Crickets

My bachelor pad is in a oversized condo complex called the Mountain Club.  Its only outdoor recreation venue (once the pool shuts down on Labor Day) is a pair of tennis courts. They don't get much use, which I think the board is OK with. I have a tennis partner, Marlon, a black guy about a decade younger than me who is hooked on growing his muscles: arms, chest, shoulders, the visible ones. He's like a lot of guys who are into expanding their size with the same inverse intensity that bulimic women care about reducing theirs.  I like him because he likes me, and he's a good single parent with a cool kid.  But he's not too tolerant of the middle aged Indian guys who play a modified version of cricket on the courts when they aren't in use. He curses them when we are playing and they are around, complains to the board, hates the smell of Indian food from one of his neighbors.  Personally, I like seeing people playing sports. The more the merrier, and if you can get half a dozen guys out there P-L-A-Y-I-N-G, that's very hard for me to condemn. They are sportsmen, just like me and Marlon.  So I try and play it down the middle, not getting to passionate in their defense, but certainly not looking to evict anyone.  Marlon steams, I think he presumes I am on his cricket-hater team, but it's kind of evident that I am not.  

That's the background to my Sunday afternoon adventure.  I'm puffing up the hill on my bike (it IS the Mountain Club after all) and I see my soon-to-be Indian pals, enjoying themselves immensely playing modified cricket on the tennis court.  It reminds me of my schoolyard wiffle ball games from my childhood...improvising rules for the angles of the field.  Full disclosure: I have been educated in Cricket, playing a semester at a South African English-style prep school I attended in 6th grade when my Mom and professor stepdad went on their honeymoon sabbatical.  So I wandered onto the condo tennis court, and I escaped the aura of Marlon and just started shmoozing cricket, and they knew I was an enthusiastic sportsman, just like them.  And after a brief dissolve sequence, there I am BOWLING several "Overs", fielding balls, batting and just sharing sports love as I am wont to do.  Fortunately, Marlon didn't cruise by and have a coronary.  It was exhilarating...to be surrounded by this cool group of Indians, one with a white beard worthy of Ayatollah Khomenie, a mom and a stroller just outside the gate...cultural sports love.  

The One

                                  

His name is Seth Jones.  He is the answer to the question: "What if the best athletes in the United States played hockey instead of basketball or football?"  A just-turned 18 year old man-child whose father, Popeye Jones, spent over a decade playing in the NBA, Seth appears to be The One. USA Hockey lists him at 6'3" 210 pounds, but those numbers keep changing.  He's now 6' 4" according to other sources, and the weight training he is doing for the Portland Winterhawks of the Western Hockey League has resulted in lots of weighty new muscle.  He's still growing, and if you believe the whispers from the scouting corners of the rink, he would be a top-4 defenseman on most NHL teams today.  All those scouts gathered at the inaugural All-American Prospects Game hosted by USA Hockey in Buffalo September 29, and Seth was the headliner.  Veteran hockey writers with no NHL to cover descended on Buffalo for their first look at Jones.  They were not disappointed.

Time to fill in some blanks...Seth was born on October 3, 1994, 18 days after the NHL draft cutoff for 2012.  Had he been born three weeks premature, Jones would probably be signed and chomping at the bit to play in the NHL right now.  He's spent the last 2 seasons incubating under the watchful eye of USA Hockey's top coaches, playing with the U-17 and U-18 National teams, sequestered in Ann Arbor,  Michigan on a crash course of hockey fundamentals and games.  His crowning achievement for USA Hockey was this past spring when he captained America's Under-18 club to the World Championship gold medal in Prague. If Seth played a mainstream sport like hoops, football or baseball at the level he plays hockey, he would be a household name nationally.  But American hockey prospects end up on page 6 of the USA Today sports section and maybe on a postage stamp in Sports Illustrated's "Faces in the Crowd."  Most Americans will learn about Seth when he competes for a Stanley Cup in a town near them. EXCEPT that...the Seth Jones story is so good that it might leak out beyond the frozen north.

Hall of Fame hockey writer Kevin Allen of USA Today took an immediate liking to Seth in Buffalo when he learned that Seth took a red eye flight from his Friday night game in Portland in order to entertain the pre-game press throng in Buffalo. This is where Jones showed some off-ice mettle: he ran a virtual gauntlet of media for an hour Saturday morning in Buffalo, starting with an in depth sit-down in front of the NHL Network cameras to a full media scrum in the USA Hockey mixed zone. Somehow the jet-lagged teenager held it together while fielding a range of questions that bordered on the absurd: "Tell us something interesting about yourself that people don't already know (that nearly stumped him)";  "What other hockey players are good in basketball?";  "At what point in your life did you know you were going to be a star?"  Those would be tough for a media savvy veteran, let alone a sleep-deprived teen 9 months prior to being drafted, but Jones addressed them all, asking for help once while struggling for a particular word, and always remaining perfectly comfortable in his own skin.  No one enforced time limits on this getting-to-know-you media free for all; Seth was the primary attraction under the tent, and he accepted the responsibility with grace and an amazing even temper, even when his synapses were firing at less than 100%.  Does anyone know any other teenagers like this?

In the game, Seth delivered, scoring a goal and leading Team McClanahan to a 5-2 victory in the inaugural All-American Prospects Game.  Scouts, fans and media saw classic Jones hockey: His goal came on his signature slapshot from the point; he jumped eagerly into the rush at every opportunity; he anticipated all offensive forays to his side of the ice which he steered away from his end. He played tough in front of his net, moved the puck calmly and efficiently, and even accommodated a live in-game interview on the bench in which he detailed his netherworld travelog from Portland to Buffalo. He aced this exam with style and grace, exhibiting a cool jazz reminiscent of the late Arthur Ashe.

As a serious observer of the Seth Jones story in the making, here's what I took from his first closeup in Buffalo: the guy is unflappable and he's got huge Captain intangibles.  Hockey Captains are a special breed, and when you see them, you know them.  The subject of the World Juniors came up, and here is where Seth's leadership qualities shined brightest. Last year, Team USA entered the prestigious U-20 World Championship with justified medal hopes--they had captured bronze and gold their prior two years--but suffered a horrendous setback in Alberta last New Year's, failing to make the medal round. Seth was home injured, watching Team USA get embarrassed on a global stage, a performance that would have most people diving out of buildings in order to distance themselves. Seth said "We have to perform better...7th place isn't good enough for the U.S."  The fact that he said "we," and not "they," spoke volumes.  When asked about his top moment in his career, he didn't hesitate to label his TEAM's victory at the U-18 World Championship as the one, and only.  Even though he'll be nearly two years younger than some of his teammates at the U-20 World Juniors this December in Russia, USA Hockey should start stitching the "C" on the oversized #3 jersey today.

Jones has streamlined his life toward professional sports from the beginning, benefitting from the experience of living in his father's NBA shadow. He has seen Dirk Novitzky shoot obsessively before and after games; his vision of Ray Bourque hoisting the Stanley Cup after Game 7 in Denver seared a memory into an impressionable child that will never be forgotten; it was NHL superstar Joe Sakic who told Popeye Jones in the bowels of Denver's Pepsi Center that Seth should take a year of skating lessons BEFORE buying that first pair of shin pads.  Seth's impressionable first years were framed by Avalanche hockey mania in Denver, resulting in hockey being his only sport, despite legitimate basketball skills.

He has a deep appreciation for NCAA hockey and academics in general, but Jones opted to play in Canada's major junior circuit. He is proud to be playing in "The Dub" as he calls the WHL, in his mind the fastest track to the NHL.  Hockey's next Captain America is a black man-child, the perfect storm of genetics, behavioral conditions and an as-yet unexplained cool jazz demeanor.  Projecting professional success for teenagers is usually the ultimate dice throw, but in Jones's case, it is a foregone conclusion.

At the end of the Prospects Game in Buffalo, Seth reacquainted with an independent film producer, taking in the fact that there might be a documentary in the works. He accepted the news in stride, as he had everything else in what had been a whirlwind 20 hours. He glided up the steps at the First Niagara Center to meet with hockey's premier agent Pat Brisson, who made a special trip from L.A. to connect with Jones.  He knows better than anyone that the stars are in align for this young man, who may very well be The One to re-shape perceptions of hockey in America.

Is it safe?

Probiotics vs antibiotics.  Dentist prescribed antibiotics so the novocaine functions when he pulls my tooth later this AM.

Crunchy granola crowd is REALLY down on antibiotics, as am I for several reasons.  But, then again, I'm not terribly brave in the dentist chair.  Ever seen Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man?  I flash back to that when they strap me in.

So I have been doing the stomach biotic 2-step, surrounding my doses of Amoxicillin with probiotic supplements downed with Russian Kefir. 

Pharmacist (who clearly falls into the big Pharma camp, by title if nothing else) told me to delay the probiotics for a couple of hours to let the anti-biotics do their work. I went the other way, Pro-biotics first so the good bacteria in my gut doesn't get decimated.

I'm putting Emergency Medical Techs on my speed dial in case I need help getting pried off the dentist's ceiling in an hour.

stay tuned...

Qualies begin at Open

It's the U.S. Open, but it's not.  Think Bizarro World and the Seinfeld alternate Universe.  I walked into the Billie Jean tennis center, and there were no lines.  The fans looked the same, but no one had tickets.  Sparse security welcomed in fans carrying their own food. CBS Sports coverage was projected on all the video screens, but instead of John McEnroe, it was Justin Gimelstob. Yes, it was the world turned upside down, but in a wonderful way, a return to decades gone by when one could interact with a sporting event other than being herded into consumer lines.

I attended on a spontaneous whim, with three of my 12 year old tennis clients piled into the Prius. We parked free at Citifield and walked in from the Subway boardwalk.  There was a Smorgasbord of matches and we moved freely about, sampling several.  After a quick snack in nearly abandoned food court, we took no more than 15 steps to the Court 11 end zone seats, my pick as the best seats in pro tennis.  We sunk our teeth into a classic opening round match featuring American college product Rhyne Williams decked out in his Tennessee Volunteer orange against Vasek Pospisil, who represented Canada in the Olympics.  The kids got to see the bright faced American upset the 7th seeded Pospisil in straight sets with a classic hard court game: big first serve and an undying desire to hit forehands, backhands a last resort.

Tennesse Vol Rhyne Williams in signature orange gear

We caught up with the engaging Williams after his match, the kids getting autographs while I shmoozed.  I learned firsthand that Williams was the 2011 NCAA runner up for the Vols as a sophomore and has thoroughly enjoyed his first year on the tour.  No credential necessary as Williams shared his story out in plain view,  not in a crowded press room.  Is there a better way to take in a sporting event?

Having collected the last Order of Play being handed out at the entrance (did I mention there was a hint of magic to our spontaneous excursion?) we cruised over to the newly completed Court 17, an intimate theater reminiscent of the Court One "Bull Ring" in Roland Garros.  The kids were free to run around, moving closer and closer to the front row during Bobby Reynolds' victory over Ukrainian masher Illya Marchenko.  From the kids' perspective it might as well have been Rocky Balboa against Ivan Drago.  Seeing the pace from the front row blew the minds of the middle school tennis hopefuls. Tennis memories were being permanently etched, emphasis on the word "tennis" as opposed to memories of standing in line to use the rest room or being ejected from elite seats by irate ushers.  12 year olds with free rein at a major tennis venue, such conditions seriously sparked their imaginations as sports fantasies prospered.

Post match I went down to a group of fans pulling for the 30 year old Reynolds, convinced that they were part of "Team Reynolds," and sure enough it was his his family from Georgia.  I proceeded with my well-rehearsed shmoozing, prodding for connections while learning from Bobby's dad about moves from Cape Cod to Mobile to Georgia. Bobby's aunt asked about my location, and it turns out she teaches middle school math in my town.  As she shared that info my 12 year olds arrived, and here was where the magic kicked in.  As Bobby's aunt described how she employed her nephew's pro tennis exploits into her lesson plans, the boys jaws dropped a bit.  One of them had taken her math class, the other will be in 10 days.  They were now drawn into the Reynolds inner circle as I watched, amazed as everyone else at the serendipity. We all visited and exchanged ideas on teaching and coaching and kids and both big and small time tennis until the Reynolds politely exited to connect with their tour pro. For my 12 year old posse, the magic of the moment shimmered due to its insane improbability.

ROSOL launching his signature boomers

Our dessert was the final match on court 17, Lukas Rosol's opening qualifier. Despite his mind-blowing upset of Rafa Nadal at Wimbledon earlier this summer, Rosol was still ranked only 93, and he had to grind through qualifying matches like the majority of the elite tour wannabe's.  So we all crouched in the front row of the end-zone during his warmups, snapping pictures on our phones.  Rosol sure looked like the same guy who smoked Nadal in the 5th set at Wimbledon's famed Centre Court, booming serves and moving with grace and extreme quickness here on cement in the early evening.  I hadn't noticed the exquisite tattoo on his left calf.  Unfortunately we couldn't ask him about it after his dismissal of 6' 5" monster Kamil Capkovik because it was getting late and parents were wondering exactly how late their tennis cherubs would be getting home.

We returned to our car surrounded by Mets fans filing into CitiField for the early innings of their game against the Rockies.  A couple of blonde women, deep into their cups of suds, chided us for leaving the Mets game prematurely.  I let them know we had just come from a full day of tennis, and they acknowledged that we had made the better choice.

Early in the ride home I teased the boys about how they could have stayed in with some of those pros on several of those points, how they could have returned those second serves, and then I left them alone for the 30 mile drive west.  Soon, two of the three had dozed off, tired from a day marching around their cement tennis playground.  You didn't need a psychic to predict their dreams.

Salvaging Black Monday for American Tennis

ROCKY DAY FOR AMERICAN TENNIS DAY 1 AT THE BIG W

June 25, 2012 was referred to as Black Monday for American tennis.  Donald Young struck the first ball of Wimbledon and had as disappointing a loss as you'll ever see, blowing a half dozen points to go up two breaks and a set on the imploding seed Mikhail Youzhny.  In the next few games Young went from a confident player strangling a seed on a Wimbledon showcourt, to a rank amateur, getting whisked away in what Brad Gilbert described as "15 minutes."  The U.S.T.A. will not appreciated this adjective, after all the treasure they have sunk into Young's ill-fated career, but Young's performance was embarrassing. It was his 12th consecutive tour loss.  "Shocking to me and people around me." The guy who used to be the poster child for American tennis development is shattered right now.  And that was only the beginning.

Good guy James Blake, now a brittle 32 year old, lived out the exact same script as Young, only an hour later. Up a set and a break with several chances to lock up the second set with another break. And he, too, failed.  Flip the Direct TV feed over to Court 2, and there was gentle Venus, the flip side of the coin to her intimidating younger sister, falling in straight sets. Her loss, the worst in her Wimbledon career, was caused at least as much by her medical condition as it was by the skills of young Russian Elena Vesnina.  They say that since Court 2 has been remodeled, it isn't necessarily the same ol "Graveyard of Champions."  Watching 5-Time Wimbledon champion Venus Williams--yes 5, the combined totals of Evert and Connors--slog through a straight-set drubbing at the hands of a heretofore unknown player is as big a scalp as the old Graveyard ever had.  It was reminiscent of another Great Champion's final match at Wimbledon.  33 years ago Arthur Ashe, plagued by heart troubles, was ushered out of his Wimbledon playing life here on Court 2. Does anyone think Venus will return to the AELTC after her Olympic obligations are over?  We have all learned a bit about Sjogren's Syndrom thanks to Venus, along with grace and humility in her loss.  And to those who say "good riddance" because of her guilt by sibling association? You are revealing your ignorance.  Venus Williams' was a role model for grace under pressure, exiting Wimbledon with a wake of class and dignity. It bears repeating, a five-time Wimbledon singles champion.

American sports fans who wait until lunch to catch up on their sporting news were in for a shock this Monday.  Three of the biggest names in American tennis, had been vanquished from the All-England club before dessert and coffee.   What about Melanie Oudin, she of the stunning grand slam debut as a 17-year old at the 2009 U.S. Open? Having just turned 20 she is now pulling herself together professionally after the inevitable letdown. Leading up to Wimbledon Melanie did something Americans haven't done in decades, she actually won a tour event on English grass.  The 2012 Birmingham champion was facing an unknown on a court without TV cameras.  Unless you were in Southwest London with a precious ticket, you were forced to watch the drama on a computer screen.  This was a three-set thriller, one in which the eye-witnesses reported that she fought bravely, but even on the small screen the numbers were painful to absorb. Broken in the 8th game of the critical third set, little Melanie's Grand Slam comeback was shut down before it began.

What about Wimbledon Marathon Man John Isner? Involved in a 5-setter on Court Three against a Colombian clay courter? That's gotta be money in the bank.  No dice.  The #11 Seed, USA's best shot to go deep into week 2, dead in the water on Court 3.  Black Monday indeed.

Yet like so many of those lengthy days in London, some light seeped through the wall of dark clouds.  That battlin Cajun Ryan Harrison of Louisiana gutted out a 4-setter.  Another Ryan, 24 year old Ryan Sweeting, a U.S. citizen born in the Bahamas, claimed his match after his opponent retired in the second set. Teenager Sloane Stephens won her match, and suddenly there was restored pride in the Red White and Blue. Young players with shiny futures were replacing the aging champions and contenders from a previous era.  The good news continued to roll in as the Centre Court crowd slipped off for dinner.  22 year-old Jamie Hampton entered Court Three moments after the shattered Isner exited.  She proceeded to grind out a spirited straight-set victory over the seeded Slovak Daniela Hantuchova.

The American tennis equivalent of Rocky Balboa, 34 year old qualifier Michael Russell from Detroit, collected his second Wimbledon match victory of his pock-marked career.  5 shiny pennies from a day that had dealt out 6 numbing losses.  As the longest naturally lit tennis day of the year came to a close, there was that irrepressible Jersey girl, Teaneck's Christina McHale, simply refusing to cave to the Britain's Johanna Konta and all her fans flocking about Court 17.  She stubbornly forced the decisive third set into "overtime," and daylight finally failed, the match to be continued on Day 2.

For the American players, 6 ushered out and 6 survive to fight another day. For the fans, it's time to learn some new story lines.  There is talent is out there wearing red, white and blue, and best of all, there is hope.

Barry MacKay R.I.P.

The incredible BEAR


It's 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday, but 5 of the HBO Wimbledon "idiots" are in the dark in a West London squash court. Desperate to live out our grass court fantasies, we have crashed the uber-exclusive Hurlingham Club pre-Wimbledon party. Barry was our ringleader, and at 25 years older, he was the perfect "Uncle" Barry to help us pull this off.  "Bring your kits with your gear," he told us the night before. So we're all giggling and dropping trow in this unlit squash court, hopping around looking for that missing sneaker.
Moments later we emerge, all white-skinned with no professional sponsor patches, with the Armitraj brothers holding exhibitions on the courts we are so eager to trespass. One of Rafter's girlfriends is in attendance, along with all of the tennis aristocracy in Britain.  We idiots are nervous as cats. Not Bear.

"Man oh man," he says loudly for all the passerby's as we stride to an open court, "The Club's never looked better," he says with that magic midwestern honest charm.  The rest was easy.  Next thing we know we're all out on the court with Barry channeling Harry Hopman, barking orders as we do our jumping jacks on the manicured laws, getting warmed up for the greatest afternoon of our lives.  A couple of sets of tennis, several trips to the Pimms bar, a garden party on the back 40, essentially, business as usual for Bear, getting every possible drop of joy from each scenario he encounters.

Pro Tennis is probably the most selfish pro sport imaginable. Everyone is a rock-star wannabe. And here is this former #1 player in the U.S. who stands like a beacon because of his full-smile generosity. Like that rent-a-car he gave to Patrick McEnroe for playing doubles at the TransAmerica while he was still a student at Stanford. I think they were still waiting for the car's return when Hertz closed that branch.

The HBO Wimbledon "Idiots" of the 90's, TV freelance production's answer to the Buffalo Heads of Red Sox 70's, wised up and pooled our hotel money for the first Wimbledon village rental in the final years of HBO's contract with Wimbledon.  It took us a decade to figure out the math, but essentially when it comes to living the free lance dream, our ship had come in. And Barry was our honored guest. He loved everything about the house--full fridge, access to the betting parlors, minutes away from the courts--what's not to like?  And Hell, the owners happened to be named MacKay, this beautiful villa was known then and forever as the Mackay house.  A famous torch passing between the Bear and Johnny Mac on a glorious June afternoon in our garden will never be forgotten. I think they discovered the cure for glaucoma.

Everyone has stories of Barry's love and generosity, and I'll try not to bore you with mine, but the guy was a MENSCH.  Put me up on first day of my honeymoon, found me a freelance job at the Open 21 years after being persona non grata, treating my college roommate like his new best friend, taking me to the Ascot for turf racing and teaching me to bet, finding me the cheapest hotel in San Francisco, treating me to classic Tea in London's quaintest hotel. Sharing his tip of Stich over Becker in straight sets in the 1991 final at the Cathedral...bust out the champagne boys. Oh, Idiots delight.

It was incredible sad to discover the passing of Barry, but with his passion for desserts and California Chardonnay, we were lucky to have his joy as long as we did. He lived with pathos: the death of a son, an elusive Wimbledon title, (oh that muffed backhand volley against Laver with the match on his racket) and having never scored the pay day that would have put him in the comfort zone. A Bay Area sportswriter did the math in a column, Projecting Barry's potential earnings from his 1960 season in 21st Century dollars.  Enough to allow Barry to leave tennis and hang out with his beloved ponies.

But we all got the benefits from Barry's near misses, our favorite Uncle with the best jokes and the best smile and the best wines. The Joy from that man is impossible to describe, fortunately anyone connected to tennis has experienced it firsthand.

Oh, a final note. Barry was a hell of a pro in the booth. He transformed himself from a whispering sideline reporter to a play-by-play host. And until the very end, he was sharp. He ALWAYS pre-read the stage manager cards before reading them live on the air. and he caught plenty of production mistakes and NEVER held a grudge.

A life lived that we should all emulate, joyous expression from wire to wire. Saying you will be missed BEAR is the grandest understatement of them all.

Key moment

I hadn't seen the damn key in over 2 hours, it was now post-game, the beers were flowing, and I knew that time was running out.  If I didn't retrieve the keys soon, before the room began clearing out, I would be walking home, unable to swap my car keys with the USA Hockey Feds at the front desk.

I was failing miserably going from player to player asking who had the keys.  I needed the one figure that had a chance to rise above the din and speak to the group collectively...CUB.  I grabbed him be his shoulders to get his attention and to let him know the sense of urgency of the mission.  I guess from the accounts of the episode that the blood was flowing pretty freely, rushing so furiously to my head that it blocked my hearing and slowed my already suspect ability to process info efficiently.  But I knew one thing, he didn't have the keys and no one he spoke to did.

Because he is a kind man, Cub agreed to negotiate on my behalf with the USA Hockey Feds.  I later found out that they told him NFW, emphatically.  My last chance was Georgie, he had opened an locked the door, albeit with the rink's master key, but he was my last solid lead.  I was in full mania at that point, not understanding much of what he said other than that he did NOT have the original.  Crisis mode, final resort, I did the one thing that I knew had no chance of succeeding, but that George and Cub had both recommended.  I reached into my jeans.

And it was going down the rabbit hole. I reached in and felt the tiny little cardboard square, the faux-copper micro clasp, and the solitary key attached.  My world had returned to normal, presuming there really is any normalcy in my world.  The locker room roared, the blood threatening to explode in my head calmly retreated, thanks to a well-earned laugh at my expense.

I now have a fallback slogan for my headstone, and another entry in the litany of Suns idiocy.  "Where are the Fucking KEYS?!!!  

Oh So Close

    MISSED IT BY THAT MUCH



Setting Suns return west (or northeast for some of us) having taken HMS and North Carolina to overtime. They are the two clubs playing in the 50 and Over Championship game.  In both games we led in the third period, games in which we...oh, you get the idea.  Using the proper mathematical formula, the Suns should be champions if you insert enough Woulda Shoulda and Coulda's.  "I'm stickin with that story," said coach Cub.

Before I forget, John Otsuki scored a clever backhand goal in Game 3 vs Carolina, giving the Suns a short-lived lead late in the second period.  It actually went between a defenders legs on its gentle flight to to the top shelf.  The changeup contrasted with the "rockets" we were firing into the Carolina goalie's accomplished glove hand.  (Thank you John for the family subscription to SportsRap.)

We now limp home, having met new friends, and expanded dozens of relationships, all more meaningful as we play the back-nine of our lives.  Hockey is merely a useful common denominator for this club of friends.  If we were just hockey junkies, we would have never left the Brandon Ice Forum, watching live games on the ice and Stanley Cup playoff games in the lounge, talking puck and sippin Labatts in the hallways...oh, right, half a dozen of us did just that.  All right then, equal measure hockey love and camaraderie.

The Suns are the best hockey fraternity of them all, the favorite stop of USA Hockey legends Badger Bob, his son Mark and Art Berglund. Wearing the sweater, the pizza crest on the chest, lining up with Ketchum, Hailey and Bellevue Idaho residents is one of the grand privileges of a hockey life.

University of Maine head coach Tim Whirehead, a national figure in the hockey world, had his dream of joining the Suns come true after years of visiting, playing and yearning for the chance.  One of our opponents came up to us in the Brandon ice lounge and dealt out a left-handed compliment for the ages: "You're the best winless team I can remember."  Why I oughta...  Here's Glenn Hunter's (see "digit"ized photo above) summation:

"We must remember that we come from a resort town. Our goal has always been to accommodate and keep visitors happy. That's why we don't beat them, we don't want them feeling too bad."

There was no sadness amongst the Suns, we outplayed the two clubs playing for the title.  Cubby Burke was back on the ice and we got to play together, and for the record, I witnessed him arcing around the ice skating full tilt, panel to panel in neutral ice, and there was some of that wind flap going on through his jersey, kinda like a sail.  "I think the jersey was too big," said Cub, coming to the bench after each board battle, whether the shift was :15 long or :50.

Learned last night that Kurt Wenzel has found gainful employment, and Banjo Williams got his third daughter into Bowdoin, both grand accomplishments.  As John Weekes has said a time or two, "A finer bunch of guys you'll never find." Or words to that effect.  See you all next year, and if you find the locker room key please give it to...ANYONE BUT ME. 

DOWN AND OUT IN THE BAY

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY


Goalie Tony Benson lay sprawled in his cage, $1000 worth of goalie equipment hung out like a yard sale with a body buried in the midst of pad and gloves and blocker.  Glenn Hunter and Dale Johnson hunched over, unconsolable.  What appeared to have been the Suns finest hour on ice had been raked out from under them in maddening fashion, a 5-4 Overtime loss to team IMS, a loss that skewered the Suns chance to make the medal round.

IMS is an easy team to root against. A Tampa-based billionaire hockey enthusiast cobbled together a team by importing the best half dozen players from Detroit, including former NHL standout John Ogrodnick.  The IMS firepower was based on stretch passes and partial breakaways, which they employed in the early moments for a 1-0 lead, and expanded it to 3-1 when the clubs left the ice for the second intermission ice resurfacing.

But there was cause for optimism, the Suns forwards had found their legs and were wearing down the less mobile IMS defenseman.  And as the third period unfolded, coach Cubby Burke's enthusiasm proved to be well-founded.  The Suns systematically reeled off three consecutive goals:  defenseman Barney  jumping into the rush, Johnny Miller cashing in from in tight and Dave Hutchinson with a 25' screamer into the top shelf.

The Suns were on a roll, confidently outplaying IMS with 5 on 5 hockey, grinding them down thanks to quick-footed forechecking.  The dreams of IMS to buy a championship contender were crumbling.  And then with just over 7 minutes left in regulation and the Suns leading 4-3, fate struck.  An attempted IMS breakaway pass was 20 feet in front of their cherry picker, and Suns goalie Benson skated out of his crease to smother the puck.  The IMS forward charged into the prone Benson, gouging him with his stick and the boot of his skate, leaving a series of marks.  The Suns were furious--Benson was clearly injured with no backup on the bench, laying prostrate on the ice for several minutes. When the arguments subsided and Benson dragged his beleaguered body back to the crease, IMS had been issued a 5 minute major penalty with 7 to play.  Despite the apparent man-power advantage for the Suns, it was a deadly gift.

"I wish we could have declined the penalty," said the Cub in hindsight.

The refs, having just asserted themselves late in a tight game, got whistle happy.  3 consecutive minors were blown on the Suns, and the 5 on 4 manpower advantage soon devolved into a 3 on 4 penalty kill.  The break in momentum, the break in the forecheck flow, the wide ice for the Detroit snipers all contributed to the precipitous momentum shift.  The defense tandem of Rappleye and Johnson, Rap and Sluggo, immaculate in the 2011 tournament, were torched for the umpteenth time in 2012, permitting the tying goal on a 2-on-2 rush with a couple of minutes left.  What had appeared to be an inevitable, emotional victory that would spring the Suns into a prominent spot for the medal round, had come down to an overtime struggle to survive.

5 minutes of sudden death with their playoff lives on the line.  The Suns regrouped and carried the play, generating half a dozen legitimate chances in overtime.  With 2 minutes remaining in the extra session, IMS desperately tried to clear the zone.  Sluggo dropped to his knees at the offensive blue line and took the slapper in his body, 60 feet away from the winning goal.  IMS had skated past him, not expecting the gamble.  Johnson found time and space to close another 5 feet, and put his whole existence into his own slap shot, a low rocket headed for the far right corner. For a millisecond the shot appeared to have found its mark, but the IMS goalie flashed his leg and got a toe on the shot.  The Suns were sucked in too deep, and this time the IMS clearing pass found its mark, and Detroit's best sniper was in on a clear breakaway.

No one would fault Suns MVP Benson if he failed to stop this breakaway, and the IMS forward put on a sensational deke. But Benson did a Hasek-like snow angel, windmilling around with his back to the puck and blocked the fatal goal with his wrist. A roar came from the Suns bench, quickly followed by deathly silence. A rebound had been shelfed from an impossible angle, and IMS was celebrating like a gang having just been given a reprieve from death row.

It's hard to say if the Suns deserved a better fate.  It was clear to all observers that they were in control of this game, until events began to spiral in another direction.  It was terrific sports theater, drama that only intensified because of the severe consequences of the outcome.  And the ultimate consequence of this thrilling game is that the Suns final Game on saturday vs North Carolina will be about pride and fun, because that elusive national championship trophy will be going to Heartland or St. Nick's or IMS, and the Suns will be going back to Wood River Valley.

                                              SLUGGO SPORTING HOCKEY RASH

Suns drop opener 5-2 to Minnesota Club wearing Air Force NCAA jerseys...go figure.  I think they were the equivalent of understudies to defending champ Heartland.  Down 3-1 entering the third, Suns' John Miller sniped early, bringing SV within 1 and then the club did some buzzing, generating a handful of grade-A chances to tie what was becoming a gripping contest.  But the Gopher wannabe's popped one in late, added and empty netter, and then it was over.  Nothing left to do but some serious processing while replenishing the carbo load.

U Maine coach Tim Whitehead, a virgin Sun who's always dreamt of wearing the black and red, got his wish and played well with his Hamilton pal Sparky.  He designed a power play breakout against a metal locker in the pre-game meeting that glazed a lot of eyeballs, a highlight in a night that was found lacking. Coach Cubby Burke won "best dressed" with his Al Sharpton style warmup track suit adorned with his name, number and Suns logo. 

Final analysis, we were literally introducing ourselves at faceoffs, and it showed.  Feeling out period (or two) cost us a lot of initiative, and placed us in a hole we couldn't quite dig out of.

Now we play a local club fortified with Detroit's finest skaters. Perfect. Got em right where we want them.

Game Day!

HENEGHAN & BANJO AT THE PREGAME LUNCH

Arrival Day... Heneghan says the Beard is a couple weeks old. Banjo guessed he had been working it since stepping off the ice last year. about 8 new faces will be wearing Suns jerseys this weekend down at the Tampa Senior Nationals, including "Sparky" and "Whitey,"  illustrious alums from Hamilton college.  As Glenn Hunter said at lunch, "There are three kinds of people, Suns, Suns wannabes, and people who haven't yet discovered they are Suns wannabes."  Terry Heneghan piped in, "Don't forget the fourth category, Suns that no longer want to be associated," so I guess we are up to 4 categories.  Sluggo Johnson did some quality recruiting, picking up an excellent puck-handling goalie named Tony Benson, and a tireless "young'en" John Miller.  Sluggo was scouting the Michigan club getting in a practice session in Brandon. "They can all skate...they picked up (NHL sniper) John Ogrodnick also." Suns will catch Michigan Sting on Friday, but have to take care of the Hosers from Washington D.C. Thursday night.  In these tourneys, opening night victories take you a long way toward that elusive medal round.  Glenn Hunter has a 6:30 meeting in the lobby and then we're off. No Goody Bag this year, no water bottle and lipbalm giveaways, just a chance to meet Whitey, Sparky and the rest of the Suns wannabes that will be full fledged Suns by the end of the night.

From the Ashes

PICKING UP THE PIECES

It was the worst accident in the collective memories of the hockey world. All 36 team members from Lokomotiv Yaroslavl, an elite team from Russia's top hockey league (KHL), perished on the September 7, 2011 crash. Eight different nations lost sports heroes (including long time Red Wings assistant and former NHL All-Star Brad McCrimmon) in an accident blamed on aging equipment, pilot error an even the presence of banned drugs. Incomprehensible, astonishing, yet all too real for those involved. This was reminiscent of the shocking Marshall football tragedy of 1970, except that so many more nations were affected in the Russian plane crash.

Decisions needed to be made quickly. League president Alexander Medvedev offered to draft 3 players from each team in the league to quickly fill the Lokomotiv roster and get the team up and ready for the regular season, but team president Yuri Yakovlov said no, the community needed time to heal. Not a soul entered the team locker room until the end of October. A decision was then made: maintain the junior team in Lokomotiv, and enter another squad into the minor league just below the KHL, to play an extremely limited schedule of 22 games, once against each opponent. They were allowed a special draft of young players 23 and under throughout the league, two qualified from the Lokomotiv junior league. And in December, a new Lokomotiv team stepped onto theYaroslavl ice in sold out "2000 Arena," and played a hockey game. They won 5-1.

Yakovlov was offered a free pass to get his team into the playoffs, but he declined. The young Yaroslvl skaters have a high enough winning percentage to get into the playoffs on their own merits. Yet he is accepting the millions of dollars in aid from Mother Russia for the victims' families, and on Friday Lokomotiv is playing in an outdoor game exhibition to generate more funds for the loved ones left behind.

Promising stars from Russia's medal-winning junior teams have moved to Yaroslavl to play with Lokomotiv, and will wait an extra year to play in the KHL. Russia's government, it's people, and the entire hockey community have come together to help heal this collective wound. Yuri Yakovlov has chosen a wise course of small steps, to upright this proud franchise.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7Mg1LxjW_0

Hill of Beans

DIGESTI-BILL??

With the finals a foregone conclusion, Boston's annual Beanpot hockey tournament needs some juice. As B.U. coach Jack Parker pointed out, fans are arriving late for game 1 and leaving early in game 2. The BU-BC game, whether it's the championship or a rare first Monday game, is ultimately the Championship game, rendering the other 3 games as anti-climactic. There is one sure-fire way to make this tournament relevant again, but it requires the "R" word...relegation! Can you imagine the jump in interest in the annual Northeastern-Harvard consolation snooze-fest if the two squads were playing for Beanpot survival? Let's explore.

There are two Division I teams close enough to the Hub to make a Monday game downtown a reasonable commute: Merrimack and Mass. Lowell. That's 6 teams, two outsiders play for a chance each year to make the Big 4. Earn the privilege, that's the American way, yes? No entitlements here. Loser of the consolation game--out, but gets to host the play-in game. Likely scenario is that Harvard finds itself on the outside looking in at Merrimack in 2013. How much would that affect the atmosphere of the first Monday of February? Probably a lot more energy in the Garden next year, and the competition would be intense, Five games worth, instead of 1 or 2.

Times are changing. Let's bring some competition into our competitions. Bill Cleary, your thoughts?

Willis redux

ANKLE SPRAIN FROM KRYPTON

NFL fans have seen how a high ankle sprain to Ben Roethlisberger derailed this year's Steeler's Super Bowl dream. Phil Simms said it was the most painful thing he's ever been through, taking him 2 years to get over. Rob Gronkowski has two weeks. The Patriots need their hyper kinetic, 90-catch human highlight film who redefined the tight end position this regular season to be at his cartoon-hero best, just to keep up with the Giants aerial show this Sunday. This has evolved into human drama on a scale appropriate of the Super-setting, maybe even bigger.

It's worthy of any of the Boston - New York sports-zenith clashes, a Superbowl rematch spearheaded by two likely H.O.F. quarterbacks, yet Gronk is the man of the hour, make that man of the fortnight. One cannot overhype his importance to the Patriot's offense this season: 90 catches, 17 TD's over 1300 yards receiving. Yet his stats pale in comparison to HOW he achieved those numbers: helicoptering into endzones, outracing fleet defensive backs, shedding sure tackles punctuated by those signature TD spike explosions. His manic zeal allowed the Boston sports nation forget 4 years of NFL playoff dread. In this age of full-faucet media, on the biggest stage in a sports-mad world, the guy is a supernova beyond comic book proportions. He's GRONK, check the Youtube videos produced out of Boston. That spike of his is the latest craze in the Hub, they call it "Doin the Gronk." The guy is more popular than Brady right now, a rawboned irresistible force with a perpetual smile.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE_Isf49Pp8

For Sports fans conditioned to instant gratification and a constant flow of live telecasts to slake their thirst for live action (umm, I think that's all of us), these two weeks prior to Supe XLVI have been arduously slow. Yet for Gronk and his recovery, it hasn't been nearly enough. We've heard daily comments from those in the know that the pain will be in full force on Sunday, no amount of enthusiasm and ADHD will mask it. Other than the QB's, he'll be the most important player on the field, and based on his potential impact on the game, a good case could be made that he is the most important player, certainly on the NE side.

And with hundreds (thousands) of side stories being generated in this media blitz from New York and Boston, essentially the entire Northeast United States has a firm rooting interest here, the outcome of this frenzied spectacle boils down to a single player's ability to conquer his personal pain threshold. With him racking up catches, YAC and TD spikes, the Pats will compete; without him they are simply overmatched.

It's been nearly 42 years since Willis Reed blew the roof off the world's most famous arena: shooting up, limping out and swishing two J's before sitting down in a 1-game winner take all for a championship. Stakes are higher now--bigger sport, bigger game, bigger stage, bigger role.

Watch carefully starting at 6 pm ET Sunday for the Willis limp-out. What will Superman do after full exposure to Kryptonite? It could make for a good read by flashlight in a tent in your back yard. Except this is real, live, and in hight def. Consider yourself lucky. Not all baby-boomers reading this can expect to be here in 42 years the next time it happens.

Your lyin eyes

ORWELL'S JUDGE AND JURY OF PRO TENNIS

It begins with a subtle flick of the finger pointed upward, like a Sotheby's veteran signaling a bid to the auctioneer. Fans follow with rhythmic clapping, getting louder as they wait for justice from the sky. All eyes turn to the video board, and an animated tennis ball swoops down from above, down onto an animated court. The outline of a ball is pressed against a sideline, and then magnified. The crowd invariably oohs and ahs, the chair umpire updates the score, announces how many challenges remain, and play resumes. It is both timely and tidy, it is unquestioned, but it can be wrong. Ot at least I think so. But we may never know if what is known as the Spot-Shot Challenge system (commonly referred to as its predecessor 'Hawkeye,') is ever wrong, it is never questioned or held accountable by the broadcasters, who have incredibly sophisticated technology to do just that.

The following match might have been a watershed moment for the GPS Challenge system in tennis: Australian Open women's semifinals, Sharapova and Kvitova battling in an epic struggle, a rematch of the Wimbledon final. The match is excruciatingly close, 4-4 in the final set. Kvitova's edge in power and fitness led to her surge late in the match, but Sharapova's superior concentration and focus kept her in the hunt for Grand Slam glory. There was literally nothing to separate them going into the 9th game. Sharapova's serve, long considered the Achilles heel in her otherwise magnificent tennis armor, falters in that fateful 9th game. Down love 30, she sends a groundstroke apparently long, the linesperson calls it out, and it is now at 0-40. Her shaky service game is facing 3 break points. Kvitova is rolling, a point away from serving out the match; she exudes confidence and is ready for the kill. Shoulders slumping, Sharapova throws up a finger for the appeal. The players, live audience and fans at home had no reason to think that the shot was in was in; the request was simply a stall and a prayer, part of this match's end-game.

All eyes fixed on the scoreboard, Hawkeye's animated yellow ball swooped down accompanied by the (religious?) ritual clapping and chanting, and BOOM, the cartoon showed the ball on the line. Love-40 was now a manageable 15-30. Sharapova righted herself, served out the game and now led 5-4. Kvitova, shaken if not stunned, never recovered. Five points later she was in the showers, vanquished from the tournament.

The broadcast rolled in no video evidence to support Hawkeye; it's ruling is always final in today's tennis. ESPN and the Australian Open's world feed has video replay devices with 500 frame per second technology called X-mo. Let's put that into perspective for those outside the live broadcast genre. The video you see on live TV has 30 frames per second, the "Super Slo-Mo" introduced on Monday Football in the 1990's had 90 frames per second which was a real breakthrough in terms of resolution and clarity. In 2004 CBS tried a Mac Cam at the U.S. Open, with thousands of frames per second, but its resolution suffered due to inadequate lighting. X-mo has solved all that, replaying images from 500 to literally thousands of frames per second with stunning focus and clarity. The resulting images from 2012 Aus Open have been mind-blowing: fuzz coming off balls, eyes blinking, leg muscles flexing, ankles rolling. Never before seen in such clarity. The location of a ball on the court would be routine based on the available technology.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvkoWII-ukg&feature=fvst

But there was not a single voice questioning the call. I knocked on several doors of social media, tweeting like mad to all the top tennis writers, sending out alerts to ESPN's Interactive Facebook site. The few who did respond were generally negative, they didn't need the distraction because Hawkeye had spoken. So faced with the choice of what to believe, Hawkeye or your lyin' eyes, the overwhelming majority chose the former. The tennis community preferred to trust the animated cartoon of the truth, rather than call out for an X-mo replay. Can you imagine an NFL fan accepting digital animation rather than a Hi-Def replay of a disputed touchdown?

One of the most frequent contributors to the Aus Open Facebook page is Eduardo DeBritto, a former college player and a pro tennis fanatic. He had the best working knowledge of Hawkeye. "It has 8% margin for error and it takes a picture of a shadow of the ball and not actually where the ball touched, since the shadow is bigger than the contact point between the ball and the court it can make errors." Yet no outcry. This might be because of a moment in the 2004 U.S. Open when the CBS cameras showed several missed calls in a Capriati-Serena Williams quarterfinal match that made a mockery of the existing system in which all overrules were the domain of the chair umpire. Having today's system that works 92% of the time, that ends the human drama, was embraced by the tennis world.

So Kvitova goes home, Sharapova moves to the finals, and the establishment chooses not to replay the controversial point because Big Brother had spoken, and not a soul protested (well, one did, and you're reading his work). The corporate cartoon trumps visual evidence, and not a soul speaketh, not even the vanquished.

The beneficiary of the call, Maria Sharapova, revealed on a quiet news day earlier this week that she is reading George Orwell's 1984. It is serving her well.

The Manger of American Hockey

THE ICE THAT BORE AMERICA'S HOCKEY GOD

Canada, the country that allegedly invented hockey (an Iroquois Indian tribe in Ottawa is the best guess) has never respected it's neighbors to the south, even if our Minnesotans are virtually indistinguishable from their northern counterparts. But Canadian hockey snobbery is justifiable: Canada can enter 5 teams in every international tournament and have 5 gold medal contenders if they entered by province.

You can feel the disdain for American hockey in the sports talk at the pubs, the kitchen tables and within the Canadian media; I lived it for a couple of weeks in Edmonton during the World Juniors earlier this month, a tourney in which Team USA did NOTHING to diminsh the Canucks superiority complex. All of the above might merely be stating the obvious, but it gives vital perspective to the century-old article quoted below.

In the 1910's American hockey was fledgling at best, though it was being played interscholastically at Ivy League colleges. American players were groomed by New England prep schools, with St. Paul's of Concord, New Hampshire turning out the majority of the elite players. The most gifted of them all was the legendary Hobey Baker, the man whose name still adorns the trophy for today's college player of the year.

After he graduated from Princeton in 1914, Hobey played for an amateur hockey club based in New York called St. Nick's, a collection of blue-blooded sportsmen who had played for the Ivy League's Big 3 (H, Y, P). In the 1915-16 season. St. Nick's went up to Canada and played their best amateur teams, beating them all. In those days Canada's amateur teams were taken very seriously, rivaling their professional clubs in terms of talent, if not depth. St. Nick's defeated the reigning champion Montreal Stars 6-2 in the opening game of the Ross Cup, which was essentially a World Championship of amateur hockey. Afterward the Montreal Press, the "Paper of Record" in the province, wrote the following:

"Uncle Sam has had the cheek to develop a world class hockey player. We had heard him advertised as a great hockey player, and we had always smiled a cynical grin at the thought. He wasn't born in Montreal, Ottawa, Winnipeg, Toronto or the other famous breeding grounds. We refused to see how an American could win over such a handicap and arrive. A few minutes of Baker on the ice convinced the most skeptical. He could catch a place and a star's place on any of our professional teams. The blonde-haired boy was a favorite with the crowd. We didn't want the St. Nick's to win, but Baker cooked out goose so artistically that we enjoyed it." (December 12, 1915)

No other American hockey player has received such praise from Canada in the ensuing 97 years. Baker's performance at the 1915-16 Ross Cup was the driving force in getting him elected into Canada's Hockey Hall of Fame, entering with the inaugural class of 1943.

He honed his skills outdoors in Concord, NH on the same frozen ponds pictured above. He spent 7 winters in at St. Paul's, training religiously whenever the ice could support him, staying on past sunset to perfect his stickhandling in the dark. He entered Princeton a finished product, by far the best player at Old Nassau as soon as he arrived. For American hockey, those ponds of St. Paul's might as well be referred to as "The Manger," the breeding ground of America's hockey deity.