Snowman On Fire

Bye, David Hale.

I’m bummed to see him go. He was a large, stay at home defenseman, not a playmaker or a points-scorer but the kind of guy who could muscle a Crosby or Ovechkin out of the slot when needed. Rumors of his imminent trade have been swirling since his sustained benching a few weeks ago, culminating in today’s 11th-hour trade to Calgary.

For a draft pick.

True, Rafalski has picked up his play tremendously on the point, Paul Martin plays nothing like his real-world image (blond, skinny and glasses) and Lukowich and White are playing well (and healthy), and Oduya is the frosh surprise this year. But I likedDavid Hale, because he was quiet and hard-working, even when he wasn’t getting ice time; he was another fine product of the University of North Dakota (along with current fan fave Zach Parise); and I have a pile of his rookie hockey cards sitting in an album.

I’ve whined before about seemingly lopsided value trades made before, notably when Lou exchanged Suglobov for snowman Ken Klee late last season. Suglobov is in the AHL, Klee was waived and is now making snow angels in Colorado, and once again Lou demonstrated how he can win the GM chess game using a pawn, a knight and bottle cap.

Here’s hoping Hale puts a burr under the seats in the Saddledome. He’ll be missed by his Jersey fans.

Hockey teams often seem to play to the level of their opponents; picking up their games when needed and sadly dropping their games when least called for.

The Devils didn’t look like division leaders against Washington today, losing to the Caps for the first time in about a season and a half. With a game in hand over Pittsburgh, it was a perfect time to open up 2 more points over DaBurgh. Didn’t happen, and there wasn’t much to cheer about, except for the silver lining to this clouded Saturday: Cam Janssen got his first NHL point and first NHL goal. He’s played 82 games — an entire season’s worth of dressing for games, five to eight minutes at a clip, without putting one in the net. It’s nice to see consistent hard work pay off.

Halfway between the Meadowlands and The City of Brotherly Ex-Forsberg Love, the Princeton Tigers put on a show today in the annual Alumni Day matinee game. The 4-1 win over St. Lawrence capped a weekend sweep of the top two teams in the ECAC and may give them home ice going into the playoffs. Better yet, the silver goes around the season, not just inside this weekend, as the Tigers finished their league season at 10-10-2 and their overall campaign at 13-13-3. A 0.500 season, a point per game average, is quite an accomplishment for a second year coach (who is dealing with only his first class of recruits), and comes on the heels of several years that were closer to Davy Jones’ locker than that of Casey Jones.

We concluded our annual President’s Day tournament in Washington, DC yesterday evening by playing in the championship game. Tournament hockey has its own strange little cadence; you spend all day thinking about your final round-robin game to determine the medal games, only to see that it’s been made immaterial by the divisional game before yours. In our case, a team that could have tied with us for 2nd place instead tied our other division opponent, putting us in the enviable position of having clinched no worse than the 2nd seed — and the championship game — before our own final game even started.

That was the good news. The bad news is that the fourth team in our bracket was probably playing a level lower than they should have been, not through misrepresentation but through demographics and varying interpretations of USA Hockey Tier II levels. Our final round-robin game was only round in our end, where we lost 10-2 (although the 2 goals scored were 2 of only 3 that this team gave up the entire tournament).

Gold and silver went to the winner and loser of the rematch, yesterday afternoon. At the end of the first period, we were losing 1-0 (versus a 5-2 ditch at the similar point the night before). Our coach told the boys, “I have nothing to say; that’s the best hockey you’ve played all year.” And he wasn’t humoring them or distracting them from what they knew would be the hardest game of the season; he was being honest.

We lost, 4-0, but collected medals and a banner and took lots of pictures. I let one of the younger siblings carry the banner through the rink lobby, and he was all smiles. All of the boys left the locker with hardware around their necks (nice touch this year, with medals replacing individual plaques, since the plaques were hard to wear), and I’ll bet they kept their medals on through rest stops, naps in the car, and 250 miles of highway home.

We have four games and one tournament left; our annual pilgrimage north to Lake Placid. Our team believes they can skate with anyone. Yesterday’s scoreboard showed a loss, but that was only in the statistical counting of the game. The emotional, the physical, and the leadership sheet shows a huge win for which no words were enough.

I love tournament hockey. It’s not for the hardware or the glory: in ten tournament tests, over the course of 4 seasons, my son’s team has brought home exactly one bronze and one silver medal. Many times we were mathematically eliminated before the last game was played, giving us sympathy not for the Devil but the Flyers and a healthy dose of humility.

I love tournament hockey because you experience every range of emotion that you know, compressed into about 60 hours. You have hope, when you arrive at a new hotel from which you have yet to receive a warning about hallway hockey games, and every scoresheet and tote board is as white as pure snow. There’s pure rush, when your team takes the ice for the first game, and well, anything is possible. There’s superstition, heightened when it snows here in Washington, DC, because snow has become something of a good luck omen for your boys. A first-round game in which you fall behind 2-0 surfaces disappointment, only to be chased by excitement as it’s 2-1, and then hoarse, throat-scarring cheering as the game is tied 2-2 with 40 seconds left. A team dinner brings pride, and appreciation, not only for the young men who play but for the parents, siblings and friends who have spent the past six months as my extended family.

Each shot on goal, each change in the game’s pace, modulates the tenor of the weekend and the potential matchups. We tied our first game, putting us in the middle of the pack, and then worked out a win this morning. Being up 3-0, we had our sights set on tonight; when it was 3-1 suddenly our opponents were the ones doing the mental mathematics and thinking through ways to stay in the hunt. A shot, a goal, a big save either way and you start to work the permutations in ways that high school probability teachers never anticipated.

Our goalie was startlingly good today. Three breakaways foiled, and a kick save on a rebound shot that would have had Chico Resch extolling his virtues until at least the next commercial break. Our blueliners stepped in to protect the house; one of our centers who was too sick to play yesterday scored a pretty short-handed goal; and the boys played as a team, on and off the ice. Not bad for a day that started a 5:45 AM. Every emotion includes exhaustion and bewilderment at the lack of easily reached Dunkies outlets near the rinks.

As I write this, a half dozen boys are playing a spirited game of knee hockey in my son’s room, using pillows and furniture for goals and slapping a foam puck around with the same intensity with which they chased the real rubber earlier in the day. They’re having fun, and they’ll remember the knee hockey game and the signs we taped to our doors long after the scores are forgotten.

Four hours from now, we’ll know what President’s Day brings: a medal game or a consolation game in which pride is the reward. Judging from the sounds next door, though, with Pillows having a slight lead over Desk Chair, the best reward has already been claimed.

Here’s a shameless plug for my son’s website and community service project: Assist From Bubba. For the past 6 months, he’s been skating with our special needs hockey program, the DareDevils, and for the past year he’s been an on-ice assistant with the primary program. Through the DareDevils he’s learned first-hand about diversity in hockey, and he’s decided to raise awareness of autism and autism research (since many of our DareDevils are hockey players who also happen to be autistic) through this website.

Click on it, read his stories, and make a donation through PayPal or through one of the other donation vehicles he’s set up. We have some online auctions, some eBay GivingWorks auctions, and even an amazon.com bookstore. Everything you donate or buy helps.

So far the interest has been great, but the commitment is lagging. “Commitment” is fund-raising speak for dollars, of course. We got a nice showcase from Sun’s MaryMary, and a recent real estate purchase at Autism Town (look for Bubba at cell [26,8], the address that would be occupied by Patrik Elias and a snowman) has resulted in some clicks. Even if you give a dollar, it helps.

Here are the questions I’ve been asked since we spun this up publicly earlier this week:

What’s the big deal with autism?. According to the latest study from the CDC, nearly 1 in 150 people have some form of autism. Here in New Jersey, estimates put that number closer to 1 in 70. In three grade-school classes, there’s most likely one student with autism.

What’s with hockey and autism? It works. Come and watch our DareDevils skate, every week, improving their skills and communicating with their teammates on the ice. It works.

Aren’t there some famous athletes who support autism research?. Probably the two best-known autism support efforts involving professional athletes are Athletes Against Autism, founded by NHL players Olaf Kolzig, Scott Mellanby and Byron Dafoe, all of whom have kids with autism, and the Doug Flutie Jr. Foundation, named for the son of Doug Flutie (USFL, CFL, NFL and Boston College star football player). 1 in 150 doesn’t discriminate based on genetic athletic ability.

What’s with “Bubba”?. It’s a nickname given to him by a former hockey coach during a drill that wasn’t going well, leading the coach to forget his name. It stuck. However, he’s not the first Jewish kid nicknamed Bubba to play hockey; that honor goes to Andy “Bubba” Berenzweig, who played for the Dallas Stars, Nashville Predators and various AHL teams.

Define success. Technically, already successful in that we’ve received a few donations. My own metric is based on the number 18, which has so many interpretations that are helpful: It’s the transition point for adulthood. In Hebrew, writing out “18″ also spells out the word for “life”. And we roster an average of 18 players on one of our youth teams. So 18 virtual teams of 18 players donating $18 each is about $5,800. It only sounds like a lot of money until you break it down into individual actions. That’s the beauty of the Internet — it allows anyone to aggregate so many global, individual acts of kindness into local action.

I bust a gut listening to the telecast of tonights Devils-Habs game. During the pre-game Chico Resch made a big deal of Sheldon Souray’s lack of scoring against Brodeur, trotting out enough cross-linkages between the Devils, Canadiens, traded players, Brodeur’s home town and defensement leading their teams in scoring to make a serious wikipedia entry.

Chico called it: halfway through the first period, Souray scored on a wicked shot. So much for trends, streaks and historical references. And then Chico said “Well, in Hebrew there’s a word for that, it’s ken-a-hora.” Nothing like some mamalushen (mother tongue) with Chico (Glenn) to dismiss a ken-dryden-a-hora (early blessing, invitation of the evil eye). Technically, it’s more Yiddish than Hebrew, but Chico gets a hall pass for at least being in the right demographic.

All’s well that ends well, and the Devils rallied, converted on both ends of their first 5-on-3 and half of the next one, despite losing Madden (facial laceration and swelling), White (upper body injury), and Gionta (groin pull while getting pulled down). Elias iced the cake with a nifty backhander, and zeit gezunt (be well) Chico.

Chico may decide that spurring the red and black on with some blue and white is a good idea, so here’s a handy field guide to Yiddish in hockey:

Nudnik. Brendan Shanahan. Even if it doesn’t concern him, he’s got his nose into it. I bet he knows what the inside of Jagr’s bag (interpret as you wish) smells like.

Petzel. Sean Avery. Literally, a little wiener. Not like the dog.

Klop. A wrist shot. Literally, kind of a knock, but with finesse.

Zetz. A more serious slap shot, with some serious lumber on it. What the “D” need to do - give the puck a zetz.

Meeskite. Ugly, really really ugly. Makes Pascal Rheaume (above) look like he should be on Grey’s Anatomy.

Heymish. What you’d expect to find in a man’s man den. Homey, yet solid. Rafalski’s goals: very heymish

Chico - welcome to the mishpocha (family). And if you’re laughing, make sure you check this out:

Hockey played by adults, that is. For some reason the Devils seem to play at an energy level somewhere between “lethargy” and “sloth” in the matinee slot. Maybe it was the big shutout over the Islanders, maybe it’s just a time when the Meadowlands is usually amping up for Disney on Ice. Either way, it was an ugly loss to Tampa Bay today.

Yes, the Devils had to lose at some point after reeling off four in a row, and there will be games that are just plain ugly to watch, but this was bad. Like lack of offense bad. Even Gomez’ goal was kind of a half-shot; it was more of a pass that bounced in.

Everything will be beautiful again on Valentine’s Day, because it’s supposed to be that way. And Les Habitants arrivees, and the only thing that looks more run-down than the Devils did today is Alexi Kovalev.

Hockey was ugly in the daylight today. But it was equally stunning tonight.

Ice Dragons 7, Americans 4. Yours truly notched his first-ever multi-point game, with a goal and an assist, although the assist deserves equal credit to the referee who was generous with the helpers tonight. It helps that the ref is a former teammate of mine, who was also a teammate of Zdeno Chara’s back in the Czech Republic, although more than 25 years and lots of hockey separate the worlds. It was a night of strange bounces, including one that our goalie tipped into our own net, and one that my line’s center clanged off the crossbar, hitting the Americans goalie in the back, and falling into the net. It was a thing of Rocket Power cartoon dynamics, and just as much fun.

With the Czech connection, a pair of snowmen on the scoresheet, and some good natured kidding all around, it was a beautiful night of hockey. Although my one attempt at a breakaway was so slow that even Kovalev could have caught me. While limping. From Russia.

Went to the Penguins-Canadiens game Thursday night (2/1) in the Igloo in Pittsburgh. Work related, not purely for fun, although it was a fun game. The Igloo is a complete toilet by most standards of modern ice hockey arenas. The ceiling is low and domed, there are a scant few luxury boxes, there is exposed ironwork that leads to some creative views, and it’s impossible to walk anywhere on the concourse. If Denver’s Pepsi Center is a 9, and the Continental Airlines Arena is a 5, then the Igloo is about a 2 on a good day. It does have character, and it does capture the complete essence of Pittsburgh sports (I rubbed the Willie Stargell plaque in the Gate 1 entry just because). Aside from that, it’s an inelegant place for an elegant game.

Nobody cares. The fans come to watch some outstanding hockey.

The house was packed. Literally: Sold out, over 17,400 people, all standing room slots filled. And nobody was masquerading as a red seat; every seat had a butt in it. Only two thirds of the crowd was male; and there were a significant number of school age kids there. The Penguins have a following, whether from outstanding young players, local television exposure, loyal fan base, long-lived family traditions, the consistency of Pittsburgh sports theming (all teams are black and gold, from Pirates to Steelers to Penguins), or just because the Igloo is a good place to get out of the snow on a Thursday night. The guy two rows in front of me was giving me high-fives on every Penguins goal, and I didn’t have the heart or cajones to tell him I was secretly rooting for Montreal to keep a double-digit distance between the Burgh and the Swamp teams.

Down the stretch if the Penguins need that little push over the edge, the bit that makes them “go to eleven”, they’ll get it from the guy in Section 21 who hollers “Colby” to Colby Armstrong every shift, like a dog barking at the moon, or from the guy who took his son into the men’s room and was proudly demonstrating use of the trough system (outside of Fenway Park and the old Princeton Stadium, it’s the only other urinal trough I’ve seen for that many people).

Attention, Devils fans: The Steel City cannot out posture us down the stretch.

Sole disappointment of the night (aside from the Penguins pulling it out in the shootout): Didn’t make it to Primanti Brothers for a sausage, peppers, slaw and french fry sandwich. Last one I had was two years ago and I’m still dreaming of it.