Devils, parachutes, and hockey dreams

There is an expression in sports journalism for those who arrive late to the party, it's called "parachuting." Usually it's big-time journalists who come to a scene after a team has made great strides to gain national attention, and then the Lupica's and Costas's and I don't know, Francesa's start camping out and reporting from a scene as if they know what's going on. Usually they have to tap into the knowledge base assimilated by the lesser known beat reporters to get up to speed. I certainly don't have a cape, and have never "parachuted" before, but this New Jersey devils story is so compelling that I can't help myself. I'm dropping in thanks to the help from the hockey Maven.

They are now on a 20-2-2 streak, that's 42 points out of a possible 48, that's an .875 winning percentage, even with the anomaly of those imbalanced 3 point games that inflate the numbers, it's downright outrageous, the third best streak in the NHL this year, soon to be best. What makes it more compelling, is that the Devils have to keep playing .800 ball for their final 17 games to get into the playoffs. So the high wire act must continue all the way through game 82 or the story dies.

The Devils were arguably the worst team in hockey at the midpoint of the season. I attended game 37, the Devils on 7-game home losing streak, stumbling along at a .278 winning percentage, again, those are inflated NHL stats. Tickets were going for a song, an astute ticket buyer could get into the Devils for the same price as a college game, $10. The sparse New Year's Eve afternoon crowd was largely disinterested, those that were brought home made signs that read "Koval-$uck." All they knew needed to know was that their $100 Million dollar sniper was on track to become an all-time professional sports flop.

With the Devils clinging to a 2-1 third period lead, most of the crowd was expecting the worst. An then Kovalchuk did what he does best: a power drive down the wing and a lightning wrist shot that beat the season's hottest goalie Ondrej Pavelec. And Devils fans did something extremely rare--they went home happy. My 12 year old pee wee is a fan of Kovalchuk, and enjoyed the fact that the loud mouths with the Koval$uck signs were silenced.

2010 was a miserable year for the Devils, but it was over. Jacques Lemaire was 1 week into his 3rd tour of duty with the Devils, yet they were already out of the playoff picture. He wasn't on speaking terms with his captain Jamie Langenbrunner, and his lineup was filled with minor league kids.

In mid January the Devils were heating up, and Versus cable show NHL Overtime was fielding Facebook questions. Hockey lifer and Devils production associate Chris Riley chimed in, wondering if the Devils could claw their way back into contention. Studio analyst Keith Jones refused to dignify the question with a response. "The only reason they're winning is because other clubs are looking for a night off. They're still an awful team."

2 months of .800 hockey and Jones still contends that the Devils won't make the Playoffs, but he's not calling them awful. It's a remarkable story from a franchise that had a magical playoff run in their history back in 1988. One of the key components of that team was John MacLean, for those who like a side dish of irony with their fairy tale sports stories.

Langenbrunner was traded for a song on January 7, and since then there has been but one voice. Jacques. One of the famed Montreal Canadiens "Young Lions" who led the Habs to 4 consecutive Cups and the unofficial title as greatest team ever. That club played .800 puck back then, just like this group. Only there's no collection of Hall-Of-Famers on this team, except the goalie, the coach, and maybe an overpriced Russian mercenary who has bought into his system of defense first. It's enough to raise hope and generate stories. Those low scoring three-point games are the best show in the NHL right now, and it has me parachuting into Newark. I hope it's a long ride.

It could have ended today, Brodeur was in a duel with young Al Montoya of the Islanders, a team that gives the Devils fits. They tied the game at 2 late, and controlled long stretches of Overtime and led in the shootout. But the big Russian Bear sniped in regulation, tied the shootout with another laser, and in the 6th round of the shootout, the beleaguered 38 year old Brian Rolston, the man who cleared waivers twice, wired in the winner to extend the playoff dream of this unlikely group. They got their two points in one of those inflated NHL 3-point games, and live to play another day 8 points and 4 teams between them and a playoff spot, 17 games to play. The second to last game of the season will be a nationally televised tilt against the dreaded Rangers at Madison Square. If you don't think that game will determine a berth, well you probably stopped reading this a while ago.

Dreamers, Tuesday, Ottawa, at the Rock. Wear your parachute.

travel team pathos

Coach Nick is a crusty, middle aged guy, head filled with wavy silver hair, framed by glasses, crazy like a fox. Has a grin that resembles a grimace; says gruff stuff that's usually followed by a smile, but only after a pregnant pause. He played football and hockey, went to two colleges, Vermont and Rutgers, to chase an unfulfilled sports dream. Now he chases success in youth sports, as a taskmaster who blows a wooden whistle that resembles a hunter's duck call.

To understand Nick's motivation, you must know the history of his son Steve. A center who appears lanky on the ice, Steve is a player that you might call gifted if you watch him enough. He is not flashy, but he lights up scoresheets. He impresses hockey insiders with his economy of motion, his confident use of edges, and a strong wrist shot that has a knack of slipping through goalies at ice level. He, too, wears glasses, and if you study their faces, you can see that he will inevitably look like his dad. But Nick has the outgoing personality and voice that fills any space they share; Steve lets his hockey sense speak for him.
Steve has limitations. A congenital heart condition forced him to miss all of last season. Doctors grudgingly allowed him to return for his last year of pee-wee hockey as a 12 year old, but worry about his well-being. Based on the outcome of some upcoming tests, this could very well be Steven's last year of contact sports.

That fact has shaped Nick's outlook on the season, and coupled with his own athletic shortcomings, he craves a title to answer two sets of dreams. It's made the coach a little prickly at times this season, players sense this burning need to win, it's more than just desire. After falling to a slightly better Junior Flyers club in Voorhees, it was hard to miss Nick kicking the boards. The loss seriously jeopardized the Colts playoff chances and the dread spilled into his post game speech. It was long, emotional and negatively charged. Assistant coach Jack had to interrupt and compliment the boys on their 2nd half comeback.

A week later, the playoff dream was over, and Nick embodied frustration. The following game was against the first place team that had already clinched a berth. Steve was magnificent, notching 3 goals in a 4-2 upset victory; the old man was appeased.

Much of the season has become this father-son passion play, with Steve playing on borrowed time, and in Nick's mind, time that has run out too fast.

Philly Road trip...

Communal Hotel filled with pee-wee families from Maryland to New Jersey. Pool is being assaulted by dozens of 12 year olds. A rival coach was asked to the leave rink because he was laughing/ridiculing the referees. He left the bench but not the rink, refs spotted him and insisted that he leave, reaching out to local cops to finish the job. Emotional parents getting extra-charged over the fiasco. Games getting chippy as the goal differential widens. 12 year old "tweeners" on the ice, some voices have changed and others wait for their growth spurt. Checking is in the game (for now), larger players taking liberties with children a foot smaller.

Last week most of our players went down to Princeton on a team building activity. The organizer parent of the trip, John, ended up on the ice in the second intermission as a score-o contestant. He won handily firing the most pucks into an empty net from center ice. He won $100. gift certificate for a local Hyatt and center ice tickets to the NCAA regionals in Bridgeport, CT. I offered to buy John's tix; he told me would let me know.

My neighbor Nancy drove back to Morristown on a dreary evening. In between dozing, less than fully conscious, I heard her tell me that most of the parents now knew that Gary has inoperable melanoma, a cancer that has spread to his lymph nodes. I knew mothing of his medical history; being an out-of-towner on the mostly local team, John is an acquaintance, not a friend. His son Michael is a beautiful boy, armed with polite intelligence and charm. He has a loping stride that resembles what Larry Robinson must have looked like at that age.

I observe John and his wife more carefully now: How she rubs his shoulders and looks at him with moist eyes; how he takes rests during games, finding places to sit while sacrificing sightlines. He has not mellowed--John complains about the boys when they aren't playing well. I saw his wife prepping a funny looking liquid that she poured onto his cereal this breakfast. On a sun-drenched Saturday noon, filled with the promise of spring, with a group of 12 year olds playing an evenly matched game, the harsh bite of life's nasty underside was impossible to ignore.

I speak of this subject with extreme caution within the community; I fear if it becomes a frequent topic it will color this rite of childhood--the hockey road trip--with a pall of mortality, something that benefits no one. So I detach and observe, watching a proud man watching what should be his final season, loved by a community that gives him space and comfort. I pay attention to the mood of his son; Michael is either a briliant actor or he is blind to the terrible fate of his father. Michael smiles and is never at a loss for a quick, smart reply (a fledgling wit) to all comments toward him, whether they originate from a peer or an adult. His life appears untouched by the awful consequences of cancer. Yet his father's physical form is not long for this world. Each unpoiled moment is precious, priceless, and for his observing parents, little slices of eternity.

Thinking I was the last to know, I mentioned Gary's condition to a parent I thought was an insider. Bob had no idea. I will not bring it up again for fear of soiling another's experience. They say youth hockey is not life and death. It is both.

On the travel tourney to Philadelphia, I noticed a quiet boy hanging out with the 12 year olds. He loyally hung around, but did not get involved in their horseplay. His coloring was off, and his face looked aged, but his body had not. I asked him outside the restaurant if was related to one of our players and he said he was.

A week later my friend Bob mentioned that he had a son who had contracted leukemia, but had survived the prolonged chemo treatments. Bob mentioned what a special athlete his son Kyle was, and how he remains a superior student but is now a bit handicapped because of his response to the new T-cells in his body. His muscles can no longer fully extend themselves, preventing Kyle from doing simple tasks like tying his shoes, or putting on a jacket. Bob is incredibly proud of Kyle's attitude, and love pours through him as he speaks about his oldest son. The three years of sharing in Kyle's recovery has taken a toll on him as well. It's brutal duty for the whole family. In his case, younger brother had to donate bone marrow to help Kyle get through it all.

Standing in the balcony of what is probably our last home game, I noticed that slightly off child standing next to Bob. I hear him say "Dad" while speaking to him. The light went on. I asked Bob if that was Kyle and if he could introduce us. I shook his hand and complimented him on making that selfless road trip to Philly. And then he transformed both of us with a broad smile. I felt life's magic and was incredibly touched. I spend 6 weeks tutoring a Leukemia survivor a few years younger than Kyle, and have gained some knowledge about the frailty of life from hearing their stories of harsh radiation and chemo treatments. Seeing and feeling life through Kyle's smile and handshake was an unexpected gift, a blessed one.

Three stories of life and the will to live, some successful, others not. Since writing, John has mellowed now. I see him smiling after working the penalty box, he's lost whatever angry edge he may have held. I suspect painkillers are in play now. This season has brought life and the struggle to survive into clear focus. It's like the song I heard at a service last Sunday, about the dance of life. How we must dance on until the music stops.

Golden Irrelevance

Additional reporting by Todd Ehrlich of T-Line TV 

In North America, Russian hockey is all about the past. The Super Power that stormed the NHL with the fall of the Iron Curtain has seen its presence shrink significantly since the end of the lockout in 2005. There are only 28 Russians playing in the NHL today, about half as many as 2005. More striking is the fact that a mere 9 Russians were drafted in 2010. There are two major reasons...the Russian sports authorities don't like the compensatory transfer fees (or lack thereof) from the NHL after snagging Russian players, and Russia's professional league--the KHL--is a superior option for many Russian players because of culture, comparable dollars and its less grueling schedule.

So when Russia entered this year's fabulous World Junior Championship in Buffalo, they were an afterthought. That simple statement is almost inconceivable; considering the Russian Bear as anything less than a threat in a hockey tournament is risky business at best, foolhardy at worst.

But unimpressive Round Robin results earned "Ross SEE Ya" the final spot in the medal round playoff bracket, where they found a solid Finland team laying in wait. The Finns methodically marched to a 3 to 1 lead, and with 4 minutes to play, TSN announcers Gord Miller and Pierre McGuire were matter-of-factly looking at Finland's next opponent, and ruminating about the prospects of an all-Nordic semifinal between Finland and Sweden, age-old rivals. And then it began. The first of 3 separate miracles, the most amazing run of hockey ever seen on a global stage. Three straight trips to hell and back by this remarkable collection of hockey artists, passionate Russians with hearts worthy of Mother Russia who deserved their gold as much as any group who ever laced up a pair of skates.

Act 1--Quarterfinals: Trailing 3-1 with under four minutes left to play, 18 year old Yevgeny Kuznetsov puts on a show, scoring one and and then setting up the tying goal, and then finishing off the Finns with a brilliant OT thriller. The Finns never knew what hit them. Kuznetsov is a Caps first rounder, look for him to share Power Play minutes next year with Ovechkin.

Act 2--Semifinals: The unfair timing of this semifinal is a huge part of this story, a fact NEVER mentioned on TSN, who drives this tournament and is responsible for its uncanny popularity in Canada. Russia worked overtime Sunday night, leaving their dressing room around 11pm all amped up over their amazing comeback. They were then back in the rink Monday for a 3:30 semifinal puck drop against a Sweden team that had been resting since Friday. Russia jumped out to a two goal lead early in the second, and then watched the Swedes suck the life out of them the rest of the way, outshooting them by a 2 to 1 ratio and scoring three unanswered goals, the last a PP marker with 3:19 left in regulation to take the lead. Russia was spent, and it may have been unfair, but their impressive run through the medal round appeared to be over. And then the hockey Gods got involved. Undrafted 19 year old Sergei Kalinin jumped through bodies to pitchfork a loose puck in the crease with 1:27 left in regulation and Miracle #2 was underway. Russian goaltender Dmitri Shikin stopped 5 shots in ten minutes of OT, and shut down two Swedish snipers in the shootout. Russian defenseman Denis Golubev found an opening through Swedish netminder Robin Lehner, and the Swedes last hope, Captain Anton Lander hit the post, sounding a death knell for arguably the best team in the tournament. Sweden, incredibly, miraculously, was out of the gold rush. Russia survived despite having coughed up a lead and falling behind with seemingly no gas left in the tank. They now had a precious day of rest before taking on the Canadian juggernaut.

Act III, the Game for Gold: Canada swarmed Russia, outshooting them 29-17 over two periods, claiming a 3-0 lead and chasing Russia's heroic goalie Shikin, who was replaced by the gigantic and heretofore unknown Igor Bobkov. Remember that name. All of Canada, including most of the 18,690 spectators, began celebrating prematurely. Last year's OT disaster agains the Yanks had been washed out by their demolition of USA in their previous game, and the players wearing the proud Red Maple Leaf were building on 7 impeccable periods of hockey. This last stanza was to be a mere formality. The Russians had them right where they wanted them.

Two and a half minutes into the 3rd period, Russia's deadly artistry took over: two goals in eleven seconds, three in under five minutes forced Canada to call their timeout and assess the damage. The Red Maple Leaf party was over, the hunter was now the hunted, and Canada couldn't reverse the trend. The two traditional super powers of the sport jousted for another 8 minutes, but the Canucks were fading and the Russians had both jump and confidence. The Russians added two more when it was all said and done, a mind-blowing 5 goal third period against Canada, in which the fabulous Kuznetsov orchestrated three assists. It was a period for the ages, a masterpiece from the land that brought you Baryshnikov and Pushkin.

Three miracles in four days, all of them classics: one in Overtime; one in a shootout; and one punctuated by 5-0 demolition of Canada's finest. It was sport, hockey, as only the Russians can play it. Miracle might be too mild a word. Except for the 5 rings and the political landscape of the time, America's run of hockey victories 31 years prior in this same state was pedestrian in comparison.

Their three-game run to the gold was the greatest sports story in recent memory, far more compelling than the Winter Classic a day prior, which was a genuine spectacle in its own right. Yet the story of the Russian hockey gold rush was largely buried. How North American media essentially ignored this magical sports tale is a story in itself.

Let's examine the media prism in which this triple miracle took place...the dateline says Buffalo, New York, USA, but it was essentially Canada. To the Canadians, the story was all about the collapse. Bob McKenzie, the fiercely thorough Insider of all Insiders and a great chronicler of all things World Junior, posted his praise of the Russians 17 paragraphs into his blog of Canada's collapse. USA Today had virtually nothing, and the NY Times pulled their superb hockey writer Keff Klein back to Gotham after USA wet the bed in the semifinals. The Times ran a few wooden graphs from the Associated Press while Klein covered the Rangers.

Pierre McGuire, the info-maniac that is the driving force of TSN's prodigious World Junior coverage, usually pumps the international teams with stories of drafted players and NHL connections. The Russians are no longer sexy because they are largely ignored by scouts because of the hassles with transfer fees and the KHL competition. So it sucked a lot of the wind out of McGuire's rant. The Russians are now someone else's story. And if Canada isn't pushing a hockey story, we Americans aren't going to blaze a new trail, Especially with Klein on West 33rd street.

So the greatest hockey phenomenon in recent memory takes place on a hockey-mad border of USA and Canada, and the resonating story that emerges is that the Russian team was too inebriated to board their plane home to Moscow. Pity.

Well, since this post is so long winded, here's a take on the Russian alcohol consumption: TSN brought their cameras into the gold-medal winning locker room, where the Silver World Championship Goblet was getting filled repeatedly with bubbly. Every player was presented with the Cup, made a heartfelt toast, took a huge swig, and passed it on. Very civilized, very respectful, very Russian (except it was Champagne and not Vodka thank goodness). Now remember that the Russians were dehydrated and exhilarated. They were still composing toasts when TSN shut down their feed, so no one in the media is quite sure if they ever stopped prior to boarding the bus for the plane. So a bunch of 19 year old menchildren had a buzz on after shocking the hockey world. That became the secondary story after that of Canada's collapse. Russia's Triple Miracle is 17 graphs deep on a blog. Unless you live in St. Petersburg.

In the next posting of SportsRap, I hope to get a reaction from Russian hockey historian Igor Kuperman if this Triple Miracle has taken any of the sting from their Lake Placid "collapse" from 31 years ago. If it doesn't it should. There's never been anything like it. Eruzione has nothing on Kuznetsov.

Lost in the gold medal mania was Team USA's bronze, which was impressive after being throttled by Canada in the semis. Twice before Keith Allain had been on the losing end of Bronze medal games, and this time he put his club through an incredibly stiff practice on the Tuesday off day and they responded with an energetic 4-2 win over hard luck Sweden. New York Ranger prospect and Boston College forward Chris Kreider sniped in two goals for the Yanks, and should be expected to be wearing a professional red, white and blue hockey sweater next year a little further down state.

NHL's Executive Cowboy

Dan Craig is a hockey lovin Cowboy from Alberta. He has established a remarkable niche around the globe as the supreme expert on hockey ice. He is on the scene at every Cup Final, the season openers in Europe, the Olympics and even the far east (Tokyo 1998 and 99).

The NHL's unexpected crown jewel of a TV property, the Winter Classic, is essentially a Dan Craig co-production. He now has his own highly publicized 60' truck that accompanies him to these baseball and football venues that is his toolbox for turning foreign surfaces into NHL sanctioned playing ice. He's featured on Olympic features from Vancouver and gets network airtime every January 1. A regular rock star of frozen water, with an ego to match.

And now it's crunch time. Craig is facing the challenge of his career from mother nature, with huge stakes riding on his ability to deliver a suitable playing surface for this year's Winter Classic.

Conditions: Awful. Warm moist air being squeezed by an arctic cold front resulting in at least an inch of rain in Pittsburgh. Humidity is his number one enemy in an indoor rink, and he is being drowned in it right now in Pittsburgh. He has postponed all those media requests, his brow is furled in concentration and stress as he walks the icy pools in Heinz field with his son and other members of his inner circle. The game has been already been postponed once, the League doesn't dare tell NBC that it must table their national telecast a second time. The NHL's New York office is a league full of power-loving suits. They've given their Cowboy plenty of props, a million dollar truck, and all the media he's ever dreamed of. It's now time for him to deliver a playable venue, no excuses.

Stakes: The NHL's TV contract is up, and thanks primarily to the amazing success, totally unpredicted success, of the Winter Classic, ESPN and NBC/Versus will be in a bidding war for the NHL rights. Based on typical ratings for NHL, ESPN usually abhors the idea of airing NHL Games. But every January 1st, the Winter Classic is the talk of Madison Avenue and 6th Avenue, believe it or not folks, hockey is sexy. Almost unimaginable. But true. Gary Bettman can add to his legacy as a commissioner: not only is he a Union busting negotiator, but he could be the guy to get TV cash from a major network for the first time since Fox went screaming out of the room back in the 1990's. Currently NBC has a barter deal with the NHL where they share revenues but without rights fees. Now it has come down to this, a rain soaked Heinz Field and a re-scheduled 8 pm puck drop. If this game gets shut down, players leaving the ice for fear of injuries, the game being postponed indefinitely, sponsors and network executives will leave in disgust, the league's crown jewel shattered. IF this game proceeds successfully, now in Prime Time, the ratings will be higher than ever with the most eyeballs ever focused on a regular season game.

It all comes down to a rain-soaked cowboy, and his success against his arch enemy, moisture. It is a battle worth paying attention to. Dan Craig is facing the music...will pressure make diamonds? Tune into NBC at 8 pm see how this drama plays out.

What would Mac T have done?

Jim Leyritz gets off from vehicular homicide. He blew a 1.4 blood alcohol level several hours after destroying Freida Veitch's car, and causing her death after she was ejected from the car. The original testimony from an eyewitness was that he ran a red light. Under a penetrating cross examination, the witness couldn't be sure if it had been a late yellow or a full red. The defense said that Leyritz was drinking straight vodka shots, and that might not have impacted his blood alcohol level until AFTER the accident, so its feasible that his blood alcohol level was actually at or below 0.8 at the time of the manslaughter. Astonishing.

And the cocksure, macho, World Series hero, got off. He bawled so hard during the testimony that the judge had to clear the jury. He appears to have lost his swagger.

Widower Jordan Veitch calls it "Excruciating." His motherless children, Julien and Kayla, are the ones propping him up, keeping him strong. It is a bastardization of justice. Awful. My 12 year old son said he was impressed by the defense. I tried not to lose my temper. A woman dies because a boozed up ballplayer got behind a wheel of an SUV after a night of drinking shooters on his birthday. And he gets a wrist slap for DUI while Julien and Kayla have only photos of their mother. Awful.

Quick flashback to another pro athlete, in similar circumstances, except that he was not drunk. In 1984 Boston Bruins center Craig MacTavish rear ended a car driving north on a late night commute home from the old Boston Garden, causing a death. It was a poorly lit stretch of road, and he might have been able to play the celebrity card and opted for a plea, but Mac T took his punishment, pleading guilty to vehicular manslaughter, and doing a year in jail in the Walpole (Mass.) state pen. He knew he could never play in Boston again, but Harry Sinden's pal Glenn Sather picked him up for his Edmonton Oilers club, despite MacTavish having spent an entire year off the ice.

After paying his proverbial "debt to society", Mac T won three Cups with the Oilers, and was on the ice for the Rangers dramatic Cup win in 1994, and a lengthy career as an NHL coach and executive.

The future of Leyritz, the beneficiary of a wide-eyed star culture, remains in doubt. He will dodge most, if not all, of his anticipated jail term. While our lasting image of MacTavish is celebrating a miraculous championship with Mark Messier on Garden Ice; the lasting images of Leyritz is him crying uncontrollably in a court of law.

Bronx Tories

Full disclosure: Author is a Red Sox fan. Now, onto the commentary. The vast majority of Baseball TV coverage is around the diamond, say 75% on pitcher and batter, maybe more. Usually low angles, with fans as the backdrop to Jeter and CC and company. It's been impossible to miss those fans. Self-respecting Yankee fans are intense, passionate and sometimes vulgar in an endearing, inebriated sort of way. Say what you will about manners, but they definitely care.

Well, ummm...have you seen the fans that are in majority of the shots? and thanks to Hi-Def, you almost get to know them. Yea, the plutocrats in the blue suits, at least those still in their seats. Yeah, those seats, the seats surrounded by a freakin moat to keep regular citizens out. On the phone, sipping (and I mean SIPPING) an occasional beer, talking business with other captains of industry, checking their watches, and then quietly exiting, emphasis on the word quiet, slipping into their limos for the ride back to Gotham. I don't think they raised the decibel meter once during these three games in the Bronx vs Texas.

On a personal note, I've been binging on schadendreude for most of these 6 games, and I actually feel for the real Yankee fans that are not only suffering a horsewhipping from the irrepressible Texas Rangers, but that their fandom is being represented for all the country to see by a bunch of Bernie Madoffs. Oh, I don't really feel for you Pinstripers. If you build a huge monument to greed and excess, they will come. You got what you paid for. And if a guy dressed as Cliff Lee knocks on your door this Halloween, be afraid, be very afraid.

Enjoy the off-season, it'll be here any minute.

New credibility for Fast Times

Took a recent trip down memory lane to the 80's via the cult classic Fast Times at Ridgemont High. In spite of its nonsensical themes embodied by the immortal Sean Penn, director Amy Heffering actually accomplished historical significance, something along the lines of George Lucas in American Graffiti. Now, you may want to debate what kind of turmoil was facing the free love/stoner set that was attending high school in the early 1980's in southern California, but there were lots of tough choices, especially for the females, to find a popular niche back then. I propose that this is a bookend film to Graffiti, and as Lucas captured the search for significance of the adolescents in the James Dean era, Heffering does the same in the Cheech and Chong 80's. A huge thumbs up to Penn for actually mastering Cheech's genre. His fantasy dream of being interviewed on national televsion after winning the surfing competition belongs in a time capsule in the Smithsonian. Bring plenty of Kleenex for the inescapable laughter it will generate.