Open Letter to A Toronto Mediot

Mr. Shoalts;

Most of the security guards who work at the RBC Center don't even know arena policy, so the fact that one of the securebots doesn't know who one of the Hurricanes' better defensemen is should be no surprise--after all, it's no surprise to any of us. Even so, I take umbrage at your arrogant smearing of the Triangle area and the people who live here based on the ignorance of one goofball. That's like saying that all Canadians wear toques and eat back bacon, based on the caricatures of Bob and Doug McKenzie.

I don't expect an apology from you, because I have a feeling that it will be arrogant, patronizing, and insincere (something that I have come to expect from the Globe and Mail's columnists over the years)--but I'd appreciate it if you would kindly take your smug know-it-all attitude, fold it until it is all sharp corners, and insert it with great force in a spot where the sun doesn't shine.

Sincerely,

The Acid Queen
Raleigh, NC

I voted! Did you?

Oyez, oyez!  Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages!

Go here and vote for Jes Gölbez’s Hockey Rants under the category of “Best Sports Blog”.

Please.

In other news, former OPP officer and NHL referee Don VanMassenhoven (the referee who was one of the people administering CPR to Red Wings defenseman Jiri Fischer on Monday night) took a puck to the grill during New Jersey’s 5-0 smackdown of the Florida Panthers last night and underwent seven hours of reconstructive surgery in a Fort Lauderdale-area hospital. Best wishes go out to Don for a speedy recovery.

Happy Thanksgiving!

And to our Canadian friends, a happy Day Before Friday.

It’s at times like this when I look at what I’m thankful for in life (ha ha)—and since this is a hockey blog, I’ll talk about what I’m thankful for in hockey.

Center Ice. Gods bless whoever came up with NHL Center Ice, because it means that I can watch my favorite teams beat up (or get beaten up by) my least favorite teams, keep tabs on the Canes’ division rivals, and (best of all) see Coach’s Corner on Saturday nights—even if it means I have to put up with the CBC’s taxpayer-subsidized Leafs Mania to do so.

Don Cherry. I’m thankful for his bad suits and his oh-so-easily lampoonable style. You guys have no idea how much fun I’ve had at the RBC goofin’ on Grapes with my pal Brian. And the fact that my friend CanaDave sounds just like Grapes when he’s pissed off—something that amuses me greatly.

The end of Ragnarok. Seriously, you have no idea how much I was jonesin’. I couldn’t make it to Fayettenam for Fire Antz games, I always had to work during the college club teams’ games, and I never knew when the local beer leagues were playing. And since Czech and Slovak aren’t two of my languages, I couldn’t follow half my favorite players. So maddening!

But on the other hand….

Ragnarok. I’m thankful in a way for the lockout, because if it hadn’t happened I don’t think I’d have met wicked cool folks like Jes Gölbez (and reconnected with old acquaintances like the Ottawa Sun’s Erin Nicks).

Jeremy Roenick.  How can you not be thankful for the NHL’s class clown—especially now that Brett Hull’s retired?  Dudeman needs to be given some more attention, seriously.

Teams with a proper sense of priorities. Nashville and Detroit, I’m talking to you. If I really need to explain this to anyone, I think I’m going to cry.

I’m thankful for goals and the guys who score them—and the goalies who stop them. I’m thankful for the cool rush of air I get when I walk into the lower bowl at the RBC to watch warm-ups. I’m thankful for free parking at the North Carolina State Fairgrounds, right across the street from the RBC Center/Carter Finley Stadium complex. I’m thankful for John Forslund and his mutton-chop sideburns, and Tripp Tracy and his all-purpose insanity. I’m thankful for goal hugs and helmet-kisses and goal horns and DJs that play Great Big Sea on the sound system (because you can’t go wrong with a bunch of music-making Newfies)..

And most importantly, I’m thankful for all the happy times that hockey has brought me, all the cool people that I’ve gotten to know because of it, and the fact that it’s given me and my sister a common topic to talk about when we talk on the phone now.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks. Be safe, be well, and enjoy the turkey (or, if you’re from the South, the turducken).    

At a loss for words.

Wow.

What a week—the power supply on my computer goes kablooie, Sean Avery goes off his medications (again) and starts shrieking that the NHL is out to get him, Christy does a bomb-ass job with Carnival of the NHL #13, the ‘Canes MASH unit winds up on a three-game schneid…

And then we have Monday night.

I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever been so chilled by anything in my life. Ever. Listening to the Nashville netcast and hearing the concern and fear in Greg Johnson’s voice when Pete Weber talked to him after everyone was sent off the ice was just surreal. I just sat in front of my computer in complete shock.

It was one of those times when things like team loyalties really don’t mean a lot.

That said…

I think Jiri Fischer should retire. Immediately, while he still can. The guy’s getting married soon, he has a Cup Ring and a World Title—is Olympic gold really worth dying for?

I don’t think so. You die for your country in a war, with bullets and bayonets and tanks and planes and bombs. You shouldn’t have to die for your country in a sporting event.

I don’t know how better to put it. I don’t think I need to say much more than this. The guy should hang it up and enjoy the rest of his life—and I hope that it is a very long and very prosperous one.

Just my 1/50 of a dollar.