NHL Hockey in America… the best sex in a cup that you’ll never hear about.
Any sport still playing for a trophy purchased for the sum of ten Guineas rocks in my book!
I freely admit that I am a sucker for traditions and authenticity, but since I’m a good 20 years shy (or about the time Tiger Jr. wins his 4th Green Jacket) of embracing flog at St. Andrews as the third head on my Cerberus of sport, I seek you HockeyPhreak37@oldschoolpuckhead.com…
Explain to me to the lore, the history… and why us Americanskis are not basking in the warm post-coital glow of yet another amazing Stanley Cup run? Why we didn’t watch in awe as NKOTB’s Crosby and Ovechkin dropped same game hat tricks (cue flying octopi… love it) , or revel in the furious waning moments of the Pens miracle season?
Watching 4 games of this years cup run, including a rapturous game 7, I was starting to feel it. Puck fever baby… and the wonder of a game 7 anything. Absent was the horde of local ”big game groupies.” Invisible during the regular season, these buddies are staples of the “big game” and show up for any World Series, NBA Finals, etc. with a 7-layer dip, a jersey and claims to years of <insert_sport_here> allegiance. Typical game seven scene and crew, Beers Brats and the Barry Melrose mullet? In a word… Nyet.
What’s not to like about Hockey?
Pro hockey is wonderfully devoid of the corporate poison coursing through the veins of the NFL, MLB, and NBA. The “Poulan Weed Eater Stanley Cup” would never see the light of day in the NHL. The NHL is also ripe with enviable and longstanding traditions… the victors drinking Champagne from the Cup, the handshake, growing playoff beards, and flinging ocotopi in Detroit
Don’t call me Francis… If Zisky were to “rate the Russians” of the NHL, guys like Ovechkin, Fedorov, and Bure… I don’t think he’d be calling them pussies.The NHL remains a bastion of true tough guys, especially contrasted with todays Axe body spray wearing metrsosexual assclowns… Philo Beddoes and Rocky Balboas who slap wrist shots while balancing on blades of steel. [youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LrllCZw8jiM[/youtube]
Long live the Stanley Cup…
As a diehard fan of the greatest game on earth, NFL football (aplogies to PeleIsJesus@ManU.com) the traditionalist in me would gladly trade the relatively benign Lombardi, for the cult status of the storied and perpetual Stanley. Since each player gets to take the Stanley home for a day, sordid tabloid worthy beer pong and “Stanley Cup as a sex bench” tales have circulated freely.
-Editors note: Players feeding their dogs and baptizing their children with the cup are indeed true, but reports that Claude Lemieux pulled a Najeh Davenport Dookie in the Cup (on the Letterman show no less) appear to be greatly exaggerated.-
Not to mention that guys playing for the right to drink champagne out of a singular cup, beats the snot out of those godawful “guido the killer pimp” power rings given to an NFL champion. Do you really think Jeff Reed (Steelers Kicker) rocks the house with his 32-pound jewel-encrusted bling; can you imagine Gretzky sporting a rock that would make Mr. T smile… or Tie Domi?
Light at the end of the dark months in sport?
Forever I shall worship at the altar of pigskin, but I desperately seek something to rabidly root for once the Lombardi has been awarded and the sporting landscape has been reduced to Bud Selig’s boys and the post Michael Jordan NBA. Halfway home… the NHL already fulfills my basic sporting needs of passion, authenticity, toughness, and tradition.
Dear NHL: Though you did not have me at hello, I am yours for the taking… a simple ”call me, tradition is found here” whisper in my ear should suffice. After yet another brief fling this postseason, I ask you to flaunt your history to me like a mini-skirt wearing hooker working the bar after last call. Do me right, and I may even want to call you the next day.