Rabu, 25 Februari 2009
Senin, 16 Februari 2009
Egg on my face...
By Mike
I don't think too many bloggers call themselves out when they're wrong, but when I made the prediction that the Coyotes were going to fly high after beating the Wings, I couldn't have envisioned that they'd drop 9 of their next 10 and go from 5th to 14th in the Conference.
To paraphrase my brother, Fucking Barf, bro!
Coyotes, why you wanna break my heart?
I don't think too many bloggers call themselves out when they're wrong, but when I made the prediction that the Coyotes were going to fly high after beating the Wings, I couldn't have envisioned that they'd drop 9 of their next 10 and go from 5th to 14th in the Conference.
To paraphrase my brother, Fucking Barf, bro!
Coyotes, why you wanna break my heart?
Senin, 09 Februari 2009
Jumat, 06 Februari 2009
Trading Seasons: How you can miss Detroit from California
By Dave
Editors Note: While Mike's the analytical one that usually dissects the issues, Dave's more along the lines of an editorial style. Take a moment to read and enjoy.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
I woke up one day and told myself that I was going to leave charcoal colored skies and abandoned sky lines. I saved nickels and dimes for months in order to do one thing I’ve always told myself that I would do. With a heavy heart and stars in my eyes, I decided to engage my Manifest Destiny and make the move from Detroit, Michigan to beautiful San Diego, California.
This morning I took a beautiful walk through Balboa Park. It was a warm day. Close to eighty degrees, if not just above. The birds were out singing their summer songs. Children were laughing and playing soccer, showing their grass-stained knees and scabbed elbows with pride. There were groups of tourists in khaki-colored shorts and sunscreen waiting in line to get into the world famous San Diego Zoo. The afternoon sun made my skin expel a slight sweat; enough to where I needed to stop and buy a bottle of water from a hot dog vendor near the dog park. This is a great way to spend an afternoon before I start my new job; a new job that starts on Valentine’s Day.
That’s right, it’s February.
My friends and family in Detroit that I telephone daily tell me how much snow I’m missing out on. What should I be jealous of, that I don’t get to wake up in the morning and play the “reverse, drive, reverse” game that I love to play at six in the morning before work? My friends also remind me how great it is to involuntarily spin your freshly salted 2004 Saturn Ion three hundred and sixty degrees into a snow bank packed ever-so-neatly in the fast lane on southbound I-75 just past the Warren exit as you're on your way home from some conch bar in Royal Oak that you didn’t even want to go to in the first place.
I interpret their stories as a way to make me home sick to the point I can come be a regular part of their lives again. They express their concerns that my job paying me nearly twice as much in southern California may make me soft and not respect the value of a dollar.
Sorry guys, try harder.
They tell me about how the city is almost done tearing down Tiger Stadium. How the corner of Michigan and Trumbull is nothing but a giant fence and a blast crater. How there is a half finished hotel in the middle of Greektown because the Casino that was building it ran out of funding and stopped paying the builders. They say words like 15-18% when referring to unemployment.
Try harder.
I heard Punxsutawney Phil says six more weeks. In six weeks the surf starts picking up.
Try again. Try harder.
The Wings have nine home games in February. (Slight inhale).
You don’t need to try anymore my friend. You win.
I see the twenty minute walk to 2.9 miles of circular track, raised about fifteen feet off the icy, gray concrete below. Yes, I’m speaking of Detroit’s answer to the L-Train, The People Mover. Only nine stops away from the largest staircase I’ve ever climbed. I see the most expensive Molson XXX I’ve ever drank, along with the best damn Little Caesar's pizza in the world. By now I know I'm at my home away from home: The Joe Louis Arena. Thinking of the smell of those troughs in the bathroom makes me home sick every single time. The endless sea of Winged Wheels, thinking of it brings a tear to my eye.
Granted, I have been lucky enough to watch the Red-and-White defend their championship in some great venues. The Staples Center in Los Angeles, The Honda Center in Anaheim, and The Jobing.com Arena in Glendale, AZ all come to mind. In all of these places I have met many Yzerman’s, Shannahan’s, and Osgood’s. I’ve been lucky enough to meet a few Konstantinov’s, Coffey’s, Datsyuk’s, and Zetterberg’s. I even met a five year old Doug Brown impersonator in a jersey that was way to big for her. (I think it’s funny that you can tell how long someone has lived in California by whose name is on their sweater). Whenever the red light sparkles and the horn doesn’t sound, all of my new friends and I jump up, cheer, slap hands... and get told to sit down by someone in a different colored jersey. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Except, of course, if I could hear the horn when that red light goes off.
Except, of course, if I could find the one or two people not proudly representing the Motor City and welcome them to my city by chanting “YOU!” in unison with 20,066 of my neighbors.
Except, of course.
I miss bundling up during my eighteen minute breaks to go smoke a cigarette and talk about Hossa’s team leading 28 goals, Pavel’s 42 assists, and Conklin’s 5 shutouts. Overhearing talks of how opening day is right around the corner and how our boys of summer, the Tigers, are going to snap out of that funk we got ourselves into last year. Someone asks me how to get to The Well on Gratiot because they hear it’s a great place to get a beer after the game, and that sometimes Cheli stops in there to get a Budweiser before heading home.
Instead, I’m stuck rolling up the sleeves on my hoodie so not to over heat on the smoking patio. Sore losers heckle my friends and I about our 0-16 Detroit Lions. We laugh and say there is nowhere to go but up. People tell us to go back to Detroit. Emotionally beat up, we smile and ask them to tell their fellow Californians to quit paying us so much. Some “tie under my jersey” over-served DUI waiting to happen type mumbles something about Allen Iverson becoming a sixth man. We chuckle and talk about how well Chauncey Billips is doing in Denver. When the smart-ass Fox News advocate yells something about our mayor going to jail, we stand up, proud and united, and proclaim that we are Detroiters at hockey game; nothing you can say will affect us because today, we will win.
I guess I’ll sit here in eighty-two degree San Diego, checking stats in between sips of my fancy imported beer and bites of my avocado-spinach-olive oil pizza. I'll be calling my friends to ask if they heard anything about Aaron Downey being called up for a game as I walk barefoot down the beach. I'll be opening letters from my Grandmother in which she writes stories of the six or so feet of snow piled in her backyard, with a postscript that reads “I hope you don’t become a Ducks fan.” Don’t worry Grams; that will never happen.
I’ll do all of this, and I’ll sit here and be miserable.
Nine home games in February;
You know how to cut me deep...
Editors Note: While Mike's the analytical one that usually dissects the issues, Dave's more along the lines of an editorial style. Take a moment to read and enjoy.
I'm one of the lucky ones.
I woke up one day and told myself that I was going to leave charcoal colored skies and abandoned sky lines. I saved nickels and dimes for months in order to do one thing I’ve always told myself that I would do. With a heavy heart and stars in my eyes, I decided to engage my Manifest Destiny and make the move from Detroit, Michigan to beautiful San Diego, California.
This morning I took a beautiful walk through Balboa Park. It was a warm day. Close to eighty degrees, if not just above. The birds were out singing their summer songs. Children were laughing and playing soccer, showing their grass-stained knees and scabbed elbows with pride. There were groups of tourists in khaki-colored shorts and sunscreen waiting in line to get into the world famous San Diego Zoo. The afternoon sun made my skin expel a slight sweat; enough to where I needed to stop and buy a bottle of water from a hot dog vendor near the dog park. This is a great way to spend an afternoon before I start my new job; a new job that starts on Valentine’s Day.
That’s right, it’s February.
My friends and family in Detroit that I telephone daily tell me how much snow I’m missing out on. What should I be jealous of, that I don’t get to wake up in the morning and play the “reverse, drive, reverse” game that I love to play at six in the morning before work? My friends also remind me how great it is to involuntarily spin your freshly salted 2004 Saturn Ion three hundred and sixty degrees into a snow bank packed ever-so-neatly in the fast lane on southbound I-75 just past the Warren exit as you're on your way home from some conch bar in Royal Oak that you didn’t even want to go to in the first place.
I interpret their stories as a way to make me home sick to the point I can come be a regular part of their lives again. They express their concerns that my job paying me nearly twice as much in southern California may make me soft and not respect the value of a dollar.
Sorry guys, try harder.
They tell me about how the city is almost done tearing down Tiger Stadium. How the corner of Michigan and Trumbull is nothing but a giant fence and a blast crater. How there is a half finished hotel in the middle of Greektown because the Casino that was building it ran out of funding and stopped paying the builders. They say words like 15-18% when referring to unemployment.
Try harder.
I heard Punxsutawney Phil says six more weeks. In six weeks the surf starts picking up.
Try again. Try harder.
The Wings have nine home games in February. (Slight inhale).
You don’t need to try anymore my friend. You win.
I see the twenty minute walk to 2.9 miles of circular track, raised about fifteen feet off the icy, gray concrete below. Yes, I’m speaking of Detroit’s answer to the L-Train, The People Mover. Only nine stops away from the largest staircase I’ve ever climbed. I see the most expensive Molson XXX I’ve ever drank, along with the best damn Little Caesar's pizza in the world. By now I know I'm at my home away from home: The Joe Louis Arena. Thinking of the smell of those troughs in the bathroom makes me home sick every single time. The endless sea of Winged Wheels, thinking of it brings a tear to my eye.
Granted, I have been lucky enough to watch the Red-and-White defend their championship in some great venues. The Staples Center in Los Angeles, The Honda Center in Anaheim, and The Jobing.com Arena in Glendale, AZ all come to mind. In all of these places I have met many Yzerman’s, Shannahan’s, and Osgood’s. I’ve been lucky enough to meet a few Konstantinov’s, Coffey’s, Datsyuk’s, and Zetterberg’s. I even met a five year old Doug Brown impersonator in a jersey that was way to big for her. (I think it’s funny that you can tell how long someone has lived in California by whose name is on their sweater). Whenever the red light sparkles and the horn doesn’t sound, all of my new friends and I jump up, cheer, slap hands... and get told to sit down by someone in a different colored jersey. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Except, of course, if I could hear the horn when that red light goes off.
Except, of course, if I could find the one or two people not proudly representing the Motor City and welcome them to my city by chanting “YOU!” in unison with 20,066 of my neighbors.
Except, of course.
I miss bundling up during my eighteen minute breaks to go smoke a cigarette and talk about Hossa’s team leading 28 goals, Pavel’s 42 assists, and Conklin’s 5 shutouts. Overhearing talks of how opening day is right around the corner and how our boys of summer, the Tigers, are going to snap out of that funk we got ourselves into last year. Someone asks me how to get to The Well on Gratiot because they hear it’s a great place to get a beer after the game, and that sometimes Cheli stops in there to get a Budweiser before heading home.
Instead, I’m stuck rolling up the sleeves on my hoodie so not to over heat on the smoking patio. Sore losers heckle my friends and I about our 0-16 Detroit Lions. We laugh and say there is nowhere to go but up. People tell us to go back to Detroit. Emotionally beat up, we smile and ask them to tell their fellow Californians to quit paying us so much. Some “tie under my jersey” over-served DUI waiting to happen type mumbles something about Allen Iverson becoming a sixth man. We chuckle and talk about how well Chauncey Billips is doing in Denver. When the smart-ass Fox News advocate yells something about our mayor going to jail, we stand up, proud and united, and proclaim that we are Detroiters at hockey game; nothing you can say will affect us because today, we will win.
I guess I’ll sit here in eighty-two degree San Diego, checking stats in between sips of my fancy imported beer and bites of my avocado-spinach-olive oil pizza. I'll be calling my friends to ask if they heard anything about Aaron Downey being called up for a game as I walk barefoot down the beach. I'll be opening letters from my Grandmother in which she writes stories of the six or so feet of snow piled in her backyard, with a postscript that reads “I hope you don’t become a Ducks fan.” Don’t worry Grams; that will never happen.
I’ll do all of this, and I’ll sit here and be miserable.
Nine home games in February;
You know how to cut me deep...
You can always come home again: An ode to the New Jersey Devils
By Mike
Cool story: One time I was at an old job when I went to do some computer service for a fellow employee who happened to be from New Jersey. When I told her I was from Detroit she said "Are you still mad about it?"
I said "The fact that you even said that rules!"
While the story out of the East for this season is Boston, and to a certain degree Washington, I can't help but feel happy for New Jersey being the top of their division. I thought they'd be done for the season after losing Brodeur, but they've proven time and time again to be a smart organization that has a knack for developing talent and displaying great leadership both on and off the ice. While I typically pay most attention to the Coyotes and Red Wings, I wanna take a minute and give praise to one amazing yet rather unheralded team considering how lesser teams get better attention.
New Jersey intrigues me because I take a look at their roster and think I've seen them around before...
- Scott Clemmensen was drafted by New Jersey in 1997 during the 8th round, played backup to Brodeur for several seasons before going to Toronto for a season only to return during the off-season.
- Brian Rolston was New Jersey's first round pick in 1991 and came back after spending time with Colorado, Boston, and Minnesota.
- Brendan Shanahan, the second overall pick in 1987, returned to the team after a storied career that has seen him win Stanley Cups with the Detroit Red Wings.
- Bobby Holik, who was initially drafted by Hartford but was a significant part in New Jersey's Cup victories from 1995 to 2003.
- Michael Rupp, who's carved a career out of being a checking-line player, was a NJ draft pick who went on to spend time with Phoenix and Columbus before returning to the team.
All and all, when you look at the 23 guys on New Jersey's active roster (including Brodeur), more than half of them were drafted by the team, three were signed specifically as undrafted free agents, and in Holik's case, he spent significant time with the team just to return. Call me biased, but I think it's great when I see a team built off of American talent. Splash some Czechs and Canadian talent in the mix and the formula for success is amazing.
The other thing to consider is their success. Granted, there was a time The Great One referred to them as a Mickey Mouse organization, but from the span of 1995 to 2003, they were the only other team aside from Detroit to win the Cup three times. That wasn't by accident folks, as Lou Lou Lamoriello built and developed a strong and winning team, regardless of whatever questionable moves occurred in the process (see the dismisal of Claude Julien right before the playoffs two seasons back.)
But while they've proven to be winners, there always seems to be a team that gets more love than the Devils based on their name rather than what they've done with themselves. Being the "second" team in a three-team market, the Rangers always seem to get better recognition as "the team" in the area despite having their last Cup victory in 1994, 9 years prior to New Jersey's last Cup victory. The Canadian media focuses almost exclusively on the Canadiens or the down-trodden Leafs over the Devils, while the American media is more concerned about the young guns playing for Washington or the far overrated Pittsburgh Penguins. You can point to the Sidney Crosbys of the world and say how talented they are, but when a team displays a constant model for winning, that's what should be respected most in my opinion.
So to the New Jersey Devils and their fans, I raise my glass and say a cheers to you. May you never lose faith in your team and may you always manage to find a way into the Top 8, if not the Top 3.
Cheers!
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