at 5 pm, which allowed plenty of time to prepare for the big game.

In those days way before Internet access, I would construct my own makeshift program, spread out in front of the TV, out of various bubblegum cards of whomever was facing Montreal or Toronto that night.  Even in Alberta, it was rare we were offered a Vancouver Canucks game.  There was no Saturday night doubleheader.

The point being, not very much was instantaneous thirty-five years ago.  Even Minute Rice took longer back then.  But you found ways to follow your sporting passions.

An early goal of mine was to visit the Golden Horseshoe region of Southern Ontario.  One autumn, that was the subject of study in grade school.  The home to apples, Niagara Falls…and the Hockey Hall of Fame.

The very idea that there existed a whole building dedicated to the sport of hockey sounded like Nirvana to me.  I could only imagine what it looked like inside that hallowed Hall.  I knew all about the men who had been honoured, but that information I got from books.  What I wanted to see, with my very own eyes, was a place where hockey ruled supreme.  To have been able to visit such a Puck Valhalla would be akin to peeking through the window of Santa’s workshop on December 23rd.

As time moved on, and so did my family, we ended up in Ontario.  By then, while hockey was still on my radar, it shared space with baseball, football, music, films, politics, and girls.  A trip to the Golden Horseshoe finally came about in the summer of 1981, when my father was to address a military conference at McMaster University in Hamilton.

After all those years of reading the multi-coloured tourist pamphlets, I finally laid my eyes on Niagara Falls.  Being the jaded age of 17, this wonder of nature failed to resonate with me the way it would have had I experienced it through the wide-eyed gaze of a 10-year-old.

Passing through Hamilton on our way back to my father’s house in Picton, we ventured across the Canadian Football Hall of Fame, another place I had very much wanted to visit when I was a kid.

Alas, it was closed.  To this day, a couple of friends still bug me that I probably was the only kid in the world crushed that the CFL Hall-of-Fame wasn’t open.  As we drove through Toronto, it dawned on me that the Hockey Hall-of-Fame, which I once considered the Promised Land, had to be nearby.  We entertained the notion of searching for it, but neither could recall where it was located.  The HHOF remained elusive.  It would have to wait for another day.

That day came the summer of 1992, during the Canadian National Exhibition, otherwise known as the CNE.  The August fair was in the waning days of its glory, having been eclipsed by year-round amusement parks and the advent of home video games.  Not having grown up in Toronto, I was curious to attend the granddaddy of Canadian exhibitions.  Suffice to say, most of it was just a louder, smellier version of the Vancouver PNE, the Calgary Stampede, Edmonton’s Klondike Days, and the Central Canada Exhibition in Ottawa.

Wandering around, a little punch drunk on bad food and sensory overload, we came across a stout little building that was festooned with 12 stone logos of the franchises of the National Hockey League as it stood after the 1967 expansion.  Come to think of it, the Sabres and Canucks logos could have been up there as well, but it didn’t matter.  All I know is that, like a disoriented archaeologist in some George Lucas movie, I had somehow stumbled on to the entrance of the hidden temple I had been seeking all these years.

I had finally found The Hockey Hall of Fame.

Once inside, I experienced one of those rare moments in life, and I assure you I am not exaggerating.  There was a sense of accomplishment, a feeling that a goal has finally been achieved.  As I walked into this modest building, all awash in everything hockey, the wide-eyed 10-year-old emerged, not the jaded 17-year-old who dismissed Niagara Falls with a wave of the hand.

Despite the CNE raging just outside their doors, the Hall of Fame was not swarming with visitors that day.  There were probably a half-dozen people milling about, taking in all the treasures contained within.  Crammed within that small building was a king’s ransom in hockey goodies; trophies and uniforms and photos and pucks and sticks and pennants.  I suddenly remembered that hockey mattered to me.

The crowning glory to me was something that looked like an ashtray, standing off in the corner.  Closer inspection revealed it to be The Avco Cup, or more accurately, The Avco World Trophy, the symbol of supremacy in The World Hockey Association, and for a kid who attended Edmonton Oilers’ games in the mid-70’s, that was a big deal.

What struck me the most was the lack of glitz and flash that the Hall had.  It was merely the facts, ma’am, which was fine with me, but the relative lack of visitors that day spoke volumes.  This was a Hall badly in need of modernization.

Unbeknownest to me, that was exactly what was happening behind the scenes, even as I was poking around that day.  A year later, the entire affair was shipped to a glorious old bank building in downtown Toronto,   instantly becoming a must-see destination for tourists.  As much as the old building held a special place in my heart, it was a move long overdue.

And through those doors, my 4 1/2 year-old son and I walked this past Saturday afternoon.

When he was told where we were going, he immediately informed me that the Rangers would be playing the “bad Maple Leafs” that day at the Hall.  I explained to him that the “hockey guys” would not be there that day; they were busy elsewhere, but there would be games, I assured him.

My son’s love of playing sports was no doubt fostered by my own love of hockey and baseball, but I never pushed it on him.  To live in our house, though, one cannot help but be immersed in sports (just ask the wife), but he took naturally to throwing a baseball, a basketball, and drop-kicking a football.  Delightfully, he took a small plastic hockey stick in hand and began whacking everything in sight.  Time-out for behavoural indiscretions at dinner time became time in the penalty box.  If my son had been issued a hockey card, his PIM total would be, ahh, impressive.

This was to be my fifth visit to the Hall, but it never grows old.  There’s always something new to savour, and I never tire of looking at their embarrassment of riches, particularly the hockey sweaters.

The first sight that greeted us as we approached the cashier was a simple, yet dazzling display of the finest goaltender masks assembled in one place on the planet Earth.  My son is too young to know any of the goaltenders who donned these visages, yet he ran towards each one with glee, pointing out the ones he found to be scary, and asking which ones I liked.  Of course, I liked them all.

Once admission had been paid, we entered the Hall, my kid jacked up about which type of hockey games we would play.  He was delighted when we found the Xbox 360 display, and he picked the Rangers.  I chose the 1981 Minnesota North Stars, and after a quick lesson on what button to push to shoot, father-and-son played their first ever video game together.  For the record, before the little squirt gains the upper hand in the months and years to follow, the North Stars beat the Rangers 3-1.  No quarters asked.  Actually, my son had asked for some money for the table hockey game, but I was fresh out.

We stood in line for the chance to snap a plastic puck at a video image of Ed Belfour in his bad Maple Leafs’ uniform.  My son topped 8 mph with his shot; in his opinion, he scored on every shot.  Dad didn’t fare much better, hitting only 62 mph and finding the back-of-the-net only twice, and even then, I think Eddie was taking it easy on me.

None of this would have happened at the old place.  That building was for the converted, this place is for the uninitiated, and the converted.

We toured the mockup of the Canadiens’ dressing room and, like most kids, my son gravitated towards the goalie equipment, and not fully comprehending why he couldn’t suit up, he moved on to the next shiny thing.

While the vast majority of displays were over my son’s little head, he perked up at any picture of one Robert Gordon Orr.  “Bobby Orr…Numba Four”, he already knows.  This is a good thing.

He tried his hand at the TSN mockup technical suite, but as this struck me as being too close to what I do at work, I suggested we move on.   First, though, he handled the play-by-play of a couple of famous goals, including adding the sound of the goal horn when Lafleur beat Gilbert with the greatest goal of all-time.

We also stood and stared at the Avco World Trophy, always a must see for me everytime I visit here.  I tried to explain that this forgotten trophy was like the Stanley Cup to me when I was a kid, but he wasn’t buying it.   He wanted the real thing.

The visit to the Great Hall always has the feeling of entering one of the great cathedrals in Old Montreal, regardless of what faith one may adhere to.  In this church, hockey is what is worshipped, and the Great Hall is the summit of that love.

As that 10-year-old collecting hockey cards, some of my favourite cards were Trophy cards.  Here in the Great Hall, those cards come to life.  I’ve seen the Stanley Cup up-close enough times that it’s almost second nature…ohhh, the Cup, nice…so to see the Vezina and the Hart and the Art Ross, to me, always inspires awe.

My kid, on the other hand, having no idea yet what that silverware represents, was estatic when he saw the Cup.  So much so, that like a child in church on Christmas Eve, he let his joy ring out, much louder than any self-conscious adult would have.  Which reminded me, this was hockey, not a church.  You’re allowed to get loud.

He insisted we take a closer look.  Once we got near, for some reason, it struck me that on this particular day, the backup Cup was the one on display.  A quick question to the staff member nearby verified this.

This slightly lessened the effect, but my son and I had already had our photo taken with the “real” Cup when it was here at the NHL Home Ice studios almost two years ago.  Looking over the doppelganger, he searched for his name.

Not yet, kid.

After that, it was back to the main level, where the souvenir shop beckoned.  I resisted buying a gorgeous Glenn Hall St. Louis Blues’ jersey circa 1968; not a good time of the year to be buying yourself expensive presents.  But I’ll be back.

Tried to get my son the very sharp looking powder blue Pittsburgh Penguins t-shirt, but he insisted on buying the throwback Montreal t-shirt that has the A in the C as the logo.  I am not making this up.  Apparently, my almost five years of brainwashing has worked.  The trouble is, the Penguins’ t-shirt looks so much better.

Grabbed a few things to help Santa fill the stockings, and we headed off into the cold night, looking for supper.

For the 90 minutes we were there, the two of us probably saw 2% of the collection on display.  My son didn’t learn any hockey history that day, still thinks the Rangers play there, and was rather concerned that they only had the “backup Cup” on display.

What did happen was a 90 minute break from the rest of the world.  An hour-and-a-half where a father shared with his young son those things that were so very important to him when he was a boy.  The Hall-of-Fame was the ideal setting for a shared experience in a place that has always held a special place in my heart, even when I lived thousands of miles from it.

We will return.

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Used to be a time when a guy could be dead sure who was the number one goaltender for any given NHL team.  Used to be a time a guy could reliably count on that goaltender to be between the pipes for the majority of games.   Used to be a time a guy could manage his fantasy hockey goaltenders with little effort.

Those days are gone.  Now, if you really want to have a fighting chance in your fantasy hockey league, you pretty much have to put other parts of your life on-hold, just to track the daily myriad of possibilites as to which goaltender gets the nod that night.

No doubt many a guy has allowed yardwork, homework, work work, and personal relationships to deteriorate thanks to the absolute need to scrutinize the daily internet hockey news in an attempt to ascertain who’s going to start in net.  No doubt a number of woman also find themselves in this same bind.

For starters, fantasy hockey is not real hockey.  Not even close.  That’s why they call it fantasy hockey.  To the uninitiated, it might sound as if the likes of Clare Danes, Mila Kunis, Zooey Deschanel, Jennifer Aniston and Sarah Silverman are skating around, with Scarlett Johansson in net.  Actually, that’s a fantasy hockey team alright, one which would probably outperform the team I’m currently managing, as long as they knew that Johansson was starting most games.

During our fantasy draft back in late September, I stayed away from goaltenders, until they started to go near the end of the first round.  Brodeur and Luongo left first.  I managed to get my paws on a goaltender I was confident would be solid for the season.

Marty Turco.

Okay, so that’s why they actually play the games.  The real hockey games, that is.  They play them just to cause major pain to the fools who dabble in the black art of fantasy hockey.

I stayed away from drafting a second goaltender, going with the belief, particularly in our league, that scoring numbers/plus-minus would win the day.  When the backup guys began to fall off-the-board, I had to change plans once again, and decide who would be goaler number two on my squad.

The choice came down to either Martin Biron or Cam Ward.  I dithered.  I looked for a coin to flip.  I quickly checked my email to see if Johansson had gotten back to me.  Finally, with precious little time remaining on the draft clock, I gulped, and took young Ward.

Which earned me the almost immediate wrath of fantasy hockey guru Rob Higgins, who, when he’s not screaming into a microphone, channelling his inner Lemmy, leads the way in pouring over stats and minutiae and dominating his hockey pool.  Or so he says.  No one’s actually thought to confirm these claims.

Regardless, the hasty slapdown by Higgins had me limping away in shame, quickly logging onto the nearest computer, and furtively scanning the waiver wire, trying to pick up a third netminder.

As luck would have it, Biron got off to a rotten start.  As luck would also have it, Ward wasn’t doing much better.  In fact, Michael Leighton appeared to be getting as many starts as Ward.

So naturally, doing what most poolies do, my knees jerked me into moving the mouse, hovering over Leighton’s name.  One click later, I had my third goaltender.  Since Turco was Turd-o, he was going to see a lot of pine on my team.  I wasn’t going to outright release him, bury him in the minors, lend him to a Russian team, or trade him to Boomer.  I was sure (I still am…really) that Marty will get his act together.

But until then, the two Hurricanes were going to rock my team.  I was going with a tandem, which broke most hockey pool “rules”, but I had to know I’d get four starts in a week, or risk losing valuable goaltending points.

Trouble is, Leighton didn’t do much, either.  So, naturally, I panicked, and dropped the bum, instead looking for comfort in the arms of Ty Conklin.  There was no way that Chris Osgood was gonna last, I told myself, and the Red Wings are stacked.

Mr. Shows got me some wins, but my goaltending was still preventing my team from performing to their full potential.  They were letting down the rest of the team, costing us points.  And then I started noticing Jeff Drouin-Deslauriers hanging around the rink.  He seemed to be getting some starts up in Edmonton, even though they had about 28 goaltenders on their roster.

So, naturally, I parted ways with Conklin and went with the hypen man.  Who. naturally, was returned to the bench in favour of Dwayne Roloson.  Which got me to noticing former St. Mike’s Majors’ netminder Peter Budaj, who appeared to be getting his game together in Denver.  But he’s been running hot-and-cold, so I’m waiting to see how he does over the next few games.  Which means he’ll be gone by then.

Turco was still on-and-off, while it seemed whenever Ward picked up a win in the Carolina net, I had him nailed to the bench.  For no explainable reason really, expect perhaps I was obsessing about my third goaltender, and neglected the rest of the team.   Sorry guys.

I see that Ty Conklin is still available.

We’re only seven weeks into the regular season, and I’m already exhausted.  Good thing we don’t put up any money on this madness.

When does baseball season start?

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Attention Class, it’s time for your first Report Card of the new season.  Please make sure your parents sign it, and return it to me.

As of Sunday morning, November 2nd, the following things can be gleaned from a quick perusal of the NHL standings.

- the Maple Leafs are in the final playoff position in the East
- despite their subpar start, the Ducks are afloat in the West, sitting in 7th spot
- no-one could have predicted the Marty Meltdown, the Turco Torpedo, which has helped keep the Stars in 12th spot in the West
- two of the trendy picks, Washington and Philadelphia, have not been lighting it up early
- those wacky dudes down in Tampa Bay haven’t done anything wacky yet, or so they say

Yes, we’re only roughly at the 10-game mark (the Coyotes have played only nine, the Rangers fourteen), but it’s enough time to take a snapshot of events.

Who knew that Alexander Ovechkin would have to miss some games?  Who knew Sidney Crosby would get off to a slow start?  Who knew the Leafs could skate like that?  Who knew Mike Smith could stop that many pucks?  Who knew Biron and Turco couldn’t.  Who knew Martin Brodeur would be injured?

No matter how arrogant most hockey prognosticators are, no matter how much they trot out their overblown credentials and try to dazzle you with their sliderules and complex puck formulae, this is why teams play the games in the first place.

It’s a rare season where events unfold pretty much like most people expected them to.  Most people have the Red Wings repeating as Cup champs, even though that trick hasn’t been turned in over a decade.  But that’s a pretty safe pick; year-after-year, most folk think the magic that the Cup champ spun that past spring will continue.  It rarely does.

Then again, that’s why they play 82 regular-season games.  A long season for a lot of people, particularily when it’s followed by two months of the grind knows as the Stanley Cup Playoffs, which usually serves to turn off most hockey fans, as the weather gets warmer and thoughts turn to, well, other things…unless your team is in the Final.

Regardless, the 82 games is a good way to make sure that no one-month wonder qualifies for the playoffs.  Yes, there are a number of examples of teams that manage to squeeze their way into the post-season, and then go on an inexplicable run to the Final, but the stark reality is sobering.  Those Cinderella teams very, very rarely ever go on and win it all, right 2005-06 Edmonton?

After the 10-game mark of this current NHL season, one can’t get too excited, or depressed, glancing at the standings.  Sure, a game won today counts for the same two points as a game in March or early April, but the reality is, really good starts help ease your way into the playoffs, but they’re no help once the Cup tournament begins, right 2007-08 Ottawa?

Are the Maple Leafs now a legitimate playoff team?  They have a top-notch goaltender, a proven coach, a bunch of hungry players, and that wildcard in the name of Sundin.  They’ve lost games they shouldn’t have lost (to Anaheim and Tampa Bay), yet they took games they probably should have lost (New Jersey) and roared back to win games they were completely, absolutely, without doubt, out of (Rangers).

That lack-of-consistency is probably not the mark of a playoff team, but it does indicate they have the talent to compete, and have to be taken seriously by other clubs.  What will be interesting now is to watch how management massages this unexpected (unwelcome?) early success.  Head coach Ron Wilson might find the locals expecting a continuation of this heady start, and his patented line that winning is not a concern right now might not play big.  Then again, he could always just put Curtis Joseph in net.

At the other end of things, expected bottom-feeders such as Florida, Atlanta, the Islanders, Columbus, Phoenix, and Los Angeles are doing exactly that, eating dinner off the ocean floor.  One of these clubs could get hot and make a charge, but most of these teams are most likely already chanting, “Wait ‘Till Next Year”, which makes it hard to sell tickets, unless you bundle them up with a couple of hotdogs, soft drinks and a program thrown in.

Thomas Vanek is showing why the Sabres put out all that cash to keep him.  Carey Price can look brilliant, and then let in a floater like in their Saturday night game against the Islanders.  Malkin is a superstar, go figure.  So, it appears, is Semin.  And both hot starts help make up for somewhat “slow” starts by Crosby and Ovechkin.

Tim Thomas continues to be the little engine that could, while Mikka Kiprusoff appears to be back.  So, of course, I took Marty Turco in the NHL Home Ice pool.   But it’s early.

And that’s the thing.  It is still early.  Mike Modano told us that the Dallas Stars like to break down the season into five-game segments.  So far, two segments down, fourteen to go.  We should have a better idea of how things might proceed two segments from now.

Or not.  Which is why pre-season predictions are so, so…useless.  Fun, sure, but c’mon, what insights do they really offer?  A chance for some ego-challenged hockey prognosticator to roll the dice and maybe, just maybe, get it right for once?

What about injuries, illness, family situations, other outside distractions, team chemistry, trades, demotions, and the ever-overblown trade deadline?  Most of those variables cannot be properly factored in when predictions are made.

Which is why, when pressed, I picked Dallas to win the Cup.   Did Marty not get that email?

- Mick Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s

Attended the Tampa Bay Lightning-Toronto Maple Leafs’ game at the Air Canada Centre on Tuesday night. A rather sloppy affair between two teams still figuring out who they are and where they’re going.

Steve Stamkos picked up his first NHL point, on a gift assist on a nice goal by Vincent Lecavalier.  Mike Smith looked good in net, again, for the Lightning.  And once again, Toronto let a game slip away they probably should have won.

But those things are secondary to what really struck me last night…and struck me is the apt term.

Why is everything so freaking loud at hockey games?  No, at any sporting event?  With every stoppage-in-play, and, the gods help us, during the intermission, the peppy staff at the ACC had to fill every millisecond with someone shouting at me.

Either it was a sponsor contest (which you’ll notice no-one ever loses), or an advertisement for some lame Hollywood movie, or some stale on-ice intermission contest.  Hey, I fully understand that pro sports is a business, and any chance to make a buck will be seized upon, but why do you have to shout about it?

High volume level is associated with high energy level, though the two are not necessarily the same thing.  When you’re talking (shouting) to 19,000 fans at a hockey arena, you have to project, not only in volume, but in approach, in order to grab their attention.

But you’re not barking through a paper cone, you’re yelling into a modern-day high-tech microphone that’s pumped through the mega-ton speaker system suspended throughout the building.  Why shout?  And if you feel the need to pump up the volume, to whip the crowd into a frenzy, learn some mic technique.  Back it off a bit when you go for the gold, don’t overwhelm the mic, thus the speakers, thus the crowd.

Took my four-year-old boy to a Toronto Raptors game late last season.  The wife snared us good seats.  The kid likes basketball (there’s no accounting for taste) and was pumped for his inaugural NBA experience.  He spent the majority of the evening with both hands on his ears, shielding himself from the relentless aural onslaught.  Even NBA Commissioner David Stern has recently pondered why the volume level is so loud at basketball games.  Not everyone attending these games are 14-to-32 and have already blown out their hearing thanks to jacked up ipods.

The trouble with basketball, and there are many, is that sometimes the boneheads in the arena see fit to play some music/sound effects during play.  As if this were all one big video game.  I’ll rue the day that mentality permeates its way into the NHL.

The Toronto Blue Jays feel the need to employ a local media personality as the in-game host during certain games.  Naturally, he yells.  A lot.

A bunch of us used to attend St. Michael’s Majors’ OHL games at the venerable St. Mike’s arena in uptown Toronto, when the team still played out of that old barn.  It would crack us up, and annoy us, during breaks-in-play, when the teenage lackey in the sound booth would crank up the volume on some LCD slack-jawed corporate rock song, which would rattle around that small arena, creating the worst din imaginable.

Did this pump up the crowd more?  Doubt it.  Was it done for the players’ benefit?  Maybe.  Athletes don’t tend to have the most inquisitive tastes in music.  Would the in-game experience have been lessened with the subtraction of said music?  No.

I’m all for the P.A. announcer having a personality, and using it during the course of a game.  Mike Ross of NHL Home Ice was once the P.A. voice for the Ottawa 67’s, and by all accounts, he knew how to work up a crowd.

It’s all entertainment, and it has its place.  Sometimes, the dude in the booth can go overboard.  About a decade ago, the P.A. voice for the Calgary Stampeders of the Canadian Football League used to editorialize after each play.

“Dave Sapunjis with the catch.  14 yards.  First-and-Ten Stampeders.  Nice catch by The Sponge”.

Okay, alright.  The hometown bias.  I get it.  Don’t like it, but I get it.

“Tiger-Cats return the punt for 21 yards.  Looked like clipping on that one”.

What?  Not your place, buddy.  Go back to your mom’s basement and play radio.

But at least the guy didn’t shout.

- Mick “Tommy Can You Hear Me” Kern

Mick Kern appears courtesy of Live From Wayne Gretzky’s