If the Mob Murdered Kennedy...

Handsome Johnny, Assassination maestro?

A huge portion of the U.S. population believes in the conspiracy theory that the mob bumped off Kennedy in retaliation for little brother RFK playing attack dog on organized crime in his role as Attorney General within brother Jack's administration.  According to recent polls, more people believe the mob was involved than the "official report" generated by the heavily flawed Warren Commission report.

For those who are well-versed in the 20th century history and machinations of the mafia in America, the name Johnny Rosselli must come to mind; he was the guy who made things happen. He was counted on to execute the most difficult, profitable and important operations, whether it be taking over the Hollywood Unions, infiltrating the gambling industry in Las Vegas, or coordinating ex CIA spooks to battle Castro in Cuba.  If it was a high-degree-of-difficulty operation, Rosselli was involved. Period. The fact that he was a major player in nearly every major mob op in the 20th Century is a testament to his low-profile, elusive ways. Rosselli was a proverbial ghost, floating almost imperceptibly in, and then out, of the biggest crime scenes in American history, dealing with the major players not only in organized crime and business, but in government, and at the very highest levels.

So, if you buy into the mob-JFK assassination conspiracy, and you have a competent mafia IQ, then you have to assume that Rosselli was involved.  Finding Rosselli footprints on a crime scene proved to be a 50-year challenge for the FBI, but the quintessential Rosselli biography, The All-American Mafioso, has two sources, albeit shaky sources, that not only place him at the scene of the assination, but has him front and center.  If the mob killed Kennedy, here is how it was done. An Excerpt from The Johnny Rosselli Story.

There are even accounts that place Rosselli at the scene of the assassination. Jimmy Starr, the Hollywood gossip columnist and a friend of Rosselli's, raised the prospect in passing during an interview with one of the authors. "What I heard about the Kennedy assassination was that Johnny was  the guy who got the team together to do the hit."  Starr said the scenario was "fairly well known" in the underworld but was reluctant to go into detail.  "I don't remember where I got that -- I think it was from a couple of mob guys back East.  I wasn't back there, so I had no reason to follow it up."

A similar but more detailed version was put forward by Robert Russell, a convicted felon who detailed his allegations in pro per filings in federal court. Russell's story rambles over thirty-seven pages and and seems to draw heavily on the volumes of available assassination research. But what seems to be the crux of his discourse is a chance meeting with a woman named "Cindy," not further identified, who said she worked for Jack Ruby and had assisted in the Kennedy shooting.

"Cindy" told Russell that the day of the assassination, she had driven Johnny Rosselli and a second man, a sharpshooter from Miami, to the grassy knoll at the far end of Dealey Plaza.  When the President's motorcade approached, the sniper fired two shots, handed his rifle to Rosselli, and walked down the slope to lose himself in the crowd. Cindy then drove Rosselli and the rifle from the scene.  It seems auspicious that Russell would place Rosselli in Dallas on November 22; the FBI surveillance of Rosselli loses his trail on the West Coast between November 19 and November 27.

These reports are fragmentary and inconclusive, but taken together, they lend weight to Rosselli's later contention that he knew what had happened in Dallas.  Together, with his direct experience in the CIA plots against Castro, Rosselli held the key to secrets that would haunt the nation, guilty knowledge that would betray America's faith in itself. 

Excerpted from
All-American Mafioso
The Johnny Rosselli Story
Doubleday Books

Veering Toward Rollerball

Bullies are Back in Town

This was not such a good week for the NHL, though you would never know it based on the response from both the league and their biggest broadcast rightsholder to this potential crisis.  On Wednesday the Colorado Avalanche's starting goalie Semyon Varlamov turned himself in to the Denver authorities for Domestic abuse and kidnapping.  The Avs truculent first year coach Patrick Roy gave a smiling press conference on Thursday saying he wished he knew more, and Friday he  announced he was starting Varlamov who was out on bail because, well, "Why Wait?"
"We're all aware of what happened, but we just feel that he's our guy. We have confidence in him and feel that it's good for him to play tonight."
Varlamov time line: jailed on Wednesday, bailed on Thursday, between the pipes on Friday.  

That same night, the latest version of the Philadelphia Flyers Broad Street Bullies found themselves trailing by a touchdown (7-0) in their game versus the Washington Capitals.  With fans in Philly's Wells Fargo Center loudly chanting for the firing of General Manager Paul Holmgren, the Flyers, who had been dormant all night, finally decided to change the course of events.  They staged a massive brawl that would have made their predecessors Hammer, Hound Dog and Hound Dog all proud.

The "highlight" was when goalie Ray Emery skated the length of the ice to bludgeon his Caps counterpart Braden Holtby, a clearly unwilling combatant. In an eery coincidence, this was all too reminiscent of Roy's two classic brawls with Detroit goalies Mike Vernon (decisive loss) and the rematch with Chris Osgood (decisive win over unwilling combatant) from the late 1990's. One of Friday's casualties was Flyers forward Steve Downie hospitalized for two days and counting with either a concussion, a broken orbital bone, a facial laceration or any combination thereof.  The Flyer fans, not coincidentally, stopped booing and gave their club a standing ovation.  Emery, who was lit up for 7 goals, was given the game's third star of the night. The NHL chose to hand out no suspensions, despite the fact that unwilling combatants were getting beaten senseless.

The referees failure to protect its players was the primary beef of
Hockey Hall of Fame sportswriter Kevin Paul Dupont.  He immediately took to Twitter to point out the obvious, that the NHL had achieved yet another black eye. When it comes to fighting, I am in the same camp of "Doves," (as opposed to "Hawks") feeling that such gratuitous cartoon violence places hockey in the sports netherworld alongside the WWE and MMA. Dupont spent the rest of Friday night and most of Saturday morning defending his logic and the fact that he never played pro hockey in 140 character bursts.

TV demigod Pat Sajak even weighed in:

Pat Sajak        ✔ @patsajak

Love hockey, but Flyers are part of reason it remains a niche sport. Shameful 

tonight (including Philly radio team.)

He, too, was besieged by angry fans.  So as Saturday night rolled in, I made it a point to tune into Hockey Night in Canada to make sense of it all.  I figured Don Cherry would take the "Hawk" position in his Coach's Corner segment, and the serious analysts would condemn the Clockwork Orange style violence in the second intermission.  Both segments have plenty of time, both were vastly disappointing.  It's official, hockey's greatest media force, Hockey Night in Canada, has fully abandoned even a pretense of journalism.  Cherry was the only person to mention the incident at all, in his final thoughts of an 8 minute segment, essentially applauding the Flyers. "They went down fighting, might do em some good... the fans were cheering."

Canadian Hockey TV Icons MacLean (L) and Cherry (R)

The next intermission with a panel including intrepid reporter Elliott Friedman, and thinking men former goalies Glenn Healy and Kevin Weekes never touched it.  Weekes and the oft-cartoonish P.J. Stock got out of their chairs to stage a lengthy justification of skates accidentally severing achilles tendons in corner collisions.  The showcase game between Toronto and Vancouver had become particularly nasty, and the entire panel all made a point of applauding the normally passive Toronto goal scorer Phil Kessel for "dropping his mitts" to fight the Canucks Alex Burrows. Not a word on the Flyers Wrestlemania.  Hawks defeat Doves, unanimously.

Oh, wait, there was a HNIC "reporter" in Denver, giving an exclusive interview with Patrick Roy.  Perhaps this was the opportunity for some real questions re the Affaire de' Varlamov.  Not a word. This nameless talking head (I'm sorry, I simply can't call him a reporter) merely teed up a couple of opportunities for Roy to explain why his team is doing so well, and the only conclusion we could draw is that it was because of good coaching (discipline and playing hard).

Some of the year's biggest news, the biggest story taking place within the past 24 hours, went virtually ignored by the media giant of hockey.  The fact that CBC's contract with the NHL expires at the end of the season has to be taken into account.  For the foreseeable future, you are going to have to get your journalism in 140 character chunks.

Fenway Calling

The Angular Emerald

This is a story of coming home, coming back to that emerald hardball bandbox called Fenway. I live in Jersey, and had a meeting at ESPN on Thursday, which happened to be the day of Game 2 of the World Series.  Bristol is exactly halfway from my current home to a World Series game at the Fens, something I had never experienced despite a life FILLED with front and center sports exposure.  And this Fenway was my cradle, where I got the free sports crack (OK, Fenway bleacher seats were actually 75 cents). This is where I grew up taking the T to Kenmore with my buddy Jon. And then we would go home after the game and emulate Tony C while playing Wiffle ball, and sleep over at each other's houses listening to the worn out record "Impossible Dream" until we had it memorized. In the morning we would read the Boston Globe sports section and do it all over again, maybe taking the Mass Ave bus instead of the T to mix things up.  When we were older and stronger, we climbed the Whiskey sign in left field to see sold out games from above the Monster.  I had a summer job lifeguarding at an outdoor hotel pool on the 6th floor terrace, and could see the lights of Fenway and listen to Boston sportstalk in July about what to do with DH Jim Rice in a hypothetical World Series as the seeds of Red Sox Nation began to flower.  I arrived 18 months too late to catch the '67 Impossible Dream, but that fact made me intensely hungry to compensate.

"Ohhhh... Boston You're my Home"

Fast forward to Thursday.  Leaving Bristol with no ticket and lots of potential doubt, I had to choose East or West on Route 84, Jersey or Beantown. Love track was the left turn, fear track was the right.  I went left.  I had made a dozen calls to all my deeply imbedded sports contacts in hopes of scoring a pass, and their responses all echoed this one theme: I had a better chance of walking across the Charles River than I did of getting into the game, yet I still felt the love, the pull of the green. I parked in Cambridge and jumped onto the Red Line, transferring to the Green line as if by rote.  It was a long day, so I rested my eyes on the trolley ride, sneaking peaks at the stops. And then it hit me... Holy S*** I was on the wrong train heading into a foreign land!  I made the classic error, getting onto the only westbound Green Line trolley that didn't take you to Fenway...Arborway!  Yikes, I had never done this before, and suddenly I'm scrambling past Northeastern University, bushwacking through foreign turf, the Muddy River of the Fens, experiencing this part of Boston for the first time.  The white sign on the side of the road was foreign, yet it made perfect sense. Before long I saw giant towers beaming light in the distance, the Sox anthem Dirty Water by the Standells was faintly audible, and knew I was on the right path to the Shire.

Don't Forget '46 Teddy Ballgame

Shuttling behind two fans wearing Sox jerseys, I cleared the reservation and found myself on Lansdown. I began slowly circling the park and checking my texts.  Although my practical sports TV working skills may be limited, I do have a mighty rolodex, and I called in requests to some of the major players I've known and loved in my 30 years in the biz. The result was a whole lot of loving  No's.  No luck, no dice, no credentials, no ducats.  But I had an ace in the hole, and was feeling it.  As I circled the park I heard the scalpers at work; 500 clams was the going rate.  These guys thought I was a mark, not knowing that my budget allowed for only a couple of beer, peanuts, and gas back to Jersey. I walked past the statues behind Gate B, and the Splendid Splinter was freshly adorned with his own Boston Strong beard. Next stop the TV compounds, where it's impossible for me not to know SOMEONE.  And there he was, Russ, my old unit manager from HBO Wimbledon.  We did a wonderful shmooz, complete with handshake and industry gossip, each lobbing in relevant names and scraps of news.  And then I asked him, "how tough is it to get a pass?"
"Huh? Impossible, sealed tight, photo ID's only." I moved on.  Fresh texts had arrived: "Tough ticket;" "No Luck;" "Need Cash;" "No answer from my guy;" Essentially, all the same answer, 'Nuttin Buddy'. But I'm a dialer, and as one door slams I start knocking on another to keep hope alive. My filmmaking buddy Bob had told me that Sox management, one of his top clients, might be able to get me a ticket if I could pay face value. My $40 beer money clearly wouldn't get it done, but I had a lead, and at this late hour, my only one.  Night had fallen, and I shuffled to Yawkey Way under the Monster Seats.  Boston's Finest staked out the corner and the Stones blasted Gimme Shelter from the outdoor bar speakers.  Mick and the boys scored the scene perfectly "It's Just a Shot Away."

My schoolboy buddy Jon, a career journalist in Boston, had the contacts to get himself and another classmate Matthew into the Bleachers. It was Matty's birthday eve, and they texted me that they were on the other side of the Mass Pike bridge, waiting for their ticket exchange.  They had no extras, and they were paying dearly.  I had been fantasizing all day about seeing them inside of the Green. And then my cel rang.  It was Bobby the filmmaker, now the dealmaker, live on my phone.  "Only 'cause you tell me the best stories..." and his tone of voice told me everything. A day full of hope had fulfilled its promise, and in half an hour a freebie would be waiting for me at the elite Will Call window.  The Gods of Green had smiled; I was going in.

Ridonkulous

My HS boys arrived just after I got my ticket, a wonderful 1st base side ticket with the plutocrats, not my style necessarily, but I was happy to conform.  We strolled in and got our round of brews. I shelled peanuts, and blissfully watched the pre-game ceremonies with my home boys.  James Taylor made me misty and we moved to our respective seats.  I sat with a nice lady and her son; she knew her baseball. I scored the game and kept a running commentary to myself and everyone at the same time.  After four innings I saw my bearded birthday buddy Matty cruise by in front of me, limping with chronic knee pain. He had had enough of the bleachers and was going to take his chances with standing room up in the grandstand near home plate.  I left the oligarchs and joined him, and seconds later, Jon. We may not have had a seat, but we were a threesome.

We were now getting jostled, our view obstructed more often than not, but I was with my boys, at home.  Dodging and moving, shucking and jiving, talking serious hard ball as the Sox were fighting an uphill battle against great pitching in a 1-0 hole. Although Matty didn't have the proper plastic dangling from his neck, his knee was killing him, so he took a disabled seat, front row standing room, against the rail.  Before Jonny and I parted from Matty, our wise bearded buddy shared the fact that historically the 6th inning brought the Sox great tidings.  We nodded and split. I had a hunch about the stairs to the Monster Seats, so we headed up the third base line.  Security was wearing Red Jackets, like half of the Fenway population, so they kept moving us along when we least expected it, and they were out in force. There was no comfort zone, standing room was six deep and if you paused to glance at the game while walking, there was hell to pay. Despite the hassle, this was more my style than hanging with the 1%.  This was a shared experience with Jonny, the guy who introduced me to Fenway 40 some-odd years ago.  If experience counted for anything, we would solve this Fenway riddle.

So we went to the far end of the left field grandstand, around the corner from the predator security forces, and found the Monster Seat stairs.  Climbing a quarter of the way up we got a clear view of 80% of the field, just under the rusted overhang.  From a security standpoint, we were in no man's land.  We had found the elusive seam and watched the game in peace. Pedroia walked in the bottom of the 6th, and we saw Papi stride to the plate. We would have been happy with a bleeder, but instead we got the blast.  We saw the majority of the ball's flight, but had to use our imagination to visualize the ball rattling around the first row of Monster Seats. What we did see clearly, was the hyper maniacal wave of energy from the entire left field grandstand down to third base.  It must be what Brazil is like when they score a winning goal in the World Cup.  We were inside a human bee colony after a being shoved by a stick, a scene I will never forget.  My lifelong Fenway buddy high-fived me and we drank it in from our little perch. A glimpse of eternity.

It was the last half inning on my score sheet.  I didn't want to play accountant any more.  It was probably a good thing.

Read it and Weep

The next entries for those keeping score revealed a painful collection of blunders, from bases on balls to a catcher doubleclutching on double steals to a Yale man making a frightfully poor decision to launch a hideous throw.  Every Cardinal incompetence that Red Sox media nation had held up to the world to portray the Red Birds inferiority was now happening to the Sox. In spades.

We collected a last round of tasteless beer for Matty as we returned to home plate, down two runs and and minus our manic energy.  The crowd was going dark: from life of the party to hung over school night.  Dark energy prevailed, lips that had once been smiling were now downturned as a lead had become a deficit in the blink of a hideous half inning. The Cardinal bullpen was firing 98 MPH BB's  toward the now impotent Sox bats.  I tried to use my ticket stub to clear out three riff-raff from what I thought were my seats, but  the gambit failed miserably. I chose the wrong row, then cowered away; MOJO had left the building. The three of us found obstructed seats next to a girder, and tried to will away the negativity, but there was no combating such lively pitching arms, and the now proud Red Birds had flipped the script, ending the Red Sox nine-game World Series winning streak. Jon and I could feel Matt's arthritic knee as we limped out of Fenway, in front of angrily honking S.U.V.'s, across the B.U. Bridge and finally to Matty's Toyota.  It was a long and painful mile, but we were with perfect, symmetrical company.  I was one of three high school classmates, lamenting a loss in the shadow of Fenway, in a swarm of wounded, drunken and bitter Sox fans. I knew this scene better than the Green line on the T, this was the flip side of the elation coin, and I loved it just as much.  From Papi's heroic blast to Breslow's boner, according to Rudyard Kipling triumph and disaster are both imposters, and on this night they occurred a half inning apart.   The evening's symmetry was stark: joyous arrival followed by deathly departure. The same coin in that iconic venue, hardball's hub, Fenway Park.

It stroked midnight, and it was now Matt's birthday. We peed in the bushes and piled into his car.  Jon's early Friday call at the TV station was now only hours away; his bright side was that he wouldn't be staying up late reviewing the happy highlights. We dropped him off and headed to the Square.  Matty would be painting a floor on Friday on his tortured knee. But it was his birthday and he wanted to explore Harvard Square's first new musical night spot in decades. We crawled into the bar and spent an hour sipping scotch and nicotine, telling our bittersweet tales of life and made a few friends while we were at it. It was in between today and tomorrow, back in high school, in the Square, at home.

US Open 2013 Social Media Mission

Strategy for 2013:

Based on the premise of engaging the social community watching particular matches called by ITV:

* Top of the Hour "talking tactics."
Get feedback from the fans watching that particular match on the tactics being employed and what should be employed.  Production chores: simply cue our respective announce teams to discuss match-related tactics at the top of the hour, and to field tweets on the topic.

We should do this hourly to get viewers into the habit of tweeting out and listening for their comments at a regular time.  Talent, SM, and Social Mgr. should be monitoring tweets to @ITVtennis, the talent's personal account and #(particular court).

* Tomorrow's ORDER OF PLAY
We will put up a Full Screen graphic of the next day's ORDER OF PLAY when it becomes available in the late afternoon.  Talent should give a call to action to the viewers to determine the most vulnerable seeded player/favorite in the lineup.  Those responses will be tallied and delivered to the main ESPN talent for their morning O/C previews. The show-court favorite most likely to face a threat (according to our social community) will be mentioned by the ESPN talent in their O/C.

* The Daily Slice
Whether it be from ESPN photog Scott Clarke or (preferably) a member of our social community, we will post a photo of the day, the Daily Slice, from around the grounds of the U.S. Open. This will be done on a daily basis, late in the day. Production wise, the graphics deck will need to lift the community still-photo and position it in a pre-built template.  The name "Daily Slice" is not set in stone.

* PICK SIX
Social mgr will record our available talent every morning as they try along with our social community to pick the designated daily six matches. Talent are welcome to record their picks independently with their smart phones via Tout).  The  6 matches will be posted on the inside of the truck's tape room door each morning @ 8:30.  The only payoff is if anyone correctly picks all six. Then he or she, talent or ITV social community, gets on-air recognition. If one of the PICK SIX matches is being called by the ITV talent, they could mention that it is one of the PICK SIX matches.  There is no call to action in the PICK SIX because the first match could very well be underway by the time the talent gets to the shout out.  Due to size and enthusiastic past response, this is a FB operation.

--------------lower priorities---------------

* 2 daily items for Social Interaction
When our talent does its regular Social reminders, its good to have a couple of interactive items on standby. Social mgr. will provide two daily items for talent-community interaction

1. Y/N question (i.e. "Will Djokovic drop a set?"  "Will Serena get off the court in less than hour")
These are questions we can tally up and pay off easily.  Research tells us that the simple Y/N Q's get the most social response. NOTE: Many of the Y/N's are time relevant, so they need to be asked earlier in the day.

2. U.S. Open Memory Lane.  Odd days 1, 3, 5, 7 will be memories from the men's side; days 2, 4, 6, 8 will be devoted to women's memories. Talent calls for contributions from ITV's social community, and then cherry-picks the ones he or she can contribute to with the most insight.  (I.E. Todd Martin and his only Major Final; Woodie and a memorable doubles final; Shmerler and a particular story that she may have covered in depth; etc.) This particular "poll" needs no statistical payoff, it just increases the interaction between talent and our community. The goal here is to keep the talent in their comfort zone, and not to derail the flow of the commentary.

Cheli v Nieder, the Great Debate

Hey, it's all subjective, but it's too grand an argument NOT to try and tackle.  Who was better, the supreme skating Scott Niedermayer, of the gritty iron man Chris Chelios.  Canadian junior v USA College kid; the mountains and ocean of British Columbia v the urban grind of Chicago; the bespectacled diplomacy of Niedermayer v the outrageously brash Chelios whose comments toward commissioner Bettman during the 2005 lockout bordered on a threat; the greatest thing these two Hall of Famers have in common is their greatness.

One cannot discuss Scott Niedermayer's career without looking back on the greatest minute in sports, ever, period. And no, this is NOT about the Kentucky Derby.  Over the course of approximately sixty seconds in June of 2007, Niedermayer experienced the following: he won arguably hockey's greatest individual award, the Conn Smythe as the NHL playoff MVP. The reason it is the greatest is because it almost always precedes the Stanley Cup, which is really the only thing that matters to these men.  About forty five seconds after receiving the Smythe, the guys with the white gloves bring out the Holy Grail, prompting the suited Commissioner to beckon for Nieder once again, because he happened to be wearing the C for the cup winning club.  So he places down Conn and picks up Lord Stanley, and that's one of the happiest endings imaginable to a hockey story, but it only gets better.  Hockey, as you readers know, is one of the ultimate clan games.  Every teammate is a brother in arms as you go to battle. The NHL has an inordinate amount of real siblings playing this game, the same brothers that spend countless hours on frozen ponds whacking at your shins and occasionally spilling blood and spitting chicklets.  One of the great honors of being the Captain and hoisting the Stanley Cup is the joy of choosing whose life to light up by handing off the Silver Chalice to the next joyous comrade.  And

in this case, Niedermayer, Scott, handed off 32 pounds of hockey immortality to Niedermayer, Rob, his adoring brother, to complete the mindblowing hockey fantasy triple.  Anything else in the sport pales in comparison.  Smythe-to Stanley-to brother.  Sixty seconds of a hockey dream that one would be embarrassed to wish for.

Puck Love Cemented in Silver

Maintaining the embarrassment theme, Nieder had already won three previous Cups with the NJ Devils, and in two of them you could make an argument could that he played better than when he won his playoff MVP.  In 1995 and 2000 his rink-length skating with the puck was so damned fast and dangerous that neither Detroit nor Dallas had a solution, and certainly no equivalent.  His wheels, as far as defensemen carrying the puck, belong in a class of three, for all time.  Pretend you are in a small pickup truck with no back cab,  and the only people allowed in this ride are Bobby Orr, Paul Coffey and Scott Niedermayer.  All multiple cup winners, all offensive demons listed as defenders.  Guys like Ray Bourque and Nick Lidstrom and Doug Harvey are all the on the outside pounding on the glass, but locked out. Heady company indeed.

Now let's revisit that 2007 triple, an amazing feat that culminated a career so overflowing with riches that it's almost absurd, but in the interests of comparing Nieder and Cheli, you have to get them out on paper, because the other guy has a sick list, too.  Scott Nieder is a member of the Triple Gold Club, a fraternity that means a bit more to Europeans than to North Americans, but a tremendous feat nevertheless: Stanley Cup (4), Olympic Gold (2), and World Championship Gold (1). North Americans AND NO ONE ELSE.   Here's the golden resume: Memorial Cup, World Junior, World Cup, World Championship, Olympics, Stanley Cup. Forget the cute li'l pickup, he's on a unicycle on this one.  The guy has been on  more hockey mountaintops than anyone, ever. This deserves a pause. Pretend you are in a snowy peak in British Columbia with the two Nieders, celebrating their Cup, overlooking the vast beauty of western Canada. Wow, it really is a nice view.  Too bad it's the view of the guy in last place in this two man comparison.  Cue the scratched record sound effect.

Hockey's Midas

consider the World Championship the N.I.T. of hockey, but still it remains a very cool club.  In fact, Niedermayer has every major hockey title that he has ever competed for, creating a list that includes himself

Chris Chelios...America's Gordie Howe. And don't think for a second that the Big Fella objects for a second being mentioned in the same breath as Cheli. He even did the ambidextrous thing occasionally like Gordie, shooting left off the rush. They share the NHL record having each played 26 NHL

Old Schoolers

seasons. Like Gordie, Cheli was more than tough, he was downright mean.  Wasn't that big, under 6 feet tall, but was a sick intimidator. Ask the Flyers who lost the '89 Eastern finals to the Habs and Cheli 'cause Hexi was the only guy to willing to stand up to Chris after he conked Brian Propp in the noggin.

So, how does one argue that Cheli is a better player than the most decorated hockey player of all time? Systematically.  Cheli had 3 Cups instead to Nieder's four, but three is nothing to sneeze at.  And while Nieder did win to Olympic golds, he did it with vastly superior clubs.  Cheli won a silver, captained Team USA at age 44, and broke the record between Olympic appearances (22 years).  Furthermore, Cheli never missed an Olympic appearance while Nieder was cut in his prime, twice (1998, 2006).  Regarding the World Cup of Hockey, Cheli was the best defenseman on USA's Miracle team of 1996, the team that beat powerhouse Canada. And all for all those glorious titles that Nieder won, he never captured NCAA gold, something Cheli did for Badger Bob in 1983 at Wisconsin.

But it was his play in the best league in the world, the NHL, that separates Cheli from Nieder.  Scott won a Norris to highlight his 3 first-team end of year All-Star selections, along with one spot on the second team.  Chelios captured three Norris Trophies, and six first team selections, two second team honors, doubling Nieder's All-Star totals, tripling up on his Norris Trophy.  As a 40 year old in the final chapter of his hockey career in Detroit, Cheli was a first team All-Star. Whoa, that deserves a pause. His late life success (2 Cups) wasn't by accident. The reason Cheli was able to play in the NHL at age 46 was not because the Hartford Whalers were trying to draw fans into a mall.  Cheli stayed in the show because he worked harder than any one outside the rink with the possible exception of Zdeno Chara.

A favorite off-season ritual for NHL stars is to spend the summer on the beach in southern Cali, and work out in Venice with the little dicator (and part time sadist) T.R. Goodman.  The king of Gold's Gym would humble the most macho players in the NHL with vicious circuit training at 6 AM.  Cheli showed up at 5:30.  No one worked harder, and this from a guy who pushed the fun button at night with the best of 'em.  It was that maniacal work ethic that kept Chelios at the top of his game longer than anyone. He played nine more pro hockey seasons than Nieder, he was a post season All-Star twice as many times.

The Greek Captain America

When you combine the length of his career along with the excellence that had him a the top of the toughest league of them all for over two decades, you have to go with Cheli.  The king of American hockey. The guy dominated his position for three Original Six clubs was asked what jersey he wants to wear when he's enshrined..."USA." 'Nuf said.

The "Big Whistle" finals

For all his malapropisms and excitable exclamations wrapped in a thick New York accent, the late Bill Chadwick, better known as "The Big Whistle," was bit of a hockey sage. His most astute hockey observation was that hockey was "half ballet, half brawn."  The 2013 Stanley Cup Finals, one in which hockey historians and pundits are already hurrying to classify as one of the great finals of all time, is a perfect example of Chadwick's philosophy.  We can even break it down to two players: Chicago's

brilliant perimeter playmaker Patrick Kane, and the Bruins brute force bully Milan Lucic.

Kane's ballet like skills have been on display throughout these playoffs, amazing hands, vision, speed and reflexes netted him two goals that wrecked the Bruins in crucial game 5.  Lucic, draped in black and gold, has been the most prominent hit man on a team full of hockey bullies (term of endearment in the world of pucks), wearing down every player in red by finishing his checks with lasting effect.  It would take a hundred day off season in stead of 50 for the Hawks to fully recover from the brutality of 4 series worth of hockey torture, none more severe than the finals against Boston. And that's why we love it so.

Two astute hockey my observers from my circle of puck pals have chimed in with their own wisdom.  From New England, Cranston Rhode Island's Dee Dub, who has been loving the Bruins since her little brother hung out with Orr and Shaky Walton at their hockey camp, waxed poetic about her beloved B's  "we are definitely bruised and torn up...doesn't get any better."

Chicago hockey dad Kevin, ecstatic for the Hawks and their lead in the finals, still longed for more muscle against the Bruins. "As a Hawks fan, I'm wishing we had Probert on our team."

And there's the rub, Ballerinas want a bruiser, but you don't hear the bullies longing for a dancer. Bruins fans are content with the offense they have, and just want more opportunities to blast bodies all over the ice. The last true bullies to rule the NHL were from Broad Street and Pattison Avenue in South Philly, and it wasn't just the finesse of the Canadiens who dethroned them in 1976, but a forceful Larry Robinson who smashed the life out of them.

And that's what Kevin from Chicago is yearning for.  Someone in the schoolyard to punch the bullies in the mouth.  The Hawks might be pesky, but they aren't terribly mean.  When Hossa and Keith carved up opponents, they immediately apologized.  Lucic, Chara, Seidenberg, Boychuk or superpest Marchand ever apologizing for their thuggery?  Laughable.  Boychuk broke Mayson Raymond's back in the 2011 Finals on a marginal play, and barely shrugged. Those bully B's all have impressive skills, but now more than ever, they are identified by their mean streaks. In the playoffs, that translates to winning hockey, and it the league knows brute force brings eyeballs.

 While NBC has allowed viewers to feast on replays of brilliant goals and super celi's from the biggest names in the sport, including 11 tallies in game 4, they linger gratuitously on the facial tomato sauce, knowing that those unforgettable bloody bench closeups of rich plasthma flowing from eyelids and temples and noses, staining scraggly playoff beards deep red, translates into healthy ratings. Be honest--it's compelling, you don't see it in any other sport, and you never turn away.

Game 6 returns to the Bear's den, and the hockey world knows that the Bruins snarl will be in full force. If you think the Cup is going to be handed out Monday night you are either alone or in a distinct minority. All of my Chicago hockey fellows think it's going seven, and they still yearn for someone to channel Probert to get them over the top. And unless the Hawks find someone to punch up a bully withour apologizing, the dancers won't get it done.  Just ask the Big Whistle, you need Brawn AND Ballet.

Murray's Dark Birthday

Aching Andy

For fans of Andy Murray, his press conference had news that went from bad to worse.  If you care to project, it could be downright awful.  The following is from the official transcription from the Italian Open on Wednesday, April 15, starting at 5:23 local time. The editorial notes are attributed accordingly.

Murray fans, read it, and if necessary, weep.

Q: Did you pull out in preparation for Paris

A: I pulled out because there is a good chance I wouldn't be playing tomorrow even if I wasn't able to... and we'll have to wait for Paris.  I'd be very surprised if I were playing in Paris. (Murray was typically soft spoken when he let that last bombshell drop.  The translator began speaking in Italian, and the British press corp, which represented well over half of the assembled press room, broke etiquette and sought to clarify exactly what the World's #2 ranked player had just said.  Murray complied, repeating himself into the mic.)
"I'd be very surprised if I were playing in Paris."  (Emphasis from Murray.  The news got continually worse.)

Q: What exactly is it?

A: Back, more lower left back.

Q: Is it something new?

A: It's the same thing as last year.

Q: What will you do?

A: I need to make plans and see what to do tonight. I'll speak with the physio and come up with a plan for the next few days and then make a decision on Paris after the next 5 days. I'll need to take some days off and see how it settles down, but a few days can make a difference.

Q: You said it was a problem in Madrid but it had been OK until then.

A: Yes, it had been OK, but it hadn't been perfect for a long period and obviously I wasn't feeling good again, (underlining from editor) but you always go into international with niggles, but...

Q: Is there a particular situation with playing on clay?

A: Yes, clay can aggravate the problem with the ball coming through slower, you take a slower pace and the ball bounces higher and there is less stability.  (Editor Note:  the transcriber neglected to note two references by Murray from this passage: 1) The slow clay requires the hitter to generate more pace than normal, and 2) that pace comes from trunk rotation, aggravating the very source of Murray's discomfort. Folks, this man is injured, he knows it, and in a moment of candor, shared those fears with the press.)

Q: What about the last time you took pain killer injections?

A: Well, the injections can help with the pain, but they can take some of the inflammation away but that didn't make me feel 100% and I want to feel 100%.

Murray Presser Kill Shot

Q: What do you mean about lower back pain, is it some kind of disk problem?

A:  YES, PRETTY MUCH.
(Editor's note:  Murray fans, this is the worst news you could possibly receive, something extraordinarily rare for an athlete to concede, a lower back disk injury.)

Q: L3?

A: Lower back...don't want to get in too much detail as things change from  week to week and I'll try  and get it sorted but its an issue for some while and so I want to make sure that its something that I can sort out, and its not enjoyable to play now. (Emphasis added by editor)

Q: What will you do now?

A: I'll try and get home tonight or tomorrow but I also want to see if I can get treatment because sitting here on the plane is not perfect and so I'll get some treatment after here.

Q: You say it's been with you for some time - was it like this before Miami?

A: Since the end of 2011 but it got bad during the clay court season but with the injections it got a little bit better but its got(ten) bad now.

Q: Is it something that might require surgery?

A: I don't know.

End.

(Editor's note: Oh s***. )

Yale's Two Hockey Masters

Coach T

As many insiders and Yale hockey lovers know, legendary coach Tim Taylor is suffering these days. In what many fear might be his final hockey act, he helped lead Team USA World Juniors to the Gold Medal in January in his role as director of Player Presonnell, the second time in 5 years he has captured WJC gold. He is currently listed in the same role for Sweden 2014. He could use everyone's thoughts and prayers that he returns to the rink in that familiar back corner, studying players and team trends.  Yale assistant coach Dan Muse was his scouting partner in Ufa, Russia; they were inseparable.  Coach Taylor was the last on the ice to join his American mates on the victorious blue line in Russia to sing the Star Spangled Banner. You should be able to see and hear Tim at the :30 second mark of this video.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPdcS1o_yzk

You know how teams who have tilted the ice in their favor in late games and OT (i.e. Yale vs Lowell) sometimes get burned on the odd chance given up in their own end on a cold goalie?  Yale avoided that @ 2 minutes before captain Andrew Miller cashed in.  Two Grade-A chances by Lowell were thwarted before they reached fruition: 1) Malcolm anticipated a pass from the side of the net and deflected it safely away; and 2) intense back checking by Yale broke up a pass to a Lowell sniper at the bottom of the circle.  Alert kids, well-coached kids. Might have to credit Coach Allain for that.

The Elis were at rock bottom when they busted out of Atlantic City with no goals scored in two forgettable games in march, blowing off the mandatory press conference.  EVERYONE thought their season was done.  Somehow in 6 days Allain had them prepped, pumped and believing for their Indiana Jones-like run through the NCAA west regional.  Most coaches would have lost their kids after that ugly spell in A.C.  This was reminiscent of the Allain effect when he was coaching Team USA at the 2011 Buffalo World Juniors.  The Yanks had just been demolished by Canada 5-1 in the semis in a game that was not that close.  Two days later they were scheduled to face a brilliant Sweden club in the consolation.  Consensus in the press box was that USA would merely go through the motions after their miserable performance on the big stage.  Yet Team USA got off the mat and beat what was arguably the best team in the tourney to salvage a medal.  Allain comes across as brusque, and occasionally haughty to the working press, and has never let a TV crew anywhere near the sanctity of his team's locker room, but he has never lost the ear of any of his teams. This year's Yale squad is the shining example. His victory leap off the Yale bench after their thrilling overtime victory Thursday was one for the ages.  Most astute Yale hockey observers have yet to see him smile, let alone launch himself.

Highlights of The Allain "Launch" 6:18 into this video 

NCAA Hockey, a World Turned Upside Down

World Turned Upside Down

The 2012-13 college hockey season prior to the NCAA tournament allowed those who followed it to get a feel for who were the contenders and who were the pretenders.  Hockey East and the WCHA played the game at a quicker pace and with greater skill than the rest of the Division I teams. Late in the year top-ranked Qunnipiac looked like just another team, except with garish gold jerseys.  Yale, who stumbled repeatedly down the stretch, looked like absolute fodder when they were sent out west to face the vaunted Minnesota Golden Gophers in the NCAA first round. The Elis hadn't scored in nearly 7 periods, and after being humiliated in their own conference tourney they skulked out of Atlantic City under the cover of darkness without addressing the media.  Going into the NCAA's it was a foregone conclusion that they were essentially dead men skating.

The sentiment out west was that only Boston College could threaten the vastly superior WCHA, which sent an unheard of SIX teams into the 16 team bracket.  This extremely clever video captures their regional fever.

And then the tournament began. The top ranked Gophers were out before the majority of teams even laced up their skates.  Yale did the unfathomable, defeating WCHA legendary powerhouses Minnesota and North Dakota within 26 hours.  Impossible, except in the NCAA hockey tourney, it's simply business as usual.  Ponder the recent journey of ECAC Hockey regular season champs Quinnipiac.

On March 22, the Bobcats are victims of a  4-0 beatdown in their own tournament semifinals by Brown, the 9th ranked team in ECAC Hockey.  Fans who had made the trip from Hamden down to Atlantic City were furious, hurling insults and spewing inebriated venom at their own team as they made the long walk to the ice for the third period. In response assistant coaches raised voices, players raised sticks, and a potentially ugly incident was narrowly avoided.   Following the game Q head coach Rand Pecknold humbly described how his club played horribly, conceded that they have been struggling for over a month and frankly admitted that they are clearly not the #1 team in the country.  The next day they stave off Yale in their consolation game, and a day later the entire club is lounging back in Connecticut with ESPN's Steve Levy, crowing about being the top seed in the NCAA's on the nationally televised hockey selection show.  Their reality check from two days ago is conveniently ignored. 

The next Friday Quinnipiac is in serious trouble in their NCAA opener against Canisius, an anonymous school with a .500 record from an anonymous conference, trailing 3-1 midway through the  final period.  There were plenty of college hockey purists not the least bit surprised.  The Bobcats had impressed no one down the stretch. But they scored on a splendid effort by Matthew Peca (remember that name) and came to life, eking out the regional semifinal victory 4-3 in regulation. The game winner came from 4th line left wing Kevin Bui, his second heroic game winner in his last four games.  His two post-season snipes match his regular season goals, for a total of four.  Bui is a senior who was cut his sophomore year and missed an entire year of hockey.  Hey, things get strange this time of year.

The next night Quinnipiac faces Union College, a tiny little school in Schenectady that is the insiders' favorite to win the regional in Providence.  But Union were kept in the building well past midnight in their shocking upset of defending national champ B.C. the night before and were drained. They were easy pickings for a now confident Quinnipiac club, who ran the Dutchmen out of the Dunkin Donuts Center 5-1.  The aforementioned Matthew Peca scored on three consecutive shifts in the first period to sew up the game with 48 minutes of hockey remaining. For Peca, it was his first multi-goal game of the year.  Expect the unexpected.

So now the "paper tiger" Bobcats, #1 in the country most of the year based on complicated computer rankings, enter the NCAA Frozen Four as the biggest name in the tourney.  Hockey loving ESPN commentator John Buccigoss has been advocating the Peca hat trick via Twitter for ESPN's Play of the Week, and the fact that the Quinnipiac campus is barely half an hour from ESPN's Bristol "campus" has made them the darlings of Barry Melrose and company. A team that was dead in the water three times in the last 3 weeks is now carrying the banner for March Madness and nationally televised hockey.  Go figure.  They face St. Cloud State, the last team standing from the "powerhouse" WCHA.  Another victory for the traditional weak sister ECAC? Why not.

If this trend of unthinkable results being commonplace is to continue, let's consider this scenario. In the other semifinal Yale takes on Lowell, the dominant team of the prestigious Hockey East Conference all year long.  Other than that day long dream-sequence in the NCAA west regional Yale has been a losing club against ordinary competition since February. So based on the insanity of NCAA outcomes, let's just say Yale wins to set up a final against Quinnipiac for the title on April 13.  That would make a border war for two schools separated by less than 10 miles. Forget BC-BU, or Michigan-Michigan State or even Minnesota-Minnesota Duluth, New Haven County becomes the epicenter of big time college hockey.  The battle of Whitney Avenue.  A world turned upside down. 

Brits played 'World Turned Upside Down' after Yorktown Upset 

One possible reason for the insanity of NCAA hockey results?  Start with the TV timeouts.  Timeouts in hockey are short, and in most cases, rare. Most games aren't televised.  Now in the NCAA's there a 2:30 timeouts, over twice as long as the rare TV timeouts college hockey teams rarely experience, and three of them per period.  Preposterous. It changes the flow of hockey dramatically, screwing up the game on ice in many radical ways. Hockey people in Providence watching live shook their heads in disbelief.  It is an example of NCAA hockey being dictated by powers that don't give the sport itself any consideration.  It was obvious that Union was shot from its late night semifinal, and it ultimately ruined the regional championship.  Any sporting momentum college hockey may have gained from 12 single elimination games in 3 days on national cable has been quashed by a two week NCAA moratorium in order to squeeze in men's and women's hoops onto the airwaves.  An April 13 college hockey National Championship, a month after every other hockey season is over in the U.S. It's clear that hockey to the NCAA is simply low priority programming fodder for lower tier platforms of ESPN. Pity.

Dreams of Detente

BETTMAN AND FASSEL DURING "HAPPIER" TIMES

At the 2010 Molson Hockey Summit in Toronto, Brian Burke and other NHL execs made it clear that they were not going to rubber stamp shutting down the NHL and all their pro's to go to Sochi to play games at 7 AM Eastern time.  Reasons cited were 1) Insurance Costs, 2) Video  and still photo access to sites like NHL.com, and 3) the unfavorable time zone.  They never said exactly what they wanted in return.  With the Sochi Winter Games less than a year away, negotiations have gotten gritty.  But the sticking point is no longer with Rene Fassel in Switzerland nor Jacques Rogge in France.  It's North Americans and Russians sitting across a table in a tug of war over tickets and passes. Russian hockey legend Vladislav Tretiak told Russian News Agency R-Sport that "They (NHL) are laying down [terms] that can be accepted only at the level of the International Olympic Committee." Fasell told CBC last week that "egos" are threatening the process. Surprised? Anyone? 

"It comes down to NHL owner Perks," said a source with decades of Olympic experience with a prominent federation.  "Things like tickets, passes to events and access," said my insider.  The Cornell sports Business blog said the following: "The NHL also wants access for its general managers and other team personal to interact with its players while in Sochi, as well. The IOC has generally been reluctant to give leagues these rights."   

Now the IOC and IIHF have only so many passes and tickets to hand out, it's the local organizing committee that has the lion's share of passes and tix, which have been treated like gold in recent Olympics, and factored into every bid.  So now SOOC has to assign a value to having the NHLers participate in these games, and measure it against the cost of all those freebies demanded by the NHL "Lords of the Boards."

It's no longer the French (IOC's Jaques Rogge) or the Swiss (IIHF's Rene Fassel) needed to accommodate the hardball North Americans, it's the Russians and the NHL playing hardball over hard currency. Holy Cold War Batman, it's back to the Future!  These negotiations can't be pretty, and it shouldn't surprise anyone that it is dragging out.  

Another note of importance:  Caps owner Ted Leonsis has agreed to release Ovechkin for Sochi regardless of the outcome of the negotiations.  I doubt if Bettman and Co. are terribly pleased with losing such a valuable chess piece.  But Malkin, Kovalchuk and Datsyuk are still in play, and Kovalchuk in particular will be terribly missed in Sochi if the NHL owners don't get their way. Kovalchuk, not Ovechkin, was by far the most popular of the NHL stars playing in the KHL through December.  It's impossible to imagine Lou Lamoriello getting all altruistic and donating Kovalchuk to the Games.

Cause for optimism... Vladimir Putin is a HUGE hockey fan, and is desperate to have his heroes at the Games.  He is the driving force of the Sochi Organizing Committee, and could get this done.

Putin ready to bang heads?

NBC sits in limbo as well...whether their Sochi hockey studios originate from Stamford or Russia hangs in the balance. With NBC committed to the NHL, why would they sacrifice manpower and huge capital outlays to cover amateur hockey players 9 time zones away when their #1 hockey property are playing nightly in prime time? 

To expedite matters, Bettman and Company should go to Russia and meet directly with SOOC, and that ultimately means Putin.  That, my friends, would be Bolshoy theater.