07 September, 2008

Category Archives: Puck Sodas

Adult beverages

Nurturing the Fashion Passion of HockeyWashington

What does Rock the Red mean to you today, well away from its inauguration and deployment during the 2007-08 season? What does it mean to the Capitals now? How should it be cultivated, nurtured, and deployed in 2008-09?

Also: was it hooey and hokie or a heartfelt rallying cry for you? Do you want to see more of it in the new season? Should Verizon Center be Redded Out for Cristobal Huet’s return with the ‘Hawks on Opening Night?

Let me submit that what we sat among and saw on television in the stands last spring was special. It was an uprising. Of passion-fashion. It was a community powerfully connecting with its hockey team.

(It actually forced old media print columnists to come and cover hockey.)

Let me also submit that it wasn’t fad or fleeting in its heartbeat — that it’s an indigenous state of the contemporary hockey mind here. Team officials in Philadelphia tried to replicate what was originated here in their rink, but they had to distribute thousands of orange t-shirts in their rip-off act, and in the end, it came off as copycat, forced, and generic.

There will be more genuine Caps’ fans in Verizon Center this coming season than perhaps in any season preceding, as thousands of Washingtonians have purchased season tickets this summer. The opportunity will be red-ripe to Red Out the building whenever the team wants to.

Personally, I have one deeply ingrained reason for wanting to see the scheme continue — but with great care: the sight of an orange-and-black-less Washington rink for games against Philthy — playoff games at that! — remains something of a dream theater to me.

In real time last spring there was a searing sense that the Caps had, with the look, connected with their much-maligned fanbase in durable fashion. Metro trains never looked so gorgeous. Folks painted their faces and dyed their hair. Some wore red socks. Men in red dresses never looked so . . . mainstream.

That Alexander Ovechkin would lead our hockey team to great feats like the against-all-odds Southeast Division title last season was, and is, from my vantage, merely predictable byproduct for his other-wordly game. But that he could engineer, in Pied Piper red-fashion, the obliteration of the enemy’s colors and pawns from our building, precisely when they most wanted to be there, that’s special. I’m not sure I thought I’d ever see that happen.

Of course, in identifying Ovechkin as architect and engineer of our awesome new atmosphere I’m conflating his on-ice heroics with the clever atmosphere actions of the team’s marketing pros. And AO alone among Caps’ players shouldn’t be exclusively credited for 07-08’s home rink euphoria. But he is, for lack of a better description, our banner boy — certainly the face of the franchise. He is the Pied Piper of Pucks in this town.

It’s amusing to think that perhaps AO foreshadowed the Caps’ special spring scene at home back in July 2007, when the first installments of the team’s new colors and look made their way to Russia.

Those who participated in the Red Outs, as well as those Caps’ fans watching on television at home, likely are of one mind when it comes to rolling out the Red again: it ought not to be a commonplace occurrence, it ought never to be trite and trifling. It ought to be summoned only for truly special occasions. It’s like a team’s special occasion jerseys or sweaters, in a sense — you always want them to remain special.

Good news on that front. Tim McDermott, the Caps’ Senior VP, Chief Marketing Officer, this morning told me, “Red will be our brand campaign/theme again this year . . . we will select a few high profile games for a Rock the Red/Red Out theme.”

And note that the Red Rally Cry still has to be tested against Pennsylvania’s other team. Hmm . . . should we Red-Out all games against the two Keystone Staters? And by extension, should we avoid the fashion-passion statement against all Southeast division foes, further damning an already depressing division alliance? Or, the Caps and HockeyWashington might opt to Red Out the Phone Booth on November 10, against Tampa, and welcome back Barry Melrose to the NHL in spirited fashion.

And welcome back a certain netminder, too.

Going forward, should the team, on its website, make the selection of Red Out nights an interactive force, and poll the impassioned on their fashion in advance of select regular season games? Should season ticket holders have a special say? For certain there should be specially priced Killian’s Red at the concession stands.

There was a marvelous viral quality to the rollout of the Red last spring. It was a beautiful infection, anything but unhealthy. Long may it afflict us.

Ref, You Suck! Insulting Hockey’s Men in Stripes

The hockey-less heat of August provides one welcome relief for the NHL fan: freedom from the often egregious and grotesque officiating of NHL referees.

Though no stripe-clad man is currently jobbing the Capitals, we can still use this time to hone our taunting skills. Bellowing at refs is a long-standing tradition . . . and sure, there’s a homer’s bias to whether a given call was really botched, but the primal scream therapy of berating officials can release the pent-up steam accumulated as referees seemingly hand games to your team’s opponents.

Many clever and occasionally cringe-worthy insults have been hurled at hockey officials, though as my friend’s two-year-old son showed at a Capitals game a couple years back sometimes simple is best:

YouTube Preview Image

We’ve provided a few favorite/classic taunts below. I overhead my [Mike's] personal favorite about 6 years ago in Section 426, shouted in impressively loud fashion by a woman who was at least 70 years old if she was a day: “Hey ref — you must be pregnant, ’cause you’ve missed three periods!”

How do you let the refs know their job performance is sub-par? Or what’s one of your all-time favorites you’ve overheard? Omit the profanity (feel free to use the %*#$ing symbols if need be) and please no racist/homophobic/etc. insults . . . but even within those guidelines you still have plenty of room to share delightfully dastardly taunts with your fellow readers.

We’ll select two favorites among the submissions and award each winner with an OFB goody. Help us fill out the list to a Dirty Dozen. Submissions accepted until 5:00 PM Eastern on Monday, August 11 — so taunt early, taunt often!

  • If you had another eye you’d be a cyclops!
  • Save a Deer: Shoot a Zebra
  • Hey ref — you must be pregnant, ’cause you’ve missed three periods!
  • Have another doughnut! (courtesy of Jim Schoenfeld)
  • BULLLLL-SH*T! (Hershey Giant Center version)
  • Bend over and use your good eye!
  • Hey ref, I thought only horses slept standing up!
  • I hope you die in a fire! (overheard in Philly, of course)
  • I’m blind, I’m deaf, I want to be a ref!
  • Hey ref, I’m leaving with your wife — even she’s disgusted with you.
  • ________ (add yours as a comment)

And if you don’t wish to rely on Lady Luck (or our fickle judging) for OFB loot, feel free to check out our store.

Rush Rocks Red Rocks

This week I made a what I regarded as a sacred pilgrimage to see my favorite rock band. You could say that Rush’s Geddy Lee gave a star performance at Red Rocks this week, but as is the case with each event at the Rocks, the venue is always the evening’s first star.

It was my first visit. The Canadian trio is Gary-Roberts-getting-up-there in chronology (”I don’t like the term ‘old song,’” Lee joked with the Red Rocks throng, “I prefer ‘veteran.’”) and in weighing the travel costs and such associated with an across-the-country trek, I was motivated primarily by a hunch that a Rush concert at Red Rocks was an opportunity that may well not present itself again. I was damn glad I made it.

Too much focus I think is placed on the amphitheater itself — which is stunning — and not on the larger park proper, which is nothing short of a geological marvel and a fabulously isolating and enriching immersion in starkly beautiful and rugged terrain. You really do feel transported virtually onto another planet in this mountain carving of a monument. Two three-hundred-foot-tall rocks, each taller than Niagra Falls, afford perfect acoustics and a mesmerizing backdrop for the shows at Red Rocks.

There are records of public performances on the site that date back more than 100 years, but the amphitheater as it’s generally known today was constructed in 1941.

Geddy Lee on Red Rocks: “It’s an amazing location. One of the most beautiful venues in America . . . or anywhere. I would hazard a guess that it’s one of the most beautiful anywhere.”

I agree.

Amazingly, during the concert’s intermission, I stood at a men’s room urinal next to man who’d also traveled all the way from Washington, D.C., for the gig. I found that both marvelous and fitting of the occasion. There were as well Canadians in no small number in attendance, including a few in Maple Leafs’ regalia; Californians; Texans; East Coasters, Midwesterners; at least one Brazilian (he a new lover of Coors, incidentally); and two couples I chatted up from London. Red Rocks, as you might imagine, has a novel way of luring in a very global crowd for its special gigs. The pre-concert beer swigging up top on the park-sprawling patio affords visitors encounters with travelers from literally around the world.

It’s admittedly elitist of me to express it, but such is the splendor of Red Rocks that at times I found myself silently cursing the pedestrian acts so regularly permitted to perform there. Of course, taste in music is like taste in wine or film or food: necessarily subjective. Still, years back, Rush was welcomed at Radio City Music Hall (for a week) while almost all other rock peers were shunned. Just saying. I imagined a Hall and Oates gig profaning this hallowed place, for instance; please do not comment with any affirming (and weekend-ruining) note of their actually appearing.

This is a great venue for great musicians, and Rush this week at Red Rocks reminded us of their greatness.

I was in row 48, center, and a man to my immediate right earlier in the week had retired from 26 years of duty in the Air Force, and made the trip with his wife from Cheyenne, Wyoming. For some months he’d identified the venture as the first significant act in his retirement. I thanked him for his service to our nation and complimented him on his sense of rewarding leisure. Like me he drank draft beer liberally and believed ‘Subdivisions’ the most stunning of the sets’ songs.

Ominous clouds settled in over the Rocks, and just moments into the set, nine thousand sets of eyes widened over lightning bolts that began belting lower Denver. There were moments when Mother Nature timed the strikes to coincide perfectly with Lee’s piercing vocal pitch. The man-made lighting for the show was impressive, but the natural illumination was both frightening and engrossing. Of that dramatic Rocky Mountain weather: early this last week back East I was vexed with rapidly deteriorating forecasted conditions for greater Denver. But locals are quick to observe of their elevated environs, “If you don’t like the weather, give it 15 minutes.”

Rain made only a light and intermittent appearance. But wild wind whipped through the amphitheater, often shrouding Geddy’s face in his flowing hair but never seeming to hinder his impassioned vocal performance. We 9,000-plus however stood in apprehension for nearly the entirety of the first set as the threat above persisted.

The intermission was the longest I’d ever experienced at a Rush show (30 minutes plus), and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was in deference to the conditions. Mercifully, the storm clouds parted during, and the second set was performed under clear skies and soothing air — Denver earlier that day had seen temps flirting with the middle 90s, but by 9:45 that night we couldn’t have been at 70.

Of course I’m partial to new media, and I knew that non of the old would chronicle the show in newspaper or on TV, despite the fact that about 25 million Rush fans world-wide would have been interested in hearing about so special a gig. So I found great delight in seeing, within hours of the show, video images of numerous tracks from the set posted on YouTube. The evening’s opener, the vintage guitar-riff-ed ‘Limelight,’ can be found here.

For me, Lee was the second star of the night. Overall, the band’s sound was high-tech crystal clear and spectacularly loud — I mean really, really loud. Red Rocks ensures that loud bands sound spectacularly loud there. Lee’s vocals were wonderfully out in front of the mix. He really sang with passion and that piercing emotional pitch the band’s devotees cherish. There was, seemingly, no letup either among the three of them even as their playing stretched past 11:00.

I found it quasi horrific to depart Red Rocks when park staff wanted us all to. The evening had offered up all that I’d hoped, and more, and I found myself emotional in comprehending my great fortune with cooperating weather gods — we easily could have been sky-electrified out of the performance.

I want badly to return Red Rocks, but only for a Rush show.

Drinking with the Stars

That sounds like a much better show idea than Dancing with the Stars, doesn’t it? Contestants would party with an ever-changing cast of celebrities/athletes; each round of successful partying gets the contestant a bigger prize (and calcified liver). The final rounds intensify with Party Partners like Charlie Sheen or Tony Stark . . . er, Robert Downey, Jr. The Final Challenge, of course, would pair the contestant a rotating cast of the most legendary celeb party people like Keith Richards or Amy Winehouse.

I’d watch that. Hell, I’d sign up to be a contestant. And hopefully I’d have some winnings left over after paying for rehab.

Well until that show exists, those wishing to mix up some Friday happy hour beverages apropos tonight’s draft need look no further. Here are two recipes offered at last week’s Alexander Ovechkin celebration by party sponsor Hammer & Sickle vodka:

Mmmm, martini...The Hart-tini
Vodka
Prosecco (dry sparkling wine)
Crème de cassis (blackcurrant-flavored liqueur)
Orange liqueur (e.g., triple sec)

The Hart-tini was actually pretty good. Tart, not very sweet. I wouldn’t drink two, but one was enjoyable.

The Slapshot
Fresh lemon juice
Limoncello
Grappa
Vodka
Simple syrup
Dash of vermouth

I didn’t try the Slapshot; it sounded a bit sweet for my taste and I’m not a vermouth fan. I much prefer a dryer beverage . . . in fact, here’s how I make martinis:

The OrderedChaos
Pour some very good vodka (Russian Standard, Grey Goose, etc.) into a cocktail shaker.
Briefly think about extra-dry vermouth (don’t actually add any).
Shake vodka heartily with ice; strain into a large martini glass.
Add about a teaspoon of olive juice and 2-3 olives (bonus points for bleu-cheese-stuffed olives)… or if you’re not an olive fan, a twist will do.
Rinse, lather, repeat.

Oh, and since a couple readers emailed me to ask about the party-post title “Ain’t No Party Like a ‘Veckin Party“: it was inspired by the Coolio lyric “Ain’t no party like a west coast party” from his song 1-2-3-4. I don’t know if that makes me cool or geeky . . . hopefully a bit of both, but likely just the latter.

Sorenstam Swigs Swill

Annika Sorenstam recently announced her retirement from golf at age 37 at the end of this season. Despite winning just last weekend at the Michelob Ultra Open, she’s ready to call it a career. Perhaps moments like this had something to do with it:

Smooooooooth

As pucksandbooks noted, whereas in hockey age 37 is getting up there (don’t tell Chris Chelios that), in golf it’s pretty much a player’s prime. He was also convinced that while Michelob and its Ultra brand were indeed the tourney’s sponsors, compelling a champion to actually drink it is a sinister and cruel act, worthy almost certainly of a DOJ investigation/civil rights lawsuit.

If I were her, I would have sprayed it, NASCAR-style, instead of sipping it. Much easier on the constitution.

They’re Making a Hockeytown in Chi-town, Too

Business that brings me to Original Six cities is my favorite kind (save trips to Detroit), and I’m in Chicago this week. Weather is very much a weather vane in my life; among the 40 colleagues here with whom I met last week to discuss this trip, I was the only one who smiled at word that spring hadn’t yet arrived on the southwestern shores of Lake Michigan. It actually snowed here a bit last Monday night, if you can imagine. Many trees here are without leaves still, and so I won’t lift allergy medicine from my travel bag during my stay. I arrived Saturday, and the mercury hardly moved above 50, along with 20 mph gusts and strong at times rain. It was a nice backdrop from which to huddle in Miller’s Pub on Wabash St. and watch some NHL playoffs on a large flatscreen with a few puck sodas.

I’ll enjoy a warm, sunny spring day like the rest, and we had that here on Sunday, but there’s something about a novel re-immersion in hockey weather, at odds with the calendar, that warms my hockey heart. Even in May. Besides, we really didn’t have winter this winter in D.C.

I’m one of those hockey fans who believes it’s good for hockey to have all of the NHL’s Original Six franchises, save perhaps Toronto, healthy and vibrant and competitive. (Actually, as part of a realignment scheme that would largely reconstitute the Patrick Division, I’d like to see an Original Six division. A file for another day.) And the Chicago Blackhawks had been lagging behind on this front for a good solid decade. Had been. But Dollar Bill Wirtz is deceased, the Hawks started winning hockey games this past season — they took Detroit to the woodshed a number of times — Patrick Kane and Co. have this town talking hockey again, the big rink — sadly, tragically located well away from this great city’s heartbeat — was filled to the ceiling for a lot of winter, the home team’s games are back on TV, and perhaps like in Washington, hockey in a sports-competitive town may be set to take off in the hearts of the locals for a durable future.

On my very first trip to Chicago, many years ago, while strolling the shopping strip of Michigan Avenue, I happened upon a quaint boutique-sized shop called Hawk Quarters — an outlet whose merchandise was devoted exclusively to the Blackhawks. It was distinctive for its largesse of authentic team equipment and uniform wear. You wanted a pair of Denis Savard’s shin guards, or skates, Hawk Quarters had ‘em. The store had dozens of hangers of multi-colored, authentic practice sweaters, all of them with endearing stress markings about them. On Sunday I visited Hawk Quarters again, and I enjoyed the stop every bit as as much as my first.

For one thing, a full hour before the store opened at noon, there was a middle-aged, silver-haired Chicagoan standing before the store window, within which a large flat-screen TV was replaying, perfectly audibly, a months-old game from the regular season. He was following it intently, even conspicuously and loudly exhorting on his Hawks to prevail. Standing not quite near enough to him to be associated with his eccentricity, I thought to myself, you wouldn’t see this in Atlanta or Nashville or Raleigh. I also didn’t think I’d have seen it for preceding renditions of the Hawks.

Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part, but I thought the old geezer was where he was Sunday morning because he missed his fun-to-watch hockey team again. Offseasons do that to the devoted.

Inside, I was drawn to the authentics section, as before. But on this visit it seemed expanded. Scores of sticks. Rows of skates. Bins teeming with well-worn protective gear. And that fabulous array of practice sweaters. There were some new Reeboks, but I noticed many, many more of the old school Centre Ice set, cut and formed the way hockey sweaters were supposed to be: beautifully bulky. Leave it to an Original Six franchise, I thought, to still skate a contemporary hockey season in a hockey sweater that looks like a hockey sweater. At least during practice.

They looked so good, in fact, that I very nearly plunked down $100 for one. I took a real hard look at a selection of green practice sweaters bearing that distinctive Hawks’ logo and thought how well I’d fit in this town were I sipping St. Patty’s beers here in one next March 17. But I reasoned that while I love Chicago, I just don’t love the Hawks.

Another reason for my attachment to this little store in this sorta hockeytown is its exclusivity of product. During all of those very lean years of losing Hawk Quarters remained open and faithful to its team, never once jumping on MJ’s formidible marketing bandwagon. Or the always marketable, lovable Cubs. Or the rebuilt Bears. That’s a monogamy I admire.

After an indulgent visit I left Hawk Quarters Sunday afternoon for a sun-splashed walk along Lake Shore Drive, and I thought about the chances of the Capitals needing/supporting a devoted store of their own in their downtown. A heck of a lot of gear today is moved on line, making stores like Hawk Quarters perhaps archaic or antiquated. The Caps of course have never had one. There’s a devoted store to the team at Kettler, but that’s different from announcing one’s presence to the residents and tourists of a downtown. There’s something commendably civic-minded about such a site, I think — a sort of meeting place for the like of heart. I hope we see one one day soon.

Savoring the Historic Week That Was

Some time near 8:30 Friday night, Capitals’ fans, having spent weeks residing in a purgatory of indeterminate postseason fate, received an invitation from an seraphim angel named Radek Dvorak to enter an unearthly realm of ecstasy.

At that moment in Raleigh, North Carolina, at 19:48 of period 2, while his team was playing for nothing but pride, the Florida Panthers’ right winger ripped a low wrist shot past Carolina Hurricanes’ netminder Cam Ward to stake the ‘Cats to an unlikely 4-2 lead. The shorthanded tally sucked the life out of a sold-out HBC Center. It also occasioned a big surge in beer swigging and the hugging of strangers by Caps’ fans following in Washington.

A win Friday night and the ‘Canes would have secured the Southeast division title — their third since 2002. Two hours earlier, failure in that endeavor seemed unfathomable; this was a team that had spent all but about two weeks in first place in the Southeast, was just two seasons removed from a Stanley Cup victory, and now had on its heels a Capitals’ team that had known only last-place finishes the last three seasons.

Hockey hopes spring eternal in spring in many parts, but not these. That’s the legacy within which the Era of Ovechkin dawned. And true to script, during Friday’s third period Panther after Panther made a parade to the penalty box, their two-goal lead eventually halved and netminder Craig Anderson under a near 50-shot seige. A spring of supreme stress here coalesced into a dungeon of the highest duress. Samsanov Agonistes.

“In Washington,” one of the Hurricanes’ broadcasters commented early in period 3, “the clock can’t move fast enough.”

Truer words were never spoken. Eventually the game clock in Carolina arrived at zero, Pinehurst no. 3 beckoning the ‘Canes, and in that instant, Caps’ fans were removed from all past April ills and into a springtime Friday night frenzy the likes of which they hadn’t seen since 1998. A Friday night of free-flowing frothies and free love — with perhaps dozens of little babies named Radek arriving at Sibley and Suburban next winter.

Saturday morning HockeyWashington awoke to a surreal reality: seeing the Caps, with a victory that night, move from ninth in the East to third. Better still, the Capitals’ fate was at long last in their own Misson hockey gloves. Actually, by virtue of Carolina’s Friday night flop the Caps technically were already in third, by virtue of playing fewer games and being tied at 92 points with the ‘Canes, but Saturday night’s game against Florida was the team’s final exam on the season — worth 90 percent of its grade.

Red OutIf Friday night was a sudden shockwave to the league standings, Tuesday night at Verizon Center was a sonic boom and a one-color kaleidoscope of unity delivered by a region ignited by an amazing sports story. One sensed within a rapidly enlargening hockey supporting community here a collective hunger to get behind a buzz-generating team. The Redskins lost more than they won under Joe Gibbs II. There’s a pedestrian quality to the Wizards — no longer really bad, but never really good, either. The ‘Nats are rebuilding and years away from contending. On Tuesday night in Verizon Center sports Washington was represented in unprecedented volume and unified uniform.

The home crowds for hockey have been growing and large for a couple of months now, but Tuesday’s ranked in another supportive realm. It was so startling to see the Sea of Red precisely because so many enemy sweaters had long filled so many home seats. If there were 18,000 fannies in the seats Tuesday night, 17,500 of them were Caps’ supporters.

“That was the best [home] crowd I’ve ever seen,” Mike Vogel told me over the weekend.

Better than the white-out postseason crowds of the powerful late ’80s Caps’ clubs at Capital Center?

“Those crowds weren’t loud like Tuesday’s,” Vogs added.

All we knew when the team returned home from its spectacularly successful six-game road trip was that it would play before large crowds here — likely, sellouts. We had no idea that the stands-shaking Redskins crowds of raucous old RFK would at last get a run for their rancor on F St.

For hockey.

Late on Wednesday afternoon the Caps’ communications staff, struggling perhaps like the fanbase to keep up with the speed of the hockey’s team’s ascent, announced the continuation of home Red Outs. The modest delay may have played a role in Thursday night’s home environment for Tampa: quite good, but not nearly as Red, not nearly as ear-splitting. The Caps’ nerves on ice that night, too, had a hand in quieting the mood a bit.

For some among HockeyWashington, Saturday’s first eighteen hours were a painful crawl toward a determinative destiny, while for others, savoring suddenly arrived at salvation, time couldn’t stand still enough. After all, morning paper reading, home cleaning, and car oil changing were all performed in third place. I imagined a Saturday morning Sea of Caps’ caps at Costco, among Saturday household chore performing the Red Army wearing the Capitals’ relic Old School look of a failure past now transformed in mere hours’ time into something fresh, vibrant, honor-bestowing, and most especially hip.

Chinatown was Red with anticipation at 4:05. I saw it.

Arriving early in Verizon Center’s press lounge, I surveyed beat media to see where Saturday night ranked in their list of most significant sporting events they’d personally covered. For the Washington Times’ Corey Masisak, only two events — the ACC basketball tournament won by underdog Maryland a few years back and his first Army-Navy football game rivaled the hockey he’d chronicled this March and April and most especially this past week.

“Maryland was like the 6 seed and they went down beat the numbers one, two, and three [seeds],” he told me.

WTOP’s Jonathon Warner has been involved in professional sports journalism for more than 30 years. For him, Saturday night had only George Mason’s Cinderella run in the NCAAs two years back as a rival to the Revival in Red.

“This is huge — this run they’re on, it’s actually given me chills of late,” Warner told me.

“You can feel the buzz,” Steve Kolbe told me. “Washington, D.C., as a whole has grown as a hockey town. That puck drops tonight, we’ll all have goosebumps.”

The Times’ Thom Loverro told me that in his 16 years at the paper Saturday night’s game “ranked right up there” among all regular season games he’d followed in Washington.

Next I asked the Washington Post’s Tarik El Bashir.

“I think you heard me down in the press room earlier tonight ask, has there been another comeback this dramatic in Washington pro sports history?”

“This team was left for dead on Thanksgiving day,” he added.

Tarik’s covered the Indy 500, “where you have 350,000 people,” he noted. But when he considered the lead-up to Saturday night, all of the must-wins the Caps had to have, Saturday raced to the top of his biggest games list.

“We awoke a sleeping giant here,” owner Leonsis, clad again in red, observed late Saturday night. That was a most pleasant observation to encounter Sunday morning, confirming that last week really wasn’t just a dream.

Hockey First-Timers Head to the Phone Booth

Namrata, Johanna, and Mike (photo Mike Rucki)Using the Capitals’ generous season ticket exchange policy, I traded in five unused tickets for a block in my section (426) and then gave the tickets to five coworkers–two of whom had never attended a hockey game before.

I asked the hockey novices what they knew about the game, if anything. One replied, “Well, I know that players fight a lot, and that the puck can fly into the audience.” I assured her that given the seat location (Row P of the 400 level) she’d be safe from puck-related harm. But really, that was the full extent of her hockey knowledge.

My other coworker was excited about the fighting as well; she wished other sports allowed it. “Oh well, I guess hockey and boxing will have to do.” So I was intrigued as to what their reaction would be, and was hoping for an exciting game — including a fight or two as well to keep my friends happy. For all the horrified outcries against fighting heard from the MSM, it sure seems that pugilism remains a strong draw.

They both expressed concern about the dental condition of hockey players — unsure as to why they “always hear the ladies going crazy for hockey hunks.” I directed them to the Caps’ website for photos, where they immediately locked onto Matt Pettinger as their favorite. Sorry Brooks!

Matt Pettinger... sponge-worthy? (photo courtesy of the Washington Capitals)We spent pregame at Bar Louie and discussed what they could expect on the ice. I warned them that not every game contained fights (much to their dismay) but that both teams are considered among the more exciting in the league.

So after a few brews, we headed into the arena for the anthems. My plan was to spend some time with the crew, explaining the game and high-fiving for the goals (of which there were many, thank you Alex), but Section 426 was burdened with a surprisingly surly usher who prevented me from moving up to the cheaper seats. Seriously, I went up to join my friends, was chastised, and returned later to be chastised yet again. It was an odd experience, especially considering that the group had already moved down to better seats — one would have thought they would have been told to move back up to Row P, but no, I was told I had to return to Row A lest I incur the wrath of the ushering gods.

But I digress. After flipping through the Caps’ yearbook I provided, Alex Ovechkin, Olie Kolzig, and Dave Steckel joined Pettinger on my friends’ “Hey, he’s cute” list. As the game progressed, though, they seemed genuinely enthralled by the action on the ice rather than just by the attractiveness of the players. During one of my brief and stealthy visits to their seats, I explained the red light that indicates TV-timeouts (”Oh, that’s why they stopped playing!”) and a couple other tidbits before the usher’s evil eye forced me back to my own seat. So other than running over for post-goal high-fives I didn’t get as much in-game opinion as I’d hoped.

While disappointed by the lack of fights–after the Kovalev high-sticking on Ovie to open the game I was convinced, incorrectly, that at least one fight would ensue–they loved the bone-jarring hits and the laserbeam goals.

The Capitals obliged by providing a thrilling finale to a game many hockey fans hoped would have ended in regulation — but as another friend said (one whose last in-person Caps game was at the US Air Arena), “It was worth that goal in the last thirty seconds for such an exciting win.” While I would have preferred a 4-3 victory to the ulcer-inducing end of the third period, I won’t argue with the excitement spawned by Ovechkin’s fourth goal of the night.

Donald, Johanna, Namrata (photo by Mike Rucki)Later, as we sat sipping Guinnesses (Guinni?) at the Irish Channel after the game, everyone expressed their happiness with the evening’s experience, as well as a strong inclination to recommend the live hockey experience to friends. The mood was bouyant, with all in attendance waxing rhapsodic about the game, and their intention to attend another one again, soon.

The next day, as my friends learned of Ovechkin’s broken nose, they were even more impressed. “That game was a blast! But [Ovechkin] scored four goals with a broken nose? That guy is amazing.” Or, as another put it, “He’s a beast!”

I couldn’t agree more. The game was a perfect introduction to hockey (and to the Capitals); Ovechkin’s heroic performance and an inspired team effort helped convince these hockey first-timers of what we already knew: that nothing compares to seeing a hockey game live. Welcome to the sport, friends; I hope you enjoy the ride.

Blogger as Ex-Pat

Irish Pint - photo by Gary A. KriebelThe Irish are unfairly maligned as a drinking culture. In point of fact, they are a chugging one. Tonight was a Wednesday in a non-holiday week of work for the Irish, with a “football” match between England and Croatia televised. Every pub in Galway was packed, every pub table larded (blessed!) by a preponderance of pint glasses. Ever filled.

Bless these big-time buzzed hearts.

There is something to be learned I think from the fact that per capita this land outdrinks all others combined and still manages to engineer the planet’s greatest, most impressively growing economy. Obviously, that lesson would be: behave more like they do.

This section of my report is directed exclusively at my family back home: we are never to see one another again, through no fault yours. Quite simply, I am home, and I need to carry off the remainder of my days in this lap of liquored luxury. But technology is fueling the dynamic economy of Ireland, so we will be able to exchange email.

I am aware as well that were I to return home I would be forbidden from ever witnessing the Washington Capitals winning another hockey game. What else is there but the life of a perpetually smiling ex-Pat? Continue reading ›

Breakfast Out of America

Guinness

I am on holiday from bad hockey. My cousin Bill and I are visiting the land of our ancestry this week, the Emerald Isle. We are here to throw back a few pints and to see if Erin will go braless.

Sport is gaining increasing importance in Irish culture. Games on the pitch, as elsewhere in western Europe, remain a staple of pub patrons’ enthusiasm. But coincidental to the scalding hot Irish economy has been the meteoric rise in the popularity of golf. Ireland today is home to some of Europe’s finest links, and Bill and I, in Ireland’s pre-dawn darkness Tuesday morning, were witness to its impact. We passed then an enormous travel case for the clubs belonging to Padraig Harrington, the reigning British Open champion. His Wilson Staff hard shell case was surrounded by perhaps a dozen other travel bags on an airport luggage dolly. It being Thanksgiving week back home, Bill and I thought it likely he was headed East across the ocean to some million dollar, “silly season” exhibition. But what was striking about this celebrity non-sighting was the Irish reaction to it. Scores of airport personnel gathered around Padraig’s bag and reached out to brush a hand against it. It is a small land here, and one sporting hero’s outsized accomplishments have an enormous impact on his countrymen.

Awaiting our train west cross country from Dublin to Galway this morning we enjoyed “a full Irish breakfast” as our first meal here. The breakfasts of some however are fuller than others’. A wool-capped gentleman of about 70 sat adjacent to us in the train station tavern and had polished off two pints with his.

Full Irish BreakfastHis is not a lone act of rebellion. We passed a Guinness tanker or three on our bus ride from the airport to the train station. They are identical in appearance to oil tankers, except their cargo is mother’s milk. Ten million pints of Guinness are brewed every day. A fair number are consumed here.

Bill and I needed about six hours in Galway today to deem our arduous, sleepless journey worth all its trials. There is music in the mouths of our kinsmen. Briefly as a graduate student I entertained thoughts of studying linguistics, and I thought about this again as I listened to songs that are the common discourse when heard by North American ears. To ask a barmaiden here directions to a south county castle is to be woo-ed in comprehension-free meter of fast-paced, poetic refrains.

Did I mention bars? Today we also learned well of America’s shortcomings in her saloons. Back home we don’t much construct bars as comfort zones. We make sure the taps are working and the corners are crammed with high definition TV, but here there is in the typical tavern a home away from home. Lively live music of course, but the sheer structures are jewels. Here I need an architect’s vocabulary rather than a blogger’s.

We lodged ourselves in Galway’s “The Skeff” this afternoon and evening. A split-level saloon warmed with wood everywhere within you might think novel. How about five levels of such in the Skeff! Irish-American eyes this day were smiling indeed.

“It’s gonna make a hell of a mess.”

Some, including us at OFB, say that nothing goes with hockey better than beer. Many will agree that nothing goes with a night of drinking than a good solid food to soak up that which may have been over-enjoyed. For many Canadians, Quebecers in particular, that food is poutine, a dish consisting of french fries topped with fresh cheese curds — squeaky cheese — which is covered with gravy. OFB had the good fortune to enjoy some authentic poutine at the Canadian Embassy during the 2007 Stanley Cup Finals.

Poutine - photo by Dave Sidaway / Montreal Gazette

What we did not know when we were enjoying this marvelous dish, is that poutine turned 50 this year. At least that’s how the story goes. From the Montreal Gazette:

There is no agreement on the origin of poutine, but the most popular story dates to 1957. Fernand Lachance, who has called himself the father of poutine, was asked to mix fries and cheese curds together in the same bag at a customer’s request. Lachance, a restaurant owner in the dairy town of Warwick, then replied: “Ça va te faire une maudite poutine” (”It’s gonna make a hell of a mess”). The sauce was added later to keep the fries warm.

Poutine has been knocked as an artery clogging, unsophisticated, working-class food. However, these labels have not hurt it’s reputation with Canadians. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation asked their viewers to rank poutine against other Canadian inventions. Out of 50 inventions, poutine ranked 10th. That 10th place ranking is more impressive when you see what it beat - Java Programming Language (#12), the BlackBerry (#18), Radio Voice Transmission (#19), Instant Replay (#24), Goalie Mask (#25), Electric Oven (#29), Alkaline Long-Lasting Battery (#32), and the Snowblower (#37). If you were wondering, insulin was ranked number one.

Who’s hungry?

Cooling Thoughts Amid Mercury Madness: The Heritage Classic, a Reminiscence

Heritage Classic - Jose Theodore - photo by Getty ImagesOFB reader Chris Meza helpfully reminded me this morning of cooler times, and specifically of November 22, 2003 — date of the Heritage Classic outdoor hockey game between Montreal and Edmonton. Chris is a good person to talk to about that event, seeing as he traveled from Washington all the way to Alberta that weekend to take in the game in the upper deck of Edmonton’s Commonwealth Stadium. I vividly remember him ringing me on his cell phone from those frozen environs. I asked Chris to share with me his recollections of that remarkable Saturday night.

The league of course selected the late November date seeking optimally chilly and dry conditions for the game. It got chilly all right. That Saturday afternoon, temps were in the single digits. Before the evening was done, the Habs and Oilers were skating in air that reached -28 Fahrenheit.

“The night before, it snowed in Edmonton,” Chris recalled. “It snowed enough and it was cold enough that one of the Zambonis needed for the game froze up.”

There were two games for the early winter hearty to take in that day, an Old Timers one featuring ’70s and ’80s Oilers and Canadians greats and then a standing’s counting one between the contemporary teams afterward. Players for both games were able to skate out onto the makeshift ice surface from their locker rooms.

I asked Chris how he outfitted himself for his perch a hundred feet high in the frosty Alberta night. “I was in winter socks, longjohns, Levis, two shirts, a heavy duty ski coat, gloves, a scarf, and a wool cap,” he said. “The thing I remember most about the fashion that night were the locals, men and women, and even their children, armored in winter coveralls that you commonly see construction workers in when they’re working outdoors in extreme winter.”

He had another vivid recollection from his frozen stadium experience. “I didn’t purchase refreshments from the concessions, because trips to restrooms required . . . well, in all those layers all of us were in, it just took too long,” he laughed.

Heritage Classic - Edmonton, Alberta

It wasn’t just spectators lavishly layered — Montreal netminder Jose Theodore famously added a touque to the top of his goalie mask to try and ward off the tundra chill, and many of the skaters appeared to pull turtlenecks up to their ears.

The league set up two large viewing screens at both ends of Commonwealth for spectators. Chris said that the screens were important for those like him seated up high to follow the play. “So much of the stadium seemed to follow the play on those screens,” Chris said. “Their enthusiasm, with every rush, seemed identical to the passion you associate with a Canadian crowd in a typical arena.”

I asked Chris to identify a lasting image of that November’s frozen feast. “Even in the upper deck where I was, you could see the joy on the faces of the Old-Timer All Stars, their delight in taking shovels and pushing snow off of the playing surface. It just reminded you of hockey’s roots and that the game’s biggest names seemed to relish a return to them.”

Watching Game 4 in Canada

Gustafsson and I watched Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals on Canadian soil — at the Canadian Embassy in Washington, DC. Elliot Segal was there to cheer on the Sens, as were fellow blogger friends DC Sports Chick, 1/2 Asian Man, and Ken of Japers’ Rink. You can see Elliot enthralled (along with the rest of us) by Don Cherry’s blustery tirade against modern hockey elbow pads on the far right of the big-screen photo below.

The event was hosted by Connect2Canada, “a way to exchange news and ideas, and find out what is happening in the U.S. related to Canada.” The organization was founded two years ago by former Ambassador Frank McKenna, and is a great source for information about our neighbors to the north.

That holy grail of Canadian beer, Alexander Keith’s, was also present, much to the delight of the evening’s attendees. Even better, we were thrilled to find authentic poutine: french fries topped with cheese curds (squeaky cheese!) and gravy. Trust me, try some if you get the chance; Gustafsson practically had a gravy IV.

While the result of the game disappointed the crowd of Canadians and Canadian well-wishers, the event was a rousing success. Embassy staffers were even kind enough to escort a few of us to the roof for a few photos. Additional thanks to 1/2 Asian Man [and DC Sports Chick] for snapping a few of the interior photos, particularly the one of me gleefully reveling behind our many beverage containers.

Washington Monument
Capitol Dome
Canadian Seal

Continue reading ›

Memorial Weekend Snowglobe: Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, 2007

Cup'pa JoeCan there be anything more exhilarating than postponing spring home repairs — sanding, painting, minor roof repairs, all performed on high scaffolding — by virtue of snow and frost that confine one indoors to the leisure of world-class beer and televised postseason hockey? Such was the Memorial week marvel that confronted my buddy Michael up at his vacation getaway in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

Deep into May each year Michael makes a 21-hour pilgrimage from Capitol Hill to Belle Cote, Nova Scotia, population approximately 340, to inventory winter’s wear on his magnificent property there. He reminds me of his mission each March, reiterating his open invitation for me to join him. I had my own arduous roadtrip to navigate this month, but am I sorry I couldn’t have been a sweatered witness to the spectacle that touque-wearing Mother Nature, eh?, treated Michael to all of the past 10 days. In previous springs, he’d always been greeted there by spring. Not this year.

You know how we in D.C. had a soundtrack of revving lawnmowers in our neighborhoods this past holiday weekend? Michael would press his coffee each morning in Cape Breton and listen to the revving of snowmobiles belonging to his neighbors. Lucky b******. Michael and I suffer debilitating bouts of hayfever symptoms from the pollen-saturated Mid-Atlantic, and as I listened on the phone to his chronicle of wood-gathering for home warming fires during broadcasts of the Memorial Cup I thought immediately of all that prescription medicine that never stirred in his travel bag.

The most difficult adjustment for me on my return home from Eastern Europe this month had nothing to do with eight time zones’ disorientation and everything to do with my lungs departing Moscow’s crisp air and being submerged in the height of hayfever mayhem here.

Nothing in the Cape Breton weather of the past few years could have forecast the deep freeze of May 2007. Michael and his wife Marleen and I have on a couple of occasions enjoyed February vacations in Cape Breton characterized by the smell of cords of burning wood in their two fireplaces and single-digit mercury, but recent winters there have been bone-dry in terms of snow. Snowmobiling enthusiasts, we’ve passed on mid-winter visits there the past two winters because the ground has remained brown throughout  Decembers and Januarys. And so on the phone Monday night I sat rapturously as Michael detailed five inches of fresh powder outside his house and the regular chiseling of ice off of his truck’s windshield.

chezdenney.JPG

May 2007, the locals informed Michael, ranks as the coldest in Cape Breton since 1937. In the Cape Breton Highlands, a mere 30-minutes’ ride up a steep ascent from Michael’s house, there’ll apparently be snowmobiling solidly into June.

Many Americans by late May are heartily ready for the opening of swimming pools and the lighting of deck and patio grills, but with the Memorial Cup in full bloom last week, the news of one last blast of winter within which to watch it struck me as refreshingly novel. Michael is returned home this morning, meaning, necessarily, that he’ll know his share of 90-degree days in the three months ahead. Incidentally, he, too, grilled out back of his home last week; he just did it in a turtleneck.

An American arriving in Belle Cote after two full days’ journey is big news in town, and with each arrival Michael is feted with daily deliveries of freshly caught cod, trout, salmon, and lobster from his neighbors. The really thoughtful ones offer up a few bottles of the planet’s finest pale ale, Alexander Keiths. Some hardship, Michael’s missing out on our mosquitos and Bay Bridge gridlock.

Ruminations on Russian Food, Drink and Rubles

MOSCOW . . . I mean, BETHESDA — Driving back home through Bethesda this morning, the smell of two “everything” bagels filling the car and the sun shining brightly, I was struck by how adaptable people can be. In a day or two, my DC routine will feel normal again. Yet sixteen hours ago I was flying over the Arctic Circle at 33,000 feet (outside temp -72ºF) on the way from Moscow to JFK.

There’s old Russian proverb: “There is no shame in not knowing; the shame lies in not finding out.” Within the confines of our trip’s busy schedule we tried a variety of Russian food and drink, and in the process expanded our knowledge of Russia in a small but not insignificant way.

So before the details of this whirlwind trip begin to fade — and before the looming specter of my lost luggage ruins my mirthful morning mood — here are one traveler’s impressions of Moscow’s cuisine.

Sticker Shock
Let us open the ruminations with a brief discussion of Moscow prices to put things in the appropriate context. Everything is a lot more expensive than you’d think in Moscow. As the City Mayors site notes, “Outside the European Union (EU) Moscow is the costliest destination, and is now more expensive than New York.”

Our first taste of bottled water simultaneously provided a taste of Moscow prices. The day we arrived, we reached in our hotel at 2 P.M.; our rooms wouldn’t be ready for another hour. So as we sat in the lobby with thousand-mile stares, exhausted and dehydrated from the long flight, Keeley ordered a bottle of water for us to share from the hotel’s restaurant. A server delivered the water to the tired travelers, and at that point I would have paid any price to rehydrate. Still, we all gasped when the bill arrived: $13 for one liter of Evian, plus tip. Zoinks, Scooby.

With rare exceptions, such as the coffee vending machines we found in the hockey arena, the prices were consistently much higher than we expected. And by no means were we living high on the hog; I’d wager we were the only accredited journalists covering the tournament who, rather than hiring a car every day, instead walked a mile from the hotel to the metro, then a mile from the metro to the arena, in the rain. Uh oh, I sound like a bit of an old curmudgeon . . . “In my day, we walked to school, uphill, both ways, in the snow,  without shoes!”

Regardless, the point is that it’s nearly impossible to travel cheaply in Moscow, particularly when much of the food and drink was crammed down our throats as we rushed from event to event. Still, despite the hectic rush we did find a few stand-out beverages and meals.

For Love of Coffee
As I now sit at home, pouring myself a cup of Alonzo’s Double Dark coffee from a French press, I realize the coffee on our trip deserves its own little sub-heading. After all, we drank a lot more coffee each and every day than we did alcohol on all the days combined.

Coffee Mania on Nikitskaya Blvd., one of eight locations owned by a friend of Igor Larionov’s, prepares the best coffee the four of us had on the this trip and, perhaps, the best on any trip. You may have already seen the photo of wondrous cappuccino in the Worlds photo gallery, but here’s another photo of their award-winning Cappuccino with a delicious Kiwirinha (kiwi-ginger concoction) and a Carambol (a creme brulee mousse pastry) that knocked our socks off. Finding Coffee Mania made our last three nights of late-night laptopping much more enjoyable.

We generally enjoyed the coffees in Moscow, though the quality and prices varied dramatically. For example, due to frantic schedules, we purchased many of our coffees in the Flat Iron Bar in the hotel. They serve an excellent double-espresso and, until our discovery of Coffee Mania, we happily kick-started our days with several foam-topped cups.

Such convenient caffeine came at a price though: a double-espresso in the hotel cost 300 Rubles, or about $12, plus tax and tip, each. So we were thrilled to find Coffee Mania, albeit late in the trip, where superb coffee cost a more reasonable $9.00 — still expensive, but better and cheaper than the hotel.

At the other end of the price and quality scale was the coffee provided in the arenas’ coffee vending machines. For a little less than a dollar, the machine brews a strong cuppa joe with a variety of powdered additives (creamer, hazelnut, etc.) in under a minute. This steaming beverage rises out of the machine in a little plastic cup (click here for YouTube video of the cup rising out of the machine — a wonderful sight to tired eyes). We made many visits to this machine during our long days at the arenas; the bitter but sweet caffeine jolt the machine’s brew provided was priceless.

Feedin’ Time
The easiest way to summarize the hockey arena food is: different isn’t necessarily better. The choices were quite unlike those at the Verizon Center and other U.S. sporting venues, but the high prices for average-at-best food remain the same.

What stands out is that almost no overlap exists between Russian arena offerings and those in American arenas. Gone are the hot dogs, chicken fingers, and burgers of U.S. arenas; in their place are things like plastic-wrapped meat-on-a-bun which they microwave in the wrapper (so the roll gets warm and soggy but the meat stays cold and damp, yum), slices of salmon or salami on dry bread (not bad), and a wide variety candy bars.

Another difference worthy of note: the two arenas for this tournament did not serve alcohol to the public. That’s right: beer-less and vodka-less Russian hockey fans! Apparently some combination of the arenas and organizers made the decision, and frankly it was a good one. With back-to-back games each day and nationalistic emotions running high among the fans, alcohol was only likely to fuel problems . . . particularly since it seemed clear to this reporter’s nostrils that some fans liberally partook in pregame libations on the way to the arenas. While beer and drinks were available the in press lounge, we had little time to indulge — caffeine was usually the priority.

After many days of sub-par food at over-par prices, we decided to treat ourselves to a nice restaurant recommended by one of the friendly hotel staffers. At The Mill serves delicious traditional Russian fare in a rustic setting, complete with mill wheel and fish pond. For an appetizer I had Siberian ravioli stuffed with lamb, sprinkled with herbs and butter. My main course was a hearty Russian veal stew with mushrooms and potatoes, served on a sizzling platter. The others’ meals looked just as tasty, ranging from colorful salads to rack of lamb.

Of Russian beer, little need be said. Almost all of it is Pils style: light and crisp on the palate but with little to distinguish itself from, say, a Pilsner Urquell or a Kirin. As Seinfeld might say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” but frankly it’s not my cup of brew. The fact that many establishments serve beers cool-but-not-cold also detracted from our enjoyment; it’s one thing to have room-temperature Guinness, and quite another to sip warm Budvar.

We all wish we’d had more time to explore Moscow’s dining offerings, as the little samples we had outside the arenas were quite palatable. From the lovely outdoor Scandinavian cafe to Coffee Mania’s impressively varied dinner and dessert menu, Moscow seems a place one could find many terrific meals . . . given a large wad of Rubles, of course.

Da Zvidanya to Friends and Luggage
Luggage update: one bag was just delivered to my home intact, the other is still missing; as of noon on Tuesday American Airlines has not yet located it. That is, to put it mildly, less than encouraging.

Like our Moscow food and beverage experiments, my luggage’s journey is yielding mixed and (potentially) expensive results. But while I am loathe to repeat this luggage experience, exploring Moscow’s cuisine is an adventure I’d happily embark upon again.

Thus our trip comes to a close. It’s one I’ll never forget, and will always be grateful to Ted Leonsis and the Capitals for making it all possible. The camaraderie the four of us developed on the trip was unplanned and organic, and it turned out to be crucial for the smooth execution of our close-quartered, fast-paced, sleep-deprived venture. It, too, is something for which I am extremely grateful.

John and I will post additional photos and thoughts to On Frozen Blog over the next week or so — consider them the DVD extras that spilled over from the official Capitals’ Worlds coverage.

Da Zvidanya all!

(original post on the Capitals’ site)

Pri ‘Viet from Moscow!

Greetings from Russia! We’ve not yet seen much of Moscow beyond our hotel lobby/bar and the arenas, though we hope to remedy that tomorrow as Friday is the one day with no scheduled games. More ruminations on culture, food & drink are coming as soon as we can; the frenetic pace we’re keeping is dizzyingly intense, both at the games and post-game creation/editing of columns and photos into the wee hours. Last night I gratefully sank into a deep six and a half hours’ sleep–by far the most on the trip on any given night.

A Blogger’s Repast: Russian arena food. The pastry contains a small hot dog, basically a Russian pig-in-a-blanket. The beer was an unusual indulgence on this trip; we’ve generally been forgoing beer for vast quantities of espresso to maintain this pace.

Blogger's Repast

Random observation: Someone working the PA system at Khodynka Arena really likes Aerosmith’s “Get A Grip”, we hear it several times per game. I have no idea why.

Alex Ovechkin anecdote: After yesterday’s Russian victory, which was appropriately enough on Victory Day (День Победы, Den’ Pobedy), there was the usual post-game media frenzy. Ovie was snagged by TV broadcasters (who get first dibs in a no-flash-photo area), then by the radio section, then finally by the print media.

As Ovie marched through the madness, graciously granting interviews to all comers, Mike Vogel shouted a hello to him. Ovie turned, saw Vogs and our crew, and his face lit up with an electric grin. “What’s up, beeyotches!” he exclaimed, and enthusiastically tapped fists with Vogel and Sean Parker before doing a quick Q&A. Hockey players are generally friendly and approachable, but Ovie is undoubtedly one of the best.

Okay, time to head into the Canada-Switzerland game–winner gets into the final four. До Ñ?виданиÑ?! [Da svi`daniya]

OFB Reports from Russia: You Decide

Baltika PorterBeer, Women, NightlifeWhile in Russia, the primary responsibility of OFB is to cover the World Championship for the Washington Capitals. After all, they are the reason we are there. This does not mean that our foreign correspondents won’t file other reports as OFB exclusives.

Here’s where you, the reader, come in. It is Ted’s hope that this unprecedented coverage is also reader-participatory, a true Web 2.0 event. We would like to know what OFB readers would like to see covered from Moscow. We’ve listed a few topics off the top of our heads. Please feel free to add something that we may have missed.

What would you like OFB to cover while in Russia?
(feel free to add an answer)
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End-o’-the-Season Shindig Reminder

Here’s a reminder for the end of season shindig with Japers’ Rink featuring OFB, Off Wing Opinion, DC Sports Chick and other Caps’ bloggers. Come by after the game and share a beer with us.

  • Clyde's - The People's Choice in the Nation's CapitalWhen: Saturday, April 7, 2007, 4:00 - 7:00 p.m. (immediately following the Caps/Sabres game)
  • Who: Caps’ bloggers, their readers, Caps’ fans, and V.I.P. guests
  • Show up at 4:00 and just $20 will get you one hour at the open bar and an entry in the raffle for some great autographed Capitals merchandise (Olie Kolzig and Alex Ovechkin autographed pucks and a stick signed by the entire team). Show up at 5:00 and just $5 will get you a raffle ticket.

Please RSVP to Japers’ Rink at rink.rsvp@gmail.com so they can get a head count.

JP’s Bloggers’ Salute to Season’s End Soiree

Clyde's - Gallery Place

What started out as a gathering of several beer-enthusiast Caps’ bloggers downtown this Saturday has expanded considerably. Through the tireless efforts of Japers’ Rink, OFB will join JP, Eric McErlain, and a host of other Caps’ bloggers this Saturday at Clyde’s of Galley Place, immediately after the last game of the season against Buffalo, in a post-game party for bloggers and their readers, Caps fans, and V.I.P. guests.

It’s been a memorable year for all of us, and this may be the best opportunity for us to meet many of our readers and accept any beers they might want to purchase for us.

Here are the details:

  • When: Saturday, April 7, 2007, 4:00 - 7:00 p.m. (immediately following the Caps/Sabres game)
  • Who: Caps’ bloggers, their readers, Caps’ fans, and V.I.P. guests
  • Show up at 4:00 and just $20 will get you one hour at the open bar and an entry in the raffle for some great autographed Capitals merchandise (Olie Kolzig and Alex Ovechkin autographed pucks and a stick signed by the entire team). Show up at 5:00 and just $5 will get you a raffle ticket.

We can’t sell this cool gig as well as JP, so take his word for it:

“Look — you know you’re going to be drinking anyway. You know you want cool Caps stuff. So basically, you already know you want to be there. Make it happen.”

Please RSVP to Japers’ Rink at rink.rsvp@gmail.com so they can get a head count.

Many thanks to the Japers’ team for taking our feeble defensive-zone breakout pass and turning it into a lamp-lighter at the other end!

“Yo Dude, That’s Awesome, Can I Buy One?”

This is no April Fool’s joke. Each member of OFB would like one of these. The Stanley Cup playoffs are at our door, and we are ready for nightly episodes of meaningful puck. Sure most of us have a DVR allowing us to retrieve that next puck soda without missing a beat. But you can’t pause the playoffs.

As seen on the Late Show with David Letterman, we present to you the “Beer-Launching Refrigerator”:

YouTube Preview Image

We would like ours stocked with Alexander Keith’s, please.