Somewhere on the Eastern shore of Japan Over the past few weeks several different people have said something very interesting to me. They told me they felt that I had lived “well beyond my years,” and that I had the same amount of life experiences as your average 40 year old. They were largely referring to the decade I dedicated to lurking around the hockey arenas of the world, and my stints abroad in Asia. The funny thing is that I have always regarded both of these pieces of my history as embarrassments and unpleasant reminders that I have failed to mature along with my colleagues to the point that, as my 27th birthday draws nearer, I have been left completely and utterly in the dust.

The fact is that over the past 10 years or so, hockey has been the source of all the ill in my life: fake friends, stupid males, poor decisions, etc, etc. All those games, all those road trips, all those hilarious segments on Coach’s Corner fail to even come close to making the evils of my life in hockey (to this point) seem worth it.

I started out, so I thought, as a sort of activist. But I’ve long lost the will to fight for what I had been fighting for. My cries of reason seemed to fall on deaf ears. I had hoped to help the women of hockey change their self-oppression under the imagined threat of the puck bunny. However, instead of listening to my message, I was dubbed the heretic, and even the lone oppressor in the history of the game itself. So, now I will spare myself the exhaustion of being a broken record, and leave all of you, whom this involves, to rot in the darkness of something you don’t understand, and all the murderous inward and outward rage that this ignorance can and will breed. Frankly, I wonder why I ever took up this cause in the first place, but deep down I think I had selfish intentions of making my own little world, the hockey world, a better place for me and me alone. You can’t really blame me for being so shortsighted. I was 17 when this whole notion came into my head, but God, there really are so many other things that I could be fighting for.

Activism aside, I think I had also become a truth seeker of sorts. I wanted to know every secret. I wanted to see everything, and go everywhere. But this knowledge, and this experience has really just become a curse. It’s to the point now that I can’t even go back to just being a fan. Every hockey game I see reminds me of something horrible, or traumatic, or embarrassing, or downright evil, and there is always a moment in every game that I have to suppress the urge to tell the whole arena to go fuck themselves. Yes, hockey really does make me a psycho. And while I do love the game, the hatred I feel towards the baggage that comes with it prevents us from any sort of reconciliation. Sometimes I wish that I could suffer from total amnesia and just forget everything that has ever happened in my entire life because, frankly, I can’t remember anything before my life in hockey. But sometimes I think even that is not enough. I couldn’t even tell you the kind of girl I’d be today if I never got involved in hockey because it is completely beyond imaginable. I really should have taken the blue pill.

So what happens now? Is Psycho Lady Hockey finished? Maybe, although I have no plans to take any steps toward shutting it down. All I can do right now is go through the motions, as I have been doing, hoping for some sort of electric jolt that can make me love hockey once again despite its flaws, and grant me the ability not to see beyond the final buzzer. Plus, having 4 NHL rinks left to visit hangs over me like a menacing storm cloud, though I’m not sure why, exactly. I mean it’s not like I’m going to get some award for visiting all the rinks. Hell, in my case, I’ll probably just get called a stalker, or puck bunny, or desperate whore (again) for achieving this feat.

You know what’s interesting? Every time I pick up an autobiography of some member of the hockey community, I always laugh when I flip to the last chapter and see, “I HATE HOCKEY!” written in big capital letters. I think I must find it funny because I can identify with it. I think for those of us who have allowed hockey to take us, to own us, and to, inevitably, become us, we can’t help but get knocked across that thin red line between love and hate. When hockey is everything, it is all that is bad and all that is good, and in the end it becomes impossible to see through that wall of shit to all the joy that the game once brought us. Maybe for people like us, we will all hate hockey in the end, but maybe, just maybe, we will, with time, be able to love again.

P.S. Happy Birthday, Wayne Gretzky.

Top Photo: Devils/Panthers Post Game. Notice my cold, dead eyes.

Newark, NJ Oh boy! I woke up on the morning of game day after a bit of an ordeal following my off day in New York City. Sure, there were some great moments to my day in the city that never sleeps, but for the majority of this post, I choose to focus on the negative since that’s the kind of girl I am this week. I was introduced to the legendary City Bakery hot chocolate (that very nearly killed me, I might add), and their cornbread encrusted catfish. I know… Cornbread… Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that! I also had various encounters with both the Florida Panthers and New York Rangers prior to their puck drop at Madison Square Garden. Oh my!

No, I didn’t go to that particular game. I hate to say it, but MSG is one of my least favourite NHL rinks. It has nothing to do with the fans or the team, and, trust me, it pains me to despise the home of any Original 6 franchise. However, MSG makes the Air Canada Centre look like Dollarama! I know the place has been “renovated,” but I don’t know how much has changed. All I know is that when I was there for the first time in 2009-10, and sitting in my usual lower bowl seats, I was seeing double because of the bizarre and highly unorthodox angle the glass is (or was) laid out. Weird glass plus completely unruly ticket prices makes MSG an arena I purposely avoid on my hockey excursions to the Tri State Area. However, catching a Rangers game at one of the bars/restaurants neighbouring The Garden has become somewhat of a tradition, and on this particular visit, that tradition was carried out at Stout. Fancy pants beers and Stout burgers were had!

Unfortunately, getting to Stout safely was a saga in itself. I had been wandering around town all day long, and in the general Central Park area I had a slight altercation with a mean spirited bird. It was one of those moments where you just knew it was going to happen, and for some reason I just knew it was going to happen to me. I suddenly had a flash of myself getting shit on (by a bird), so I darted out of the tree line like the Psycho that I am, and probably to the amusement of everyone around me, to avoid fulfilling the prophecy I had just seen. But it could not be stopped. As I reached the outskirts of the tree line that motherfucker of a sniper landed a clear shot on me that fell with a mighty thud! The next 15 minutes were spent in the bathroom of FAO Schwarz where little girls gawked in horror at the scary lady that was washing some sort of unsavoury substance out of her hair. All I can say is that it better fucking be good luck, as legend has it, because I could sure use some luck that doesn’t suck right about now.

Back at my hotel I was greeted with even more “Newark hospitality.” I knew from the first moment I arrived the previous afternoon that everyone working at that hotel hated their lives. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve been living in Japan for seven months and used to the Japanese custom of oozing politeness even when they are really thinking, “Die, bitch, die!,” and, therefore, a lot more sensitive to general rudeness in other people. Either way, it seemed to me, at least, that everyone working there was always in a shitty mood, but the fact that they were too lazy to even do their jobs properly, really pissed me off.

I called down that night for another bottle of shampoo. Like an idiot, I left my own at home, which meant I was forced to use the low end, hair damaging hotel brand, but that was fine – whatever. My incident with the bird meant that I needed to wash my hair again that night, as I doubt my efforts at FAO Schwarz were 100% effective. I know I’ve had some shit in my bed before, but never actual feces, and I wasn’t about to start that night. Long story short, I had to call down to the front desk 3 times in the course of 2 hours before that single bottle of shampoo actually made it up to my room. This meant that I didn’t even get into the shower until after midnight, which was an effort for the girl who was physically exhausted after battling with Asia to North America jet lag for the past 12 days. And, yes, I even revealed to them that there were traces of bird shit in my hair on my second phone call, and even that didn’t put a fire under their ass.

Despite the way my NHL Finale posts have sounded, I’m really not much of a princess. I let a lot of crap slide because I couldn’t care less. But after an epic parking debacle on my way back to Canada the morning after the Panthers game at Prudential Center, I actually did something I haven’t done since the doomed Nashville trip of ’06… I complained. You might remember the Nashville trip as the time a random guy forced his way into my hotel room, and attempted to pay me for sex, which I assure you was quite unsettling for me since I was still in my celibacy period. I remember thinking, “Oh no! I have not been waiting nearly 4 years to just get raped by some disgusting man!” I mean, the Colorado Avalanche AND Baltimore Ravens were staying at the hotel, too, so if it was going to go down, there were obviously better options available LOL. So, yeah, if I haven’t felt the need to formally complain since THAT incident until now, then you can imagine how epically pissed I must have been. I will say this, though. Unlike that hotel in Nashville, I have actually received apologies from four different people on behalf of this hotel.

Anyway, back to game day. I had decided that the Panthers/Devils game was going to be the first game, since my misadventure at BankAtlantic Center back in the 2007-08 season, that I was going to bust out my PINK Panthers jersey. How did a PINK jersey come into MY possession you ask? Well back then the pink jerseys were the ONLY small fitted jerseys available on the market. Before then your only option was to buy those big, baggy replica jerseys, and I had plenty of those. I decided I wanted a pink jersey to commemorate the Pink Jersey Era, as I was sure it wouldn’t last long. The thing was I didn’t want to disgrace the Leafs or the Flyers by getting a pink jersey with the logo of a team I actually liked, so I went with Florida. It seemed like a perfect idea. I was in Florida for a game, and I needed something to go over my tube top, so I wouldn’t freeze at the rink. Unfortunately, you may remember how that game turned out. After watching the warm up, I was thrown into a spell of constant vomiting (seriously, I threw up 8 times before the first period ended), as the stomach flu going around my family had finally caught up to me. I spent the first period sprawled out in the doctor’s office and the Plantinum Lounge (as no one would let me go outside to get some air), before finally giving up on the game and driving back to Naples. If one of the 23 US based NHL rinks deserves a Psycho Lady do over, BankAtlantic Center is definitely at the top of that list.

What I find amusing about the pink jersey is the absolute rage it induces in female hockey fans. It’s like the ridiculous threat of the puck bunny on the non-puck bunny. Wearing a pink jersey suggests that you aren’t a real hockey fan because you don’t wear a real hockey jersey. When really what it means is that the person wearing said jersey may actually just have a thing for pink. But, oh, that’s right! Liking pink is also a telltale mark of a puck bunny, as pink is a feminine colour, and only masculine females like sports. The most amusing thing of all is that the very fact that the pink jersey exists sets off the people that don’t intend to buy one, and likely are not the target market to begin with. Hmm what does that remind me of? No one is holding a gun to your head to make you buy one, ladies.

It is, of course, that absolute rage that makes me wear my pink jersey with pride despite the fact that I don’t particularly like it. I had an encounter with two really special broads that fed right into it, too. The looks and snickers they gave me have even succeeded in putting a smile on my face as I’m sitting here typing this out. Oh, puck bunnies. If you hate me because I’m a puck bunny, and all that it implies, then you’ve just implicated yourself as a puck bunny because only a puck bunny would be angry at my (imagined) involvement in the personal lives of hockey players. Girls that are sincerely NOT interested in hockey players wouldn’t care what I or anyone else may or may not do with them. God, how many times have I had to write that over the past 3 years?!

There was, however, one major problem with wearing the pink jersey to the Prudential Center that night. Sadly, my C-DILF love, Pete DeBoer, was likely to get the wrong impression, as I was wearing an enemy jersey albeit an unrecognizable one. I swear most people couldn’t tell that I was wearing a Panthers jersey. That is everyone except for the two 7 year olds sitting next to me that kept smiling nervously at me every time they celebrated a Devils goal. They knew. They knew. But Jesus! It’s the SAME logo, just pink and sparkly! The icing on the cake was when the owner of a sports memorabilia shop (with a heavy hockey flavour to it, I might add) asked me what jersey I was wearing. Actually, no, maybe it was the guy in the Ice Lounge that asked me (me in my Panthers jersey!) who was playing the Devils that night!

Overall it was a great game. I stuffed myself to the brim in the Ice Lounge, and I’m really not quite sure how I managed that after the huge “Spanish” lunch I had, but I must have put about 6 plates of food away. Both games I saw at The Rock were brimming with talent from two of my favourite OHL rosters – the 2002-03 Kitchener Rangers, and the 2003-04 Guelph Storm. It was practically a Highway 7 West hoedown in Newark that week! Oh, and let’s not forget my all time favourite Plymouth Whaler, Stephen Weiss! P.S. I love that David Clarkson still has the exact same presence on the ice as he always did. He skates in an unmistakable way. I could probably spot him in a numberless jersey from a mile away at least!

After gorging myself on free food and bevies, and creeping on the young Erik Gudbranson, which has become my January tradition as of late (Yes, I’m aware he’s a child, but at least I don’t feel as bad about it since he’s no longer a Front), I retired to my shit-tastic hotel to rest up for the long journey back to Canada and beyond. I had a few things on the agenda that day. I had to pay a visit to the first Cracker Barrel location I encountered, I had to finally track down the elusive Rockstar energy drink (don’t get me started on that, but I couldn’t even FIND one until my trip home! I was stuck with the pink can, too!), I had to make my rounds of goodbyes with the family, and I had to pack my bags for Japan.

24 hours later I was on board an Air Canada flight bound for Narita, and I was absolutely miserable. I thought for sure that the next 80 days would be impossible to get through with nothing to look forward to, and I was certain that I wouldn’t survive much more than the 80 days left on my contract. However, that first night back, I found myself driving along the Pacific, as I normally do, and I think I may have actually been glad to be “home.” Now my fate is once again unclear, and the remaining time on my contract will no doubt be extremely stressful as I try to work out where I will be when March 31st hits. Will I stay in Japan? Will I return to Canada? Or will I find myself on yet another adventure in some far off and unknown land? Only time will tell, I guess.

Top Photo: At Rockefeller Center after being shit on!

Newark, NJ Driving down to New Jersey, I kept having this nightmareish flash of walking back into my cold Japanese apartment with my heavy luggage dragging behind me, and having to return to that old 9-5 (though it’s actually an 8-3 in my case) routine. This was a road trip that I had been looking forward to for a long time, but that I dared not countdown to as it’s arrival signified the end of my vacation and the peace of mind that goes along with it.

As to be expected I was greeted with whiteout conditions on the Eastern portion of the 401. This is an occurrence that mysteriously happens all hockey season long even in the non-winter months. I remember a particularly bad post game experience after a Flyers tilt at Scotiabank Place when a severe thunderstorm caused lightning related whiteouts most of the way back to Toronto. Just another reason why my Ottawa games never run smoothly!

Anyway, once making it through the whiteouts, and over the beautiful 1000 Island Bridge, I was faced with the much dreaded American Immigration. I’m sure you know by now that I tend to get harassed (yes, harassed!) probably 4/5 times that I try to cross into the States. It’s to the point now that I don’t even have a safe go-to Bridge anymore because I’ve been stopped a zillion times at all the bridges connecting Southern Ontario to the US. 1000 Islands is the crossing point of choice when heading to most of the Atlantic Division rinks. It adds an hour to my drive, but at least I get to avoid the assholes that work at Queenston-Lewiston, the Bridge that hates me and my suspicious (and obviously bogus since girls don’t like sports) hockey adventures so much that even the Canadian side gives me shit when trying to reenter my OWN country! It really sucks to be in a position of absolute fear every time you book an American vacation due to the uncertainty of not knowing whether or not you’ll even be allowed to go. (Another reason why I’m glad that I’ve finally visited all the US-based NHL rinks now!) The worst part is that every time you get stopped at the Border it goes on some sort of record, which prompts more Border guards to send you off for other forms of inspection despite the fact that nothing suspicious has ever been found in your car, and that you’ve never NOT been admitted into the country after said inspection.

This time around the Border guard seemed to be completely overwhelmed by the state of my passport, and its clutter of full page Visas, permits, stapled documents, and stamps. The guy went through each and every page individually while asking me irrelevant question after irrelevant question – almost like he was trying to deduce if the passport actually belonged to me. There’s an easier way to do that, buddy! Ask for another form of I.D. like, I don’t know, a Driver’s Licence since I’m driving a car and all! I don’t even think the subject of my journey to New Jersey even came up. Anyway, after the inevitable red flag went up when he noticed that the country of my birth did not match the nationality of my passport, I realized that I had reverted to my Gaijin Mafia tone of voice that I tend to resort to when I know I’m doing something bad in Japan, but will still play up the dumb, yet pushy, foreigner and get my way anyway. “Yeah, I was born in Germany on a Canadian FORCES Base *raises eyebrows in a menacing fashion*.” Translation: “Soldier’s daughter coming through, and you’re American, which means you’re actually impressed and terrified by this revealation.” No further questions.

But the Gaijin Mafioso’s rein of terror did not end there. It’s hard to get out of Gaijin Mafia Mode once you’ve had to use it. Over at Prudential Center the Gaijin from Hell used her mysterious powers to get a $10 ticket to the Bruins/Devils game despite the fact that all tickets at that price level had been sold out. Oh no… I had it in my head for over a week that I’d been basking in the glory of nosebleed seats for that game (yes, contrary to popular belief, I actually sit in the upper bowl from time to time), and no one was going to stop me from taking advantage of the bargain basement price offered at the Rock. Later on one of the men sitting in the same section as me remarked that my quote unquote, “Pretty eyes and blonde hair” had something to do with the fact that I was given a $10 ticket in the end, but really it was more of a piercing stare and a not-my-problem-do-something-about-it shrug of the shoulders that won out (as it usually does), in the end. Gaijin 1 – Prudential Center 0.

Speaking of the guys in my section, they were nice and friendly, and seemed to enjoy talking to me. That is until the game ended, and then they found out who I really was. Oh God the look of, “Ohhh SHIT!” that spread across their faces… especially the one guy’s face who then made a point to inform me that he “stays away” from anything and everything related to Psycho Lady Hockey like he’s some sort of God damned, self-righteous freedom fighter or something. I just looked at him with my eyebrows raised in yet another Gaijin Mafia fashion, which should have been read as smug disbelief that there are still people out there that are so opposed to the fact that I choose to write a BLOG, an insignificant BLOG, about my life and my adventures as a hockey fan. Sometimes I wonder if these people realize that even if this blog didn’t exist that I still would exist, and that I still would be going on these ridiculous adventures whether or not there was documented proof online. Let’s face it. I’ve been writing this blog for 3 years, yet I’ve been traveling (on my own) to out-of-town hockey games for 10 years now. And, yes, that’s because 10 years ago I was 16 and didn’t have a Driver’s Licence before then.

After the game and subsequent beer at The Arena Bar, I headed straight back for my hotel room and the comfort of a bed that is not merely a piece of wood with a mat on it (like the bed I call mine here in Japan). I had an exciting off-day planned in New York City the following day, and I was (I think) a lot nicer and more agreeable that day. That is until I was actually shit on… by a bird, of course. More to come on that in Part 2 of the NHL Finale.

Top Photo: Yes, sometimes even I sit in the nosebleed section!

Although the NHL Lockout was an amazing year for AHL hockey, I can only imagine that the spectacular season, loaded with NHL talent, was bittersweet for St. John’s superfans, as they knew going in that it was the end of the line for their beloved Baby Leafs. For ravenous hockey fans such as I, however, the news that Toronto would once again have an AHL team was a time of celebration. I didn’t even have to think twice about putting down a deposit on season tickets when I was approached by a fresh faced sales person just before the gates opened for a special St. John’s Maple Leafs vs. Hamilton Bulldogs extravaganza at the Air Canada Centre.

Fast track to life after the big move from Newfoundland, and Toronto hockey fans would be put under the microscope for failing to embrace the Marlies as they had been embraced in St. John’s. “Toronto isn’t a hockey town, it’s a Leafs town.” I for one find such statements offensive. Just because the average Joe isn’t willing to blow an ungodly amount of money on “the next best thing” doesn’t have anything to do with whether he is a hockey fan or not. And I know from experience that most of you AHL fans out there are not paying nearly $50 a pop to sit in the first 8 rows of your favourite minor league rink. I also don’t think I need to remind you that, especially in Toronto, most hockey fans have never actually been to a live game.

Anyway… my rant has taken me off course a bit, so I will just say that I’m beside myself with glee that AHL hockey has once again been restore to St. John’s, and I feel very fortunate to have been able to see the new club play while on my brief hockey vacation from Japan these past few days. The game between Old St. John’s and New St. John’s did not disappoint. Those last few minutes of the game were especially epic. There was one problem, however, and that was my camera. As you can see from my standard game day shot, we struggled to get the camera to focus. All pictures came out blurry or dark, and unlike SOME people I don’t tend to purposely try to overexpose my pictures like I have something to hide… ahem, so I basically just gave up on the photo thing. There must have been something weird about the lighting in Ricoh Coliseum that didn’t agree with my cheap ass camera.

Luckily, my friend had a camera on his phone (I don’t have a North American phone currently), so we were able to get some workable photos at the expense of Mr. Photo Happy himself, Mike Zigomanis. I have to use this opportunity to make another comment on that whole dick pic scandal once again. OK first of all it’s pretty sad that major Toronto media is even covering this story to begin with, but it’s even sadder that it has taken them MONTHS to actually catch up to it at all. That being said, the bullshit statements they release on the matter actually blow my mind.

“Of course the pictures aren’t of him. He’d obviously own up to it if they were because that’s the kind of guy he is.” Uhhh… really?! I don’t care if you’re Jim Carrey in Liar Liar. No one would “own up” to leaked naked photos of themselves if their face wasn’t in the pictures to begin with. Come on. I mean Jiri Tlusty didn’t really have a choice as his mug was in those pictures, but even so, I’m surprised he didn’t make more of an effort to try to make a case for photoshopping. Of course Zigomanis is going to deny those photos, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t photos of him.

Once again, I obviously can’t comment one way or the other, or confirm the allegations for either side of this “are they or aren’t they?” debate, but I can leave you with some food for thought. Like I said in my original write up on the topic, I can’t imagine who these girls are that are malicious enough to actually try to embarrass someone like this. But it is that very malicious intention that makes the strongest argument in support of the authenticity of those photos. I think that if someone was mean enough to want to post naked pictures of someone online, then they are obviously doing it with the intention of embarrassing their victim. So, that can only work in two ways. 1) They actually had naked photos of the person, and simply uploaded them to a website, or 2) they didn’t have naked photos of the person, so they went and found the most embarrassing random photos (read: small penis pictures) out there, and uploaded them to a website under the name of the victim. And, well, ladies and gentlemen, have you SEEN the Zigomanis dick pics??!?! There’s nothing embarrassing about those, eh, girls? Therefore, if you want my opinion, that can only mean ONE thing… Quick! Someone give this guy my phone number!!

]]> http://www.psycholadyhockey.com/the-ahl-comeback-photo-blunders-abound-with-the-toronto-marlies/feed/ 1 http://www.psycholadyhockey.com/the-ohl-comeback-and-then-the-kingston-mascot-molested-me/ http://www.psycholadyhockey.com/the-ohl-comeback-and-then-the-kingston-mascot-molested-me/#comments Sun, 01 Jan 2012 04:21:57 +0000 Psycho Lady http://www.psycholadyhockey.com/?p=1192 Kingston, ON I woke up on Friday morning with nothing to do, and, to me, that was outrageous. I only have a guaranteed two weeks of North American hockey to look forward to this season, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make the most of it. So, I decided to get my ass out to an uncharted OHL rink, which meant, as you may have guessed, that I did not have time to do anything other than throw on some clothes, grab my overnight bag (that was luckily still loaded with unused Pittsburgh stuff), and run out the front door like a grotesque and unshowered bat out of Hell.

Hours and hours and hours later, I pulled into Kingston. The traffic all the way down the 401 was brutal, and I have absolutely no idea why! I think there was some severe rubbernecking going on. Unfortunately for the patrons of the K-Rock Centre that night, namely the quiet old man sitting next to me who yelled, “Shit” periodically throughout the game, I didn’t have any time to get cleaned up before heading to the rink as you can tell from my game day shot. Sorry!

The temperature was well into the negative that night, and Kingston had turned into a virtual skating rink. I had to glide all the way to the arena at the pace of a speed skater to avoid losing some of my extremities to the cold. I sought shelter in the first deserted entrance I saw to wait for the gates to open. An usher with a strangely familiar face was pacing around the doorway. I couldn’t shake the fact that I knew him from somewhere. Finally, after racking my brain for the 15 minutes prior to the doors opening, I handed him my ticket and asked, “You didn’t happen to work for Maple Leaf Sports, did you?” Sure enough he WAS one of my old work colleagues from waaaay back in my MLSE days. We weren’t in the same department, and he had facial hair now, which explains why I struggled to place him with confidence at first.

Yeah… Pick up those pucks!

We spent the entirety of the second period shooting the shit, which was fine because neither the Frontenacs nor the Generals scored a single goal in the period, so I didn’t miss anything other than some young boys skating around with a dangerous amount of facial hair for their own good. Anyway, he told me several interesting legends from his time working with the Leafs. Back during the 2003 playoffs he set the ice at the Air Canada Centre with two lucky pennies. One penny was dated 1967 and the other was 2003. He hid each penny under the goal posts in the Leafs zone. For each of the three games hosted in Toronto, NO ONE scored on that net. Now that’s not to say Toronto was never scored upon, just that no one was able to score on that end of the ice. Unfortunately, management found out about the pennies, and made him take them out. He also noted that since he stopped doing the ice at the Air Canada Centre, the Leafs haven’t made the postseason. Interesting… and here’s hoping that his curse is finally lifted this year!

While we were swapping stories, the Fronts mascot, Henry, interrupted us by rubbing my back in a manner that can only be described as somewhere in the realm of post-coital sensuality. I have quite the storied history with mascots doing bizarre things to me. Most notably Griff in Grand Rapids (AHL). He used to attack me ALL the time; every time I went to Van Andel Arena, or if he showed up at another rink that I was also at. He’d always BITE me, or just lurk in my general vicinity with his menacing presence. Then there was Tex in KItchener (OHL) who was most famous for messing up my hair, and that damn Phlex in Philadelphia (AHL) who thought he was better than me! Actually, the most disturbing mascot of all wasn’t even a hockey mascot. Back during one of the Halloween Haunts at Canada’s Wonderland, one of the monsters kept following me around saying, “Yeaaahhh, let’s make a baby.” What I found most uncomfortable about that whole incident, as well as with my Henry encounter, was that the mascot was shorter than me. I don’t know. There’s just something severely off-putting about shortness in mascots.

Despite a loss for the home team, and the fact that the arena poutine made me feel sick (don’t freak out or anything. I think the problem was not the poutine itself, but rather the fact that I crushed not one, but TWO A&W Papa Burgers prior to the game…don’t judge me!), it was an overall great experience to finally get down to the “controversial” K-Rock Centre. Kingston has been #1 on my OHL hit list for a couple seasons now, so it’s a great feeling to finally add this one to my repertoire of episodes of hockey related insanity. Sadly, according to the people of Kingston, the K-Rock Centre raised a lot of eyebrows when it was being built – something to do with the fact that the mayor owns the land that it’s built on. Anyway, the bottom line is that a lot of hockey fans in Kingston refused to support the Fronts as a means of protest against the whole scandal. Hmm makes me wonder if the 67’s and Bulls had a spike in ticket sales since the new rink was built. You really have to feel for the kids in all of this, though. It must be tough to play in front of an empty barn at such and impressionable (and vulnerable) age.

And now I leave you with a rare photo of former Frontenac, Mike Zigomanis, with his pants ON! Sean Avery is also pictured.