On Frozen Blog

I was hoping for more hatred. I don’t have a dog in this Pittsburgh-Philthy affair, so naturally I’m rooting for a rink full of rottweilers and pit bulls on blades. Who haven’t been fed in a while. Let it be a bloody war of attrition, period after period of marauding and maiming, devouring so many carcasses that the American League farmclubs for both sides are exhausted.

This, especially, is what I don’t want from this series: pretty boy puck.

In game 1 last night, based on some springtime flairups I witnessed between these clubs, I expected a bit of feeling out fisticuffs — some messages sent and received. Some elbows carried high, some sticks carried higher, some blade-jabs to the abdomen about eleven seconds after whistles. Some old time hockey. This is the Battle of Pennsylvania, for gods sake, and a clear contrast in incompatible styles. But we really didn’t get what we deserved for a Friday night with a fridge full of beer. We got a pretty good hockey game. Nothing wrong with that. And actually, this series has the early look of a potential classic.

But it can only rise to the level of Classic if the two teams acknowledge their inner hatred.

I turned off Thursday night’s game 1 between Detroit and Dallas early not only because it wasn’t competitive but because I had the sense that there was no piss and vinegar present. And likely, there won’t be. I’m far more interested in the Eastern Conference finals because there’s far more potential not only for a lengthy and competitive series but also for scores of Pennsylvanians swaying plexiglass with their over-beered bloodlust. It’s true, you wouldn’t hire a single one of them for an office job, but you want them present at a hockey game between these clubs at this time of year.  

Whatever objective detachment I possessed at 7:00 last evening was obliterated when I tuned in to the pre-game fare only to be confronted by a 30-minute Versus Valentine for FishLips. At one point they even had the lad wax poetic about playing injured. (When’s he ever done that?) No wonder that at 7:30 last night I had visions of Hartnell and Ruutu rioting shift after shift in my head. But neither lived up to their lurid billing. Ruutu especially could have auditioned for the Lady Byng last night. Georges Laraque — was he even dressed?   

There were some terrific hits last night, but they were clean. We can’t have that.

I try and content myself with the thought that each night’s outcome will deliver agony to one franchise I loathe, and therefore shadenfreude joy to me. But with, necessarily, a corresponding victor, that’s Pop-Tart nourishment.  

Caps’ fans friends have asked me this week who “I’m rooting for” in this series, and I return them expression-less stares of bewilderment. Imperfect as I am, I am nonetheless a man of rudimentary morals and irregular religiosity. “Rooting” for either heathen franchise is a genetic impossibility. Instead I “root for” marital discord among all the series’ players; for their nights spent in the company of Bill McCreary; for debilitating addictions and IRS audits among them all; for the early onset of arthritis.  

People of mainstream breeding listen to my depraved wishlist for this series and challenge my stability. I can’t possibly be genuinely rooting for widespread injury, they allege. Why on Earth not? In so doing am I going to get fired from my job? (No.) Will my dog cease wagging her tail at my arrival home? (No.)  (In point of fact, she barks her approval at Flyers’ and Penguins’ misfortunes, when I point them out to her). Will Metro learn of my arrival on its cars and swiftly deliver deficient service? (It does that anyway.) Will the Earth suddenly cease its rotation?

I wouldn’t begrudge life insurance largesse directed at a single series’ widow. I call that taking the high road. 

For gods sake, this isn’t the Hatfields and the McCoys, or Iran and Iraq. It’s the Flyers and Penguins. Neither deserves to triumph in a universe presided over by a just Deity.

Look [channeling my inner Donnie Schultzhoffer], get the kids out of the room. This is how it is: there is no one on the Flyers’ roster remotely close in talent to Evgeni Malkin. There is also no one remotely close in ability to Sidney Crosby. Frankly, there’s no one in orange and black who can hold Marian Hossa’s jock. It’s a fact. So how should Philly strategize?

The only way it knows.

And let the high definition cameras chronicle every beautiful brutal second of it. Lets us have a series to make Bobby Clarke proud. And Mario Lemieux cower.