Hey Buddy, Can You Spare a Nine Iron?

I believe that developing a proper mastery for watching a sport is a lot like learning a second language: the younger you are when you do it, the richer your understanding will be, which puts me at a decided disadvantage among golf fans, given that I watched my first golf tournament only six years ago while housebound, rehabbing an ankle that looked kinda like Jimmy Caan's ankle in "Misery" after Kathy Bates hobbled him. In fact, when my buddy the Deadhead called to browbeat me into watching the back nine at the Masters, I didn't know what the back nine was, though I didn't admit that to him. I thought it might be some sort of farming term. Or possibly a boy band along the lines of "N'Sync." (I've since learned that the back nine are the last nine holes of golf to be played in the final round. At least I hope I've got even that much right.)

At the start of that day, I was much more familiar with runways than fairways, but by evening, through the final round which included many calls to the Deadhead, I learned that a bogie was bad, a birdie was good and the importance of a "short game." And to my surprise, I kinda liked it. Not enough to play, because I would never spend even the price of a Starbuck's latte to walk on manicured lawns and curse, but watching golf in hi-def, the clarity of which can give me an allergy attack from the comfort of my sofa, is pretty entertaining. So, I learned enough to enjoy any major tournament on Sunday, but there still remained the problem of how to get truly engaged.

For me to really connect to a sport, I need to have a rooting interest and it's not so easy in golf as it with team sports. I have a highly refined ability to turn on a random, Division II college football game, make a split-second judgment about a team based on location or conference, the posture of the coach, or the color and design of the uniforms, and thus instantaneously, it will become very important to me that that team lose.

When I decided to make the leap to golf, the first task was to find some go-to guys. There were two no-brainers in Jim Furyk and Rocco Mediate. Both are both local guys, seem pretty decent and it doesn't hurt that Mediate looks just like my regular UPS driver. Who else? Mike Weir won the first Masters I watched, plus he's Canadian and I love all Canadians, so I decided to root for him.

Of course, Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson loom over all things golf and, despite the fact that both are fun to watch, I felt like I had to pick sides a'la the Hatfields and McCoys.

I chose Phil. I had a soft spot for that squirrelly lefty the moment I discovered that he always lost major tourneys, usually in stupdendously dramatic fashion. That really appealed to me -- the gifted guy who couldn't seem to get out of his own way -- so I got on the Mickelson bandwagon. Of course, he went out and won the Masters in 2004, which was great for him, but not so much for me, because a little of his lovable loser sheen was buffed off. Thankfully, Mickelson returned to form by imploding in the 2006 U.S. Open at Winged Foot (here for more info for other golf neophytes.) Phil himself said of that performance, "I'm such an idiot," and I never loved him more. It was, as baseball fans might say about a certain juiced slugger, just Phil being Phil.

To fully connect, though, I needed a villain, the golf equivalent of the Dallas Cowboys. I have this pilot friend who once flew Vijay Singh on a privately chartered flight. He said Vijay was a total dork, only substitute the middle two letters with two other letters so that you get the nickname for Richard, and with that, I had my first villain. But Singh has faded and heading into this year's golf season, I was in need of a new, proper villain. John Daly's a train wreck, but despite his Kenny Chesney wannabe fans, he's no Charlie Weis, no Bill Belichick, no A-Rod. I needed a real heel, someone who combined the worst traits of Mike Vrabel, Roger Clemens and Ohio State football fans.

And then, as though the golf gods answered this humble supplicant's plea, the pride of South Africa arrived to save the day. Thank you, Rory Sabatini.

Thanks for Rory's stupid face.



















And his pot belly.

Thanks for his idiotic sartorial choices.

I'm eternally grateful for his stupid hair.

And how could I ever repay him for that moronic belt buckle?
So I'm rooting for Phil right now (although not as much as I'm rooting for his wife who is just beginning her battle with breast cancer) and I'll always be a sucker for Rocco. But truly, I'll okay with just about anybody winning at Bethpage Black, so long as it's not that jack ass Rory Sabatini.

Favre, Favre, Go Away, Don't Come Back Another Day

Earlier this week, Brett Favre went on Joe Buck's new HBO show (who thought that was a good idea?) and admitted that the rumors are true: he's hoping to play football again, specifically with the Minnesota Vikings. As reported in the Minneapolis-St. Paul Star-Tribune:

"Brett Favre ended weeks of silence Monday by making it clear that if his surgically repaired right arm is healthy, he wants to return to the NFL -- as a member of the Vikings. During an interview on HBO, the retired quarterback admitted it 'makes perfect sense' for him to play in Minnesota, even referring to the Vikings as 'we' at one point."

There was no doubt much rejoicing from one, John Madden, Favre's biggest cheerleader, and also from Vikings fans, who apparently believe their team will be improved with Methusela's younger brother, a/k/a Brett Favre, under center, but I've reached my complete and utter saturation point. What comes beyond saturation? Whatever that is, that's where I am with Favre. I'm anticipatorily over-loaded on future SportsCenter stories about him, more tired debates on the Sports Reporters, and sideline reports detailing his relationships with new teammates, coaches and even equipment managers. I'm dyspeptic when I think ahead to the Vikings Week 4 prime-time match up versus the Green Bay Packers, which will no doubt bring pre-game hype to heretofore unreached levels of inanity.

Somewhere along the way, Favre morphed from a mere-mortal quarterback into the gun-slinger monolith, unwilling to give up on the mystique of his own greatness, even as his abilities manifestly diminished. This version of Favre -- the older, annoying version that tearfully retires and un-retires annually -- has been so omnipresent that it retroactively taints my happier memories.

Every time I even hear his name, I make an unpleasant face, like the one I would make if I had to suck on an aspirin tablet. It's the exact same face I make when I see Madonna.

Tragically cool music snobs will deny ever enjoying the Material Girl, but I don't know anybody who didn't dance up a sweat to her first clubby, catchy self-titled disc back in the early '80's. Oh, sure, Madonna made mad missteps. For every "Express Yourself," there was a "Papa Don't Preach," and for every charming "League of Their Own" performance, there was a ludicrous stinker like "Body of Evidence." She produced some absolutely painful drivel, but she also had moments of greatness. She made some great dance music and dominated pop culture for a long time. Personally, I counted "Like a Prayer" as one of my top 10 favorite pop songs of all time. If anybody bothered to ask, which nobody did. Just saying.

Somewhere along the line, Madonna crossed a line and her miscues started to outnumber the moments of artistic genius; her knack for recognizing a trend just nanoseconds before it happened and then capitalizing, turned into an egomaniacal, solipsistic need to create the trend, to actually BE the trend. She tried on any pose, any outfit, any style to seem relevant. Heck, she tried on Kabbalah, and she even tried on a phony British accent when she started loafing with Rupert Everett. On a visit to the Holy Land several years ago, she asked to be called 'Esther', about which one of my wittier friends commented, "She's so biblical."

At some point, the current Madonna incarnation -- the yoga obsessed, Kaballah quoting, third-world child adopting, anorexic, surgically altered, A-Rod canoodling Madonna -- consumed and ruined the earlier eras. I deleted "Like a Prayer" from my iPod running mix.

Likewise, I used to love Favre. He was my favorite NFL player who didn't play in Pittsburgh. It was easy enough. I always had a soft spot for the Packers: the appeal of Green Bay as an NFL city, the charming chant of the locals, "Go Pack Go," Lombardi and Starr, the odd sartorial splendor of the green and the yellow, the frozen tundra and all that.

Then there was Favre himself, funny, reckless, fun-loving, with a canon for an arm. He won a lot and when he did, it was often in dramatic fashion. It was flat-out fun to watch Favre and the Packers. Back then, the gunslinger routine was fresh and organic.

Like Madonna, Brett made a lot of missteps along the way. His 464 career touchdown passes rank as the most for any QB; of course, his 310 career interceptions rank at the top, too. He won one Super Bowl but there are those who think he could have, in fact, should have had more. There were times when he carried his team, elevated them to heights unattainable without him. And then, like Madonna in her "Swept Away"/"Die Another Day" phase, there were games that he threw away: the 2003/2004 divisional playoff game versus the Eagles, when he threw a late game interception that lead to the winning kick for the Eagles; or the 2007/2008 NFC Championship game in which he tossed two killer picks that sent the Packers into the off-season and the New York Giants into the Super Bowl.

The thing is, he always threw bad picks. That's just who he was and his penchant for the big mistake used to be counter-balanced by some entertaining heroics. But, as with Madonna, Favre's stinkers became more frequent and his moments of greatness more remote. The 2008 Favre devoured the 1996 Favre.

What could a return possibly accomplish that he hasn't already accomplished? Another MVP or Super Bowl title are highly unlikely. And besides, how many of those does he need to solidify his already secured spot in the pantheon? And, truly, how many more hit records are in Madonna's future? At this point, they both seem like the party guests who see you cleaning up, yawning, even brushing and flossing, but don't know that it's time to go.

Welcome Back to Pittsburgh, Lord Stanley

I'd like to welcome Lord Stanley's official representative, Cup, back to Pittsburgh. It's been a while since your last visit, Cup, and a few things have changed.

What's that? Oh, yes, you are not mistaken, in fact that was the soft, sexy caress of Mario Lemieux's hands on you last night, but he doesn't play hockey any more. He owns the team now. Yes. Owns. No, I'm not kidding.

The Pirates? Oh, it really has been a while since you were here. They didn't win any titles and they've been just soul-crushingly horrible since you've left, but they have a pretty new ballfield, so they've got that going for them.

Yeah, a few other things have changed around here since then, too. We have a new Mayor. Sigh. I'll just leave it at that. And the housing boom that hit the rest of the country? Well, we never had that, but it's cool because when it all crashed and burned and brought the entire nation's economy down with it, it had a negligible impact here. In fact, ironically enough, Pittsburgh is being touted as a model of fiscal responsibility and good old American, ah, something or other involving character, I think. The city's in the New York Times all the time. Suddenly, they love us, though we're not so sure if the feeling is mutual.

Oh, yeah, that new Steelers coach that you met when you were here in 1992? He stayed for a long time and had a very good run. He finally won a Super Bowl in the 2005-2006 season, but then he retired and moved to Raleigh, North Carolina where he very publicly started rooting for the Carolina Hurricanes. Now he's about as popular around here as Marian "goal-less in the seven most important games of his career" Hosebag (tm Smiley). I guess those two can start golfing together any time.

You'll be spending your summer with a new bunch of guys, so let's get you up to speed on your hosts.

Let's start with Sidney Crosby, the youngest captain ever to tote you around the ice. (Notice, I didn't say 'hoist.' Why do people always say 'hoist?') Anyway, Sid's been touted as the great savior of the game since he was about 9 years old, which is good amount of pressure to carry around, but he never complains about it; he just works harder than he did the day before and, in spite of his youth, the guys in the Pens locker room would follow him to the ends of the earth. He's pretty much an assist machine. Just ask the old-timer and relative Pittsburgh newcomer, Billy Guerin, about what it's like to receive a pass from Sid right on the tape as he's perched in the goal mouth. He's rarely demonstrative and his game is less flashy than a few others, but he is a complete player in every way. He has fantastic hands and great vision and sees things opening up two and three moments before anybody else on the ice does.

The other guy I'm sure you'll be spending a lot of time with is Geno Malkin, the young Russian phenom who hauled in the Conn Smythe trophy, even as Detroit netminder Chris Osgood was thinking about where he'd display it in his home. Malkin's an amazing player. He can just physically take over a game and in Game 7, with Sid out with knee injury for much of the game, Geno threw himself all over the ice with reckless abandon to preserve the Pens victory. His english isn't great, but he's a good kid and he hasn't even reached his peak as a hockey player yet. Oh, don't be surprised if his mother uses you to serve her famous borscht.

Max Talbot is a local superstar, as he'll be the first to tell you, as much for his ebullient personality as his gritty style of play. He plays every shift with his foot flush on the gas peddle. His Game 7 heroics were the stuff made of legends. First, he and Geno irritated Brad Stuart into turning over the puck near the goal and then he buried it by going five-hole on Osgood. The second goal, the one that turned out to be the game winner, was again started when Talbot, this time teamed up with Chris Kunitz, badgered Stuart into another stupid turnover, this one at the blue line. Talbot raced towards Osgood, considered a cross-ice pass, reconsidered it, and lifted the puck over Osgood's shoulder. Top shelf, as Talbot himself would describe it. You'll have a lot of fun out with Max and I'm sure you'll get a lot of attention from the ladies.

Some of these guys aren't so young, and surely you remember Guerin from the old days with the New Jersey Devils, and Petr Sykora, too, from his 2000 performance with those Devils. Sergei Gonchar's been waiting a long time to meet you, but he was so anxious to do so that he played his usual steadying role after suffering a nasty knee injury in the Capitals series; we'll probably find out that he was skating with zero cartilage and ruptured ligaments in his knee ever since, but still played around 20 minutes a game. In Game 7, he logged of 24 minutes time, so yeah, I'd say he was pretty desperate to spend some time with you.

Even old Miro Satan made a return trip from Wilkes-Barre himself, just in the hopes he might dance with you.

The coach? Yeah, that's a crazy story to go from coaching in the AHL in Wilkes-Barre on Valentine's Day to winning the Stanley Cup just a few months later. It is stranger than fiction, indeed. By the way, is it kinda gay of me to have reading glasses that look like Bylsma's glasses? Even a little bit?

But this team is surprisingly deep and so many contributed. Jordan Staal is not even old enough to drink legally in Pennsylvania, but he was a penalty killing machine all playoffs and scored a short-handed goal in Game 4 that probably turned the whole series around. Tyler Kennedy is a grinder if there ever was one and he ended up having the game winner in Game 6. Line-mate Matt Cooke crushed everything within his vision in a red sweater. So did defenseman, Brooks Orpik. But then, he did that last year, so nobody was really surprised. Rob Scuderi single-handedly saved Game 6 with his in-goal heroics.

Well, yes I was getting to that. I was just saving the best for last, because, appropriately enough, so did he. Marc-Andre Fleury is a lithe, acrobatic guy, more of a dancer in net than a jock. They list him at 6' 2" and 180 pounds, but you'll see what a crock that is when you meet him. Perhaps Flower stands 6' 2" in his skates and weighs 180 in all of his gear, skates and stick included. He catches a lot of heat from the media and some of the fans love to disparage him, maybe because he seems so delicate, a trait which masks his iron will. Certain folks will dismiss his performance by pointing to his playoff goals against average (2.61 -- ranks 9th among playoff goalies), or his save percentage (.908 --10th among playoff goalies), but I'd direct you to his post-season wins: 16. It's the only number that matters. It must be said that he's had some rough moments. He let in two flukey goals off those funky springboards in Detroit in Game 1, then he let in a soft goal against Justin Abdelkader (who?) in Game 2. His brilliance in Games 3 and 4 was overshadowed by the Pens offensive firepower. Yeah, I know. He was horrible in Game 5. Just horrible. But when his team needed him most, he turned in back to back brilliant performances in Games 6 and 7 and he fought up until the very final moment, making a spectacular save on Niklas Lidstrom with less than one second left in Game 7. It was a save worthy the Mount Rushmore of saves, one of the Seven Wonders of the World kinda things.

It took a moment, after the clock wound down to zero, for anybody to realize that he had done it, and that the Pens had done it. With that, any questions about Fleury's capacity to perform in the clutch, to come up big in big moments, were answered. He went into a building that had his number, against a team that had his number, a team that circled like vultures for the last 20 minutes of action, and he stoned them. He just fucking stoned them. To be the best, you have to beat the best. That's what Fleury and the Pens did and that, my old friend, takes some stones.

So, welcome back. Give our best to Lord Stanley and enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh. You should get used to it. I can envision you spending a lot of summers here.

To Dream the Impossible Dream, on Ice

Penguins Plan of Attack. According to Generalissimo Me.

pittsburghdish.typepad.com/pittsburgh_dish/2009/06/dear-lord-how-can-we-win.html#more

We're Not Dead Yet!

These playoffs have reduced me to monosyllabic grunts, groans, yelps, and shrill exclamations. When I manage to even form words, it's usually just a player's name: Gronk! Sid! Brooks! You get the idea. Every now and again, I curse. But last night, there was one name I screamed more than any other: Scuds! Somebody much more articulate than I once wrote:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas.

Although it coulda been Rob Scuderi.

It wasn't so long ago in the spring of 2006 that the nicest thing I could say about Mr. Scuderi was, "um, he clears the puck well." He's not an offensive defenseman, like Sergei Gonchar, or even Kris Letang. He's not a body-blow delivery machine like Brooks Orpik, nor is he the humongous slab of humanity that we call the USS Hal Gill. But watching Scuderi's maturation from a mediocre player (sometimes even a liability) to a team leader who makes all the right plays at all the right times, has been one of the more surprising elements of this Penguins journey. He finished the regular season at +23, a remarkable stat for a purely defensive defenseman, and even more remarkable when you consider that, with the arrival of coach Dan Bylsma, Scuds was often deployed to blow up the opposition's best offensive unit.

He's had a tremendous run this post-season, too. He limited Alex Ovechkin. (You cannot entirely stop Ovie, merely limit him and Scuds made sure that Ovechkin never put his team so far ahead that the Pens offensive stars weren't within striking distance.) Then he contributed to the utter dismantling of Eric Staal, the Carolina Hurricane's number one offensive weapon.

But the Red Wings? The Red Wings are a different animal. They can attack from so many lines. If Henrik Zetterberg's not crashing the net, then it's over-grown ginger kid, Johan Franzen. Or Dan Cleary. Or Tomas Holmstrom, who parks himself in the Pens goal crease so much, he's starting to have his mail delivered there.

Last night, it looked like we might see more of the same kind of demoralizing, flukey, ugly scoring we saw in last year's Game 6 when Zetterberg put a puck in the crease that Marc-Andre Fleury accidentally knocked back into the goal with his own derriere. It was the game winner. I try to forget that the Wings' Stanley Cup winning shot was put in by the ass of the Pens net-minder, but Zetterberg clearly hasn't, and he was looking for a little deja vu last night when he dinged a shot off the goalpost that landed behind Fleury. Unlike last year, Zetterberg's shot remained harmlessly in the blue paint. As Fleury tried to move the puck forward, from his post alongside his netminder, Scuderi made one of the smarter plays we've seen all series, as he simply held his stick down on the ice behind Fleury to provide an extra layer of defense against potential errant puck dribblage. Zetterberg and the Red Wings were thus denied and I started to get the feeling that this Game 6 was going to be different.

All night, Scuderi was all around the goal mouth, on two crucial back-to-back penalty kills in the third period, and also scuttling a third-period Pavel Datsyuk rebound out of harm's way. The puck nestled just to the right of the net, just out of reach of Fleury, tantalizingly close to going in. It was precisely the sort of opportunity the Red Wings always seem to capitalize on in typically annoying fashion, except this time, Scuds was there to foil them.

Still, Scuderi saved his best heroics for last.

If you read the official play-by-play of the game, it reads simply: 19:43 - Johan Franzen shot blocked by Rob Scuderi.

And yeah, I guess you could say that. In the same way that you can describe Mt. Kilimanjaro as a big hill and Helen of Troy as okay looking. I guess you could also say that the Beatles were pretty popular once upon a time, too.

With the potentiality of a Game 7 hanging in the balance, Scuderi really was the piece, the most elemental, crucial piece of the puzzle necessary to block not one, not two, not three, but four attempts to stab the puck into net by the Red Wings, and all with Franzen's unappealing ass right in his face. Unlike Zetterberg's crafty move in Game 1 when he gloved a puck on Chris Osgood's back, Scuderi made all the stops with his stick, his leg and his skate, per the letter of the law. By the time the officials blew the whistle for a stoppage of play, 11 players were piled in net, with Scuds at the bottom, still keeping the puck from crossing the line.

There are blocked shots. And then there are blocked shots.

In the words of the inestimable Monty Python boys, 'We're not dead yet!'

Pitiful Penguins Performance. With Video.

I woke up this morning thinking of the 1989 Pittsburgh Steelers, who opened their season by losing at home, at Three Rivers, to the divisional rival Browns by a score of 51-0. That's not a typo, the Cleveland Browns had 51 points and the Pittsburgh Steelers had zero. It was a game in which the Steelers turned the ball over eight times (five fumbles and three interceptions.) Watching the game on a beat up Zenith television set in my first apartment, I remember thinking the Steelers were just snakebit that day. Nothing worked. Every phase of the game looked like the climax of a slasher flick. No matter what they tried, it blew up like one live hand-grenade after another. It was just one of those games where you knew that, not only would they not be able to right the ship, they wouldn't even be able to claim any moral victories. There would be no drives to build on, no defensive stands to feel good about. As good as the Browns were that day, the Steelers were equally putrid.

That's what the Penguins game felt like last night. Only turned up to eleven.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbVKWCpNFhY

And like that Steelers game, through my own sheer stupid stubbornness, I watched until the bitter end. It was like a self-imposed 'Ludovico Technique,' with beer. (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ludovico_technique )

It was so promising for a few minutes. The Pens came out flying high, cycling the puck, finishing their checks, forcing the action in the Detroit defensive zone, and playing up to the occasion. Then Niklas Kronwall tripped Chris Kunitz, the Pens went on the power play, and it all turned to shit. Smelly, stinky, pungent penguin scat.

The Pens put not one single shot on Chris Osgood with the man advantage. The Red Wings special teams, which had heretofore been foul-smelling themselves, got a huge lift from the penalty kill and just four minutes after the neandertal Kronwall made his return from the penalty box, Daniel Cleary blasted a shot between Brooks Orpik's legs, which sailed right past Marc-Andre Fleury. I don't think Fleury was even aware of the shot, just felt the breeze in his hair as it whistled by. The 1-0 lead would have been good enough for the Red Wings on the night.

Things only deteriorated from there. The Red Wings played like champs so I don't mean to take anything away from Detroit when I say that the Pittsburgh Penguins played like a bunch of jackass penguins.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dz6dqY4x0TU&feature=related

I don't think we need to revisit in detail the horrors of the Red Wings power play success (3 for 9) or Marc-Andre Fleury's turnstile impersonation in net. Meanwhile, the officials, the same crew which had worked Game 3 and had allowed a, shall we say, Anaheim Ducks style of play, decided to call this one closer to the vest. Much closer. The Red Wings adjusted. The Pens didn't, leading to 18 minutes worth of minor (2-minute variety) penalties served by Pittsburgh and the embarrassing 30 minutes of game misconduct penalties (three 10 minute misconducts handed out near the end of the game to Craig Adams, Matt Cooke and Max Talbot).

Though, if I'm being honest, it's hard to be genuinely pissed at Talbot, Cooke and Adams as I myself was calling for Bylsma to send out the Hanson Brothers by the beginning of third period.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJkHm2WtSsk

The good news is that regardless of the final score, whether 1-0 or 51-0, it still only counts for one game. (That, and the fact that Benedict Arnold Hossa has zero goals in this series, and is showing his true stripes as a regular-season phenom and post-season weakling.)

The Pens can win Game 6 at home on Tuesday, provided, of course, that they don't play like a bunch of jack-asses again. But you have to wonder, even if they win Game 6, are they capable of taking a single game at the Joe in Detroit? If you listen hard enough, you can almost hear Morgan Freeman's voice-over narration, "Sadly, none of the Penguins would survive their journey to Motown ..."

Haiku Pucks

Game 4, in haiku form:

Geno swoops and scores
post-season point thirty-four
Mom and Pop high five

Jordan Staal explodes
Rafalski caught flat-footed
Epic short-hander

Detroit special teams
give up two goals in must-win
May cost them the Cup

Flower's eyes are on
unflappable acrobat
Hossa's shots denied

Malkin feeds Crosby
Mortal Osgood looks shakey
Sidney buries it

Sid spins, passes, scores
Zetterberg chasing the Kid
Gives in to fatigue

Kennedy's poke-check
Another Pens takeaway
Chris to Sid to Ty

The springboards beckon
Sid ready to feast on squid
Lord Stanley, come home

Thanks, But No Swedish Meatballs for Me

The latest in my running meditations of sports hate. For the Dish.

pittsburghdish.typepad.com/pittsburgh_dish/2009/06/why-i-hate-the-red-wings.html#more

The Pittsburgh Pirates Are Dead from the Neck Up

Just when I thought it was safe to go back to PNC Park, when I thought it was okay to peek over my morning coffee into the baseball scores. I crunched the numbers and saw progress, real for real progress, in a lot of areas. So just when I thought it was okay to care, just an eentsie bit, the Pirates became the Pirates. Stupid is as stupid does.

sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=4228972

You have to ask: Do they want to lose?

Secondly: Are they trying to kill me?

I don't buy the ruse that they're making room for Andrew McCutchen. As Danny Murtaugh once said, a McLouth batting in the three hole is worth a McCutchen in the minors. Unless they got the second coming of John Smoltz in this deal, they were outplayed at the bargaining table. Again.

I knew this guy when I was a kid, George the Greek. That's what everybody called him. I have no idea what his surname was. He did light construction work. I think he worked for the Borough's municipal works crew or something. I remember him pouring a sidewalk at my childhood home. That's what George the Greek was -- a basic guy who knew how to fix a few things, was good with his hands and lived pretty simply. I don't mean to say he was dumb, but he saw the world in simple terms. Something worked or it didn't. Certain foods tasted good and others didn't. Working hard and having a couple of beers at the end of the day was a good thing. Being paid to loaf and having a few beers at the end of the day was an even better thing.

What I'm getting at is that even George the Greek would have known to hang on to Nate McClouth. Not only that, he's the kind of player you can start building the franchise around.

We've all had this conversation about and with Pirates management for years. My uncle recently reminded me of something George the Greek used to say that is particularly applicable here.

Ah, what's the use of talkin'.

More Fun Than a Barrell of Bengals

You know, when those *&&%##@!!*#$s at HBO canceled "Deadwood," I canceled HBO in a fit of pique. I haven't missed it much, to tell the truth. But now, with the Cincinnati Bungles slated to be on tap for the HBO sports/reality show, "Hard Knocks," I may have to re-up with them. This is too delicious to miss out on.

According to ESPN:
"Bengals quarterback Carson Palmer took a swipe at Ochocinco's absence from the team's voluntary offseason workouts on Tuesday in an interview on Sirius NFL Radio. ...

"'It's definitely a new look for the Bengals receiver corps but I couldn't be happier with the guys we've got," Palmer said Tuesday during the Sirius NFL Radio "Movin' The Chains" show, according to the Cincinnati Enquirer. "T.J. [Houshmandzadeh's]" gone and Chad's pretty much gone, he hasn't been here, so we've got guys that want those two spots, guys that compete day in and day out, when we're out there on the field, running, conditioning and in the weight room lifting.' ...

"When asked what he expects out of Ochocinco this season, Palmer told NFL Sirius Radio: 'Well, I really don't know. I haven't talked to him. I haven't talked to anybody that has talked to him. He wasn't here last year so I'm expecting him not to be here at all this year. Last year I think he was here for the mandatory camp but didn't participate in it. So I'm planning on him not being here just because he hasn't been here yet.'"

From Russia, With Love

The best thing about the Penguins Game 1 win over the Carolina Hurricanes in the Eastern Conference Finals, besides Miroslav Satan's head fake of netminder Cam Ward, was seeing Mama and Papa Malkin in the stands cheering on their son, Evgeni, as he flopped to the ice in celebration of his goal (a nifty little flip of a Phillippe Boucher pass over the shoulder of Ward.) Moments like that keep me tuned in. Not just to the magnificent Malkin and Penguins hockey, but to all sports. There's nothing so exhilarating as the synergistic dance of fan enthusiasm and player exuberance. When those fans and that player are kin, the enjoyment factor increases exponentially.

So few aspects of fandom are as satisfying as watching the Malkin family become part of the Pittsburgh family through the course of three hockey seasons. Vladimir and Natalia Malkin first traveled to Pittsburgh for a short stretch, to watch their son play and visit with him before returning home to Russia. For their son's part, he elevated his play when his parents were in the stands, prompting my buddy the U.Conn fan to note that the sooner we could transplant the Malkins to Pittsburgh, the better.

With each visit, Mama and Papa became more comfortable among the Mellon Arena rabble. At first, they looked like those sepia photographs of immigrants exiting the boats at Ellis Island, circa 1900, back before folks figured out that it was okay to smile in the presence of a camera, so they all just stared morosely and ended up looking stiff, dour and humorless for all eternity. (Somewhere in a huge trunk of family photos left to my mother by my grandmother, there is a photograph of my great aunt Lena on her confirmation day. In Italian Catholic circles, confirmations are pretty joyous occasions, but if you looked at this snapshot of my great aunt next to her mother, my great-grandmother, you would be certain they had just returned from a funeral. Or mine cave in.)

During those early visits to Pittsburgh during Evgeni's first season with the club (2006-2007), Vlad and Natalia looked as though they should be lurking in the background of that photo of my great aunt, like refugees straight off of the boat from Minsk and Pinsk. And understandably so. I'm not kidding when I say that they come from the Russian equivalent of Pittsburgh. They are not trendy, nor do they appear to be urbane dilettantes. Who knows what they thought of the nearly 13,000 insane Pens fans at the Arena? They're just regular folk whose son, as it turns out, is a freak on the hockey pond.

So they came to Pittsburgh to watch their son play and with each visit, they seemed to relax -- just a little. You had to watch it from the beginning to really see it. The changes were positively glacial. Slowly, bit by bit, game by game, one artistic Evgeni Malkin goal building on another, each point peeling away layer of discomfort from Natalia and Vladimir Malkin of Magnitogorsk, Russia.

With the Pens down two games to none in the 2nd round against the Washington Capitals, the young Malkin came alive. It was no fluke that it was on home ice, with his parents in the stands. His stat sheet read simply, 1 goal, 0 assists, but Geno was all over the ice. He dominated the game from the first puck drop. He soared, deeked, spun, drew penalties, created opportunities, wore down, and dazzled his opponents. When young master Malkin drilled a wrist-shot behind the previously impenetrable Simeon Varlamov, on a power play he himself created by goading fellow countryman Alexander Semin into a silly hooking penalty, I thought Mama Malkin was gonna climb over the glass and chest bump her son at center ice. I'd swear under oath that Papa Malkin teared up.

I usually tire of the needless, gratuitous shots of player wives or children in the stands. Because I just don't care. Just show me the damned game. But there is something so endearing, so normal and yet compelling about all of the Malkins - Vladimir, Natalia and Evgeni. This is one family drama I can get behind.

The transformation from 2006, when they looked like strangers in a strange land, is complete during these 2009 playoffs. There's Vlad, rejoicing, high-fiving and hugging other Penguins fans around him. There, too, is Natalia, who appears to be sporting an updated hairdo, waving her Penguins home white towel, exploding with unbridled ecstasy at every great play.

Perhaps it is because they take such palpable joy in their son's accomplishments that the fans embraced them, both literally and figurative. (They've become recognizable Pittsburgh style celebs with fans back-slapping and hugging them everywhere they go.) It's a genuine love affair on the side of Pittsburgh fans. I don't think the Malkins will have to pay for a drink in this town for a long time to come.

And Then There Was One

The Penguins-Capitals series is everything I thought it would be. Every game is a nail-biter. There are huge swings, emotional peaks and valleys in each game, not to mention the ebbs and flows throughout the series. Momentum is mercurial. Frankly, I don't think I can take anymore. During the epic Game 6 of the Penguins-Capitals series, I'm pretty sure my heart stopped. Just momentarily, but stopped nevertheless.

In the aftermath of six magnificent games, I intended penning something about the role players, the unsung contributors on each team. I was going to compose rhapsodies in honor of Pittsburgh defenseman Rob Scuderi, who has flat out robbed Ovechkin of golden opportunities again and again. (Ovie would have double the seven goals and 13 points he has in this series were it not for the unbelievable play of Scuds.) I planned to pen odes to the unexpected beauty of defenseman Mark Eaton's offensive skills. I was going to verily sing of the Capitals Brooks Laich and sing of Tom Poti. In my bed, in my head, I had half-composed a rant about Washington's Dave Steckel and the enormous pain he was causing to my Stanley Cup yearning Pittsburgh heart.

But then, that would be missing the forest for the trees. Or something like that. As great as the netminders have been, as wonderful as Nicklas Backstrom and Evgeni Malkin have been, with every passing period of hockey, I became more convinced that Sidney Crosby and Alexander Ovechkin are without peer. They are better at what they do than any two athletes in any other sport, anywhere.

My pulmonary distress occurred when Ovie unleashed a 50 foot laser of a slapshot in overtime. I have no idea how Marc-Andre Fleury tracked and caught that. I was shocked that the puck didn't simply burn through the netting of Fleury's glove, torch through the goal net, flame through the Mellon Arena boards before finally ending it's trajectory by impaling some poor bastard seated behind the net. I haven't seen a faster shot. Ever. Though Ovechkin didn't score the tying goal in the third period (that was Brooks Laich), or get the go-ahead tally (that was Viktor Kozlov), he had assists on both and Ovechkin assists aren't "lucky" assists, the kind you get because somebody scores on your shift, as happens from time to time. His mere presence creates opportunities for his linemates. His aggressiveness is unparalleled. Ovechkin's offensive drive is almost feral, his desire to score goals is rapacious.

In many ways, Ovechkin reminds me of the NFL's Earl Campbell of the Houston Oilers. When Campbell came into the league in 1978, he dominated every game the Oilers played. He was big, strong, elusive, and willing to dish out hits. He ran over, through and around everybody. For a while, he was nearly unstoppable. Then the hits, both those he absorbed and those he delivered, took their toll and his career just tailed off. But while he was at his best, he was mesmerizing.

So, too, is Ovechkin. The issue is that Ovie is occasionally too aggressive, always riding the thin edge between tough and dirty hockey. In the words of Pens play-by-play man Paul Steigerwald, there is a difference between playing to hurt and playing to injure. You can make a strong argument that he intends to injure, but I suspect that he is needlessly, selfishly and thoughtlessly reckless. Whatever the case, regardless of whether you think he's great or a punk, his talent is so prodigious, were he to play in a different era, he would be completely unrivaled.

But he plays now and Mr. Crosby has matched Alex the Great in every game, and particularly in Game 6. Simply, Sid left everything he had on the ice. Every bit of heart, soul, muscle memory, guts, determination and skill were out there, on the Mellon Arena ice in the third period as he frantically worked to tie the game, single-handedly dragging his team into overtime.

With about nine minutes left in the third period, and trailing by a point, Crosby was tireless and fearless. He came around from behind the net to try to create a scoring opportunity, if not for himself, then one of his teammates. As he tossed the puck toward net, there was a collision which he lunged headlong into. He saw it coming, but threw himself toward the crease anyway, the puck skittered wide with no Penguin there to try to grab a rebound, as Sid flew backward from the force of an unceremonious Capital elbow to the face. It didn't stop him.

Night after night, Crosby crashes in front of the net, inviting contact, willing the puck in. To tie Game 6, he batted the puck up and into Varlamov not once, not twice, not thrice, but four times, before directing the game-tying goal into the net, over Varlamov's left shoulder, with a little over four minutes left in regulation. The thing about that Crosby goal was, despite it's defiance of gravity and logic, it wasn't the most amazing thing he's done this post-season.

Both players are so great they make their teams greater. But while Ovechkin inspires through his brashness, Crosby's greatest strength may be his equanimity. His teammates know he'll always be there, steady, never quitting on play, on a game, on a series. In addition to his freakish level of skill, it marks him as a truly great, pantheon worthy player. I expect more of the same from both tonight.

Can I Get a Shot (on Net)?

It finally happened. I knew it would. I'm not sleeping well following Penguins games. Tuesday morning, I was grumpy, still cranky from the Penguins' game two loss against the Washington Capitals and grumpier still from my fitful sleep, having spent the 4:00 a.m. witching hour turning the game over, shift by shift, rather than enjoying the warm embrace of my beloved friend, sleep. I sometimes have this problem following Steelers games and it always seems to happen after a Steelers - Patriots tilt.

I don't want to even say where this thought has led me. Perhaps the utter uselessness of Evgeni Malkin and Sergei Gonchar planted this sick lump in the pit of my stomach. More likely, the Washington Caps were the culprits. Two games into the second round of the Eastern Conference playoffs, I'm seeing some unsettling similarities between the 2009 Caps and the 2001 New England Patriots, minus the cheating, of course.

The Capitals. The Patriots. Huh? Red, White and Blue. Ya follow?

Plus, both franchises have coaches I don't trust. It's hardly necessary to re-visit Bill Belichick's transgressions, but there's something I just don't like about beady-eyed Caps coach Bruce Boudreau. Perhaps it's his striking resemblance to Sidney Greenstreet in The Maltese Falcon. Every time I see him behind the bench, I can't help but say, "Now, sir. We'll talk, if you like. I'll tell you right out, I am a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk." Who trusts Sydney Greenstreet?!

Each team has bandwagon jumping fans who never gave two hoots about "their" franchise until: the arrival of a true superstar in the case of the Caps; or the arrival of a Lombardi Trophy in the case of the Pats. Does the difference matter? Not really. Every season of my hockey viewing life up until the 2007-2008 season, the crowd noise in Washington was deafening when the Penguins went there. Of course, the noise was generated by Pittsburgh fans who took over the joint. Shameful. Now the beltway hockey neophytes all sport brand new Ovechkin jerseys as they waive purchased rather than homemade signs, and taunt inappropriately. Here's a handy tip for DC fans, don't chant "Crosby" when he's not even on the ice. Philly fans may be coarse, they may be rude, they may be jerks, but they are at least knowledgeable hockey fans. It's freaking embarrassing.

Still, the similarities don’t end there. Shift for shift, the Pens have played right there with the Caps. In fact, I'd say that they've outplayed them on a lot of shifts, so much so that they have played long stretches of the first two games planted right in front of goalie Simeon Varlamov. I think it's even fair to say that the Capitals haven't had as many opportunities as the Penguins, but when they have had them, they've capitalized (if you'll pardon the phraseology.) Just like those Patriots, they keep hanging around, hanging around, keeping it close and then, bam, one little mis-step and it's over.

These Caps seem to understand something that those Pats teams understood: it's not simply that you score, it's when you score. In the third period, the Pens went on the PP when Milan Jurcina went to the box for interfering with Malkin. Pffffft. That is just what the Pens PP did. Pfffft. And then literally, as Jurcina came out of the penalty box, Malkin was sent to the box for the stupidest case of tripping seen since the Three Stooges were still working.

That Caps Power Play? They don't piss around. Malkin hadn’t even had time to pick up a water bottle in the penalty box when Ovechkin planted the puck in the laces behind Marc-Andre Fluery four seconds in. Four seconds. You could pretty much see the life drain out of the Penguins. Except for Mr. Crosby.

Does that mean I think the Penguins are snakebit? That they are accursed, destined to suffer the same fate as our 2001 and 2004 Pittsburgh Steelers? Not by a long shot, but some things have got to change if they intend to counter-punch their way back into this series.

Not to overstate the obvious, but if you hadn’t noticed, the power play unit isn’t producing. It pains me to say this, but I have to lay a good bit of the blame for this PP pickle at the skates of Gonchar. I see Gonchar lollygagging behind the net on defense, I see him lollygagging at the point on the power play, I see him lollygagging through the neutral zone, I see him lollygagging while he dumps and chases the puck. What's that make him? A lollygagger.

I like to joke that he's a lazy communist, but the fact is, he may be too worn out to run the PP, given the fact that he plays more minutes than any other player. Monday night he played more than 27 minutes. Nobody even comes close to his on ice time, not even the magnificent Crosby. (Just as a reference, using game two's stats only, Crosby had over 22 minutes of ice time, while Bill Guerin, Brooks Orpik, Rob Scuderi and Evgeni Malkin played over 19 minutes, each. That's pretty much how it plays out regularly, so it's a fair barometer.)

Given those numbers and the fact that Gonchar is 35 years old, it's completely understandable that he's too gassed to run the PP effectively. I get it. That doesn't make the pallid power play passable, however. The Pens have been dumping and chasing and dumping and chasing. They play up against the boards and just pass around the perimeter, and pass, and pass. They generate just one or two legitimate shots on net at a time when there is just no substitute for actual, you know, shots on goal. A little urgency would be helpful.

So, there are two options. Either use Gonchar less and demand more from Scuderi, Orpik, Kris Letang, Mark Eaton and Hal Gill on their defensive shifts. Or have somebody else with more fuel in his motor out there quarterbacking the power play. (I prefer the former option because now is hardly the time to revisit the putritude of the Pens power play in Gonchar's absence earlier this season.)

The other issue is that nobody besides #87 is doing much of anything and, yes, #71, I am looking at you. Malkin's got a big time slapshot, a big time one-timer, and a big time wrister. Those shots may not quite match the the velocity of Ovechkin's lasers, but they can give you a close shave, too. He sure picked one helluva time to go into witness protection.

So this is for Geno: just because Ovechkin grew up the child of an Olympian in Moscow and you grew up in the Russian equivalent of Turtle Creek (that's pronounced ‘turtle crick’ by the locals), doesn't make him better than you. Big stars play big in big games and they don't get much bigger than this, my vodka swilling friend. So start peppering that puck on net.

Maybe Malkin and Gonchar should have a couple of shots of Smirnoff before the game? Or maybe I should. It might help my sleep.

My Love Affair with Nyjer Morgan

Driving home from dinner on Saturday night, I turned the radio on to the Pirates game. In the bottom of the 8th, my Buccos were up by three runs over the Reds. Freddie Sanchez was at bat with one out and speedy lead off man, Nyjer Morgan, at 1st base. The Cincinnatis were so disturbed by Morgan's presence on the basepaths that the pitcher kept throwing over to 1st base and the catcher threw down to 1st at least twice. And then, just what the Reds dreaded happening happened: a wild pitch rolled behind the plate. Morgan was already on his way to 2nd base and as the ball rolled back to the backstop, Morgan flew past 2nd, motoring towards 3rd, just getting a hand onto the bag before the throw from catcher, Ramon Hernandez, came in.

When Sanchez flied out to left field a few pitches later, Morgan was able to score from 3rd base on the sacrifice fly, putting the Pirates ahead by four runs. It was a run generated entirely by Morgan's aggressiveness on the basepaths. He so discombobulated the pitcher and catcher that they were both more concerned with his stealing second than they were with the job at hand, which is to say, getting pitches over the plate against Sanchez. So Morgan first caused the wild pitch and then made the Reds pay for it by hustling unexpectedly to 3rd base.

All of which supports my assertion that this kid is going to be a superstar. I haven't looked at his stats and I don't need to, because every time I turn on a Pirates game, he's getting a lead off hit, or stealing a base, or taking off after a fly ball and making a great catch. Dare I say it, he's got star quality. I can't take my eyes off him. I've never believed in love at first sight, but just a month into baseball season, I'm head over heals in love with Nyjer Morgan.

I know I love Morgan for his speed because I always favor speedy athletes, but I also love Morgan because he looks like he stepped out of a work of literature.

Having nearly exhausted the literary cannon in college and my mid-20's, I'm bored by the bounty of good, but not great contemporary fiction. These days, more often than not, I turn to non-fiction writers like David Halberstam and Doris Kearns Goodwin for reading material. Still, I cut my teeth on fiction and on the rare occasion that I find a work of fiction which really stomach punches me with powerful story-telling, I'm as excited as A Rod at the HGH store, which is just how I felt when I picked up Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." The book takes a page turning plot, terrific pacing, and palpable, breathing fictional characters and folds them into the sharp, accurate historical context of Boston circa 1918 during an influenza outbreak, the rise of Bolshevism, and the police strike.

When an author succeeds, as Lehane did, I find myself so swept up in the book that I know the characters. I can see the view from their windows and the streets where they walk daily; I can taste the foods they eat, smell the odors that linger in the hallways of their their apartment buildings and feel the dampness of one of their rainy morning walks.

Though the central hero of "The Given Day" is a police officer named Danny Coughlin, the most compelling character is Luther Laurence, a black baseball player whose own life-story arc lands him in Boston, where he packs away his baseball glove for work as a houseman. As written by Lehane, Luther is a swift, daring ballplayer, a player who takes risks on the baseball diamond, like going from 1st to 3rd on a routine wild pitch. Then too, Luther is a man who takes risks away from the ballfield, some of them stupid, some of them courageous, all of the exquisitely human. With every page, Luther took up a more permanent residence in my chest cavity. What I really wanted was to meet Luther on the street and pass the time of day. I wanted him to be, if not my friend, at least my neighbor and acquiaintance. But first and foremost, I wanted to watch Luther Laurence play ball.

So when I turned on a Pittsburgh Pirates game and saw Nyjer Morgan, the living, breathing embodiment of Luther Laurence, playing left field, it hit me like a Mariano Rivera fastball to the temple. Perhaps I'm overestimating the greatness that may be Nyjer Morgan. Or perhaps not. Maybe he really is Luther Laurence, or maybe he's just Nyjer Morgan. But still, I can't take my eyes off of him.

Two Russians, a Canadian, and More Animus Than a Hockey Venue Can Hold

Two Russians and a Canadian walk into a bar ... stop me if you've heard this one before.

It just so happens that those two Russians and Canadian are the three greatest hockey players on the planet and you don't have to hail from Magnitogorsk (pop. 418,000), Moscow (pop. 8.6 million), or even Cole Harbor, Nova Scotia (pop. 88,000, for folks who like symmetry) to know that Evgeni Malkin, Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby are the greatest things on skates since Dorothy Hamill and the order in which you rank them probably depends on your zip code. The best part is that these guys are so great, you don't even have to be a puckhead to enjoy this playoff series, which has the potential to be the most exciting hockey series in decades. You know you want to see it. I know I do.

I have several friends who didn't want my Pittsburgh Penguins to have to face off against the Washington Capitals in the playoffs, perhaps hoping that somebody else would knock Alex and the DC kids out of the playoffs first. But not me. Bring it on. The skill level is astronomical, I can envision either team winning AND these guys hate each other. How great is that?

It all revolves around Ovechkin, a tremendous talent who loves the limelight as much as he likes scoring goals and who has tacitly asserted that Sid Crosby lacks, er, toughness. The result is pre-school aged children all over the metropolitan DC area asking their parents, "What's a 'pussy?'" at which the parents shudder in horror and drop their lattes while the young'ens explain that everybody (i.e., the Washington Caps) says that Sidney Crosby's a 'pussy.' I'd hazard a guess that Mr. Crosby, or should I say, Mr. Pussy, will have a few things to say about that starting on Saturday afternoon.

The bad blood started back in 2005-2006, when both Ovechkin and Crosby were rookies and Ovechkin took home the Calder Trophy (best rookie), a post-season slight that miffed Crosby at the time and probably still sticks in his craw to this day. They've been vying for post-season honors ever since: Crosby won the Hart (MVP) in 2006-2007, while Ovechkin won that same trophy last year. Of course, this year, Ovechkin and Crosby's teammate, Geno Malkin, are both finalists for the Hart (along with Pavel Datsyuk of Detroit). Ovechkin got the Art Ross Trophy (most points) for 2007-2008, meanwhile, Malkin won the Art Ross this season, an honor that the Penguins were clear they were aware of, checking the points race daily, making it a team mission to keep Malkin of Magnitogorsk in front of Ovechkin of Moscow.

Off the ice, Sid has suggested that Ovechkin has taken some "runs" at him and Malkin that border on boarding, cross the line from checking to charging. The beltway gang counters that Sid talks too much trash. I'm not a huge fan of trash talking before or after the game, but once the puck drops, gentlemen, start your vocabularies. Apparently, Sid has such a potty mouth that it offends the delicate ears of Alex the Great. Is that even possible? Really?

Hell, I love a good rivalry. Sometimes I watch sports just for the bad blood, but even I have to wonder: is Alex Ovechkin so emotionally delicate that Sid's yapping really gets under his skin and he feels compelled to disparage Crosby in order to assert his own greatness? I think Ovechkin is great and I say this as a total Pittsburgh homer, a person who hates Ovechkin, hates the Capitals and hates the Washington fans, all 79 of them, but flat out, Ovechkin's amazing. He's strong, he's got a wicked shot, he's fast, and he's surprisingly elusive. Is the bad-mouthing really necessary? I don't get it.

On the other hand, in Ovechkin's defense, he does seem to be preternaturally colorful and constitutionally suited for the role of pot-stirrer. Not to mention that it was his linemate, Alex Semin, who told Dmitry Chesnokov of Sovetsky Sport this:

"What's so special about [Crosby]? I don't see anything special there. Yes, he does skate well, has a good head, good pass. But there's nothing else. Even if you compare him to Patrick Kane from Chicago ... [Kane] is a much more interesting player. The way he moves, his deking abilities, his thinking on the ice and his anticipation of the play is so superb. I think that if you take any player, even if he is "dead wood," and start promoting him, you'll get a star. Especially if he scores 100 points. No one is going to care about anyone else. No one is going to care whether he possesses great skill. Let's say you put someone in front of the net and let him deflect pucks in, and he scored 50 goals; everyone will say "Wow!" and then hand him a $10 million per year contract. That's what they like here."

As my great-grandmother would say, okay for you Alex the Lesser.

So far we have (a) Ovechkin's apparent resentment of the media attention that Sid gets, (b) Semin horning in on that, and (c) Sid saying Ovechkin plays right up along the edges of cheap shotting.

I haven't even factored in the magnificence that is Geno Malkin, who himself would like to be known as the greatest Russian hockey player alive and doesn't like snaggle-toothed Alex muddying the waters. (Ovechkin is snaggled toothed. I have no comment on Semin's teeth.)

I expect this series to be lightning fast and give new meaning to the word physical. I'm literally bouncing off the walls in anticipation. I nearly hip-checked GearGal into the refrigerator this morning. I gave the cat a facewash. Is it time to put on the foil or am I peaking too soon?