:: This is really happening ::

I know it's been quite some time since I posted here – I'd apologize for that, but I'm not sorry – and a lot has gone on in the interim. For one, I did in fact turn 30 years old, while in Vegas with my friends; Macho Man Randy Savage died; my dog spent the better part of two days throwing up, thus costing me a $515 vet bill; and most importantly – and these two things are likely related – the Canucks advanced to the Stanley Cup finals and the world, despite claims to the contrary, did not end last Saturday.

To be honest, the lack of Rapture came as a surprise to me, if only because, as I mentioned, the Vancouver Canucks are in the fucking Stanley Cup finals. If ever there was a reason to think all humanity was about to cave in upon itself, this may have been it.

At least that's how most fans here saw it, as we've grown oh-so-accustomed to failure, to bad things happening at the last minute; to shots ringing off goal posts and riots breaking out in the streets.

Yes Vancouver, it seems failure is what we do, what we've always done.

And while I'm loath to go all deep on y'all and suggest this somehow mirrors my life as I enter my 30s and leave my 20s behind – after all, I had a pretty good 10 year run there – there are a few similarities. Without getting into specifics, I had a few speed bumps in my early/mid 20s, a few spectacular failures – shit, I ended up in Northern Alberta for Christ's sake, pulling in a whopping $26,000 a year.

I look back eight or so years, and shake my head. Sure, we had a helluva time – a helluva time – but some of the things that went on, my god... well, nevermind. Said I wouldn't get into specifics, and I meant it. Doesn't matter though – most of you were there. You know.

But here's the thing – it got better. It is better. It's fucking fantastic, as a matter of fact.

I'm not the same stupid idiot I was when I was 22, nobody is. (Even Kyle said to me the other day, "Everybody changes. Look at me – if I didn't change, I'd probably have AIDS right now and be dead." I did not dispute his claim.)

So yes, things get better. And – now we'll just seamlessly move back into the sports realm here, if you don't mind – things seem to be getting better here, too. Vancouver pulled off one hell of an Olympic party last year; many said it was the greatest Olympics in the event's long history, and they're probably right.

The party went off without a major hitch, perhaps signaling for once and for all that we can have something good without blowing it. Everyone seemed to get along. Everyone was (mostly) positive. There were no riots.

And now, here we are, 15 months removed from that success, and 17 years after the last "success" of our beloved Canucks, though success of course is a relative term – the team did lose, after all.

But this time, maybe it really is different. Maybe, just maybe, it really is better. After all, the team itself is remarkably better than either the scrappy '82 squad or the team that, led by Trevor Linden, came one goal away from winning it all in 1994.

This year's team is expected to win.

And the difference between this team and other Canucks teams with similar expectations – those rosters of the early 2000s, for example – is that this time they're actually doing it. They're actually winning. Not the whole thing yet, of course, but still... those great teams of the 2000s were golfing by now.

I get the feeling that a lot of people don't know how to deal with such a phenomenon. I know I don't. I mean, we simply aren't used to this. There must have been some kind of mistake, right? Some kind of clerical error? We're in the what finals?

Since the Canucks punched their ticket to the big dance earlier this week, I've swapped many a text message with my brother, and most end – or start – like this.

"This is really happening."

Sometimes we'll talk about what we'll do if they actually win – what we'll say, where we'll be, or how much we'll drink.

But regardless of those finer details, Chris predicted there will be "mayhem." I agreed with him. There will be – not a replay of the Stanley Cup riots mind you, but a better kind. A happier kind.

Because this isn't 1994 anymore.

It's better.

:: Wasted Talent ::

This year, I have discovered two things about myself: 1) Despite never really playing before, I am actually quite good at playing poker, and 2) I am also pretty good at picking football games. 

Now, I've played poker before 2010, obviously, but it's only ever been with my friends at 2 a.m. once everybody's schmammered, and I'd never actually been in a tournament. But then, in May – while on a golf weekend trip out in Chilliwack – I played in a 12-man tournament, and after slow-playing everyone to death (I'm rather conservative, it turns out) I ended up finishing second, and won $60. I also received a handful of compliments about how well I had played.

Then, last weekend at Davy and Colleen's, I lasted five hours and ended up sixth out of about 16 or 18, which is pretty not bad. And though I collected no monetary winnings, I did score myself a sweet consolation prize – a large bottle of Baby Duck wine.

Which brings me to my next thing: picking football games. 

I'd been in a million football pools prior to this year – although I've never done very well – but I'd never been in a pool like the one Chris, Me, Davy and a few others were in this year. In addition to the typical fantasy league, we also had to pick who we thought would win each game every week, and whoever picks the most correct games – no point spreads – by the end of Week 17, gets $60 or so. 

And while I was knocked out of the fantasy league in the first round of playoffs – losing to Davy on the last play of Monday Night Football, no less – I am doing quite well at this pick 'em business. 

I'm kicking ass, as a matter of fact.

Now, I know a decent amount about football, and I can predict the odd game or two, but this was the first time where I was forced – if I wanted to win – to pick a winner in each and every game for 17 weeks. 

Turns out, I'm pretty good. My success rate through Week 15 (not including tonight's Monday night game) is 99.1 percent.

Yes, 99.1. 

I am, in this part of my life at least, less than 1% away from being perfect.

Davy's in second place at 92%, but I've got a seven-game lead on him. 

So yeah, 2010 has been a pretty good gamblin' year for me. And what do I have to show for it? 

$60 – with that number jumping to a potential $120 – and a big bottle of $9 champagne*. Yep, I'd say I'm putting my newfound talents to good use. 

*I would also like take this opportunity to point out that, in my 167-person hockey pool run through my dad's work (it's a pick-a-player-from-each-box style pool) I am currently in first place. I'm only three up on second place, and a week ago had a 14-point lead, so these things change quickly, but still, I am in first place. Winner gets about $1,300. This is the same pool I won two years ago, collecting a cool, cool $1,600. 

:: Instant trade analysis ::

Yesterday, the Stanley Cup champion Chicago Blackhawks traded Dustin Byfuglien and a bunch of extras, to the Atlanta Thrashers for a couple high draft picks. The deal was widely — and instantly – panned as awful for ATL, as it should be, because despite his playoff heroics, Big Buff isn't exactly a 30-goal scorer, and first- and second-round picks are a lot to cough up.

Not too much though, for Atlanta, where years of awful decisions don't get you fired, but get you promoted instead.

The trades sounds even worse when you consider that the draft picks Atlanta moved to Chicago are the same picks they got from New Jersey in exchange for their former superstar Ilia Kovalchuk. When you consider the two moves together, the Thrashers essentially traded a 45-50 goal scorer – not to mention team captain and face of the franchise – for Byfuglien, Ben Eager, Johnny Oduya, Niclas Bergfors and a prospect who didn't even finish his last junior season because he attacked a guy.

Basically an all-star for spare parts.

And after hearing that, I think the trade with Chicago was summed up best by Chris, who said to me yesterday:

"Wow, that's like when we were kids and I traded your best hockey card for 25 shitty ones."

And you know what? It's exactly like that.

When we were kids, one day when I wasn't home, Chris traded my Ed Belfour rookie card – which at the time was probably worth $10 bucks (big money in a kid's world) – to some neighbour kid for a stack of shitty commons. I was not very happy.

Come to think of it, I still haven't forgiven him.

What a dick.

:: Something only Christene and the Canucks themselves are happy about ::

Now that the 'Nucks have dispatched the L.A. Kings in six games, it was announced today that no matter what the second-round matchup turns out to be, the Canucks' second-round series will not begin until Friday.

Today, in case you were not aware, is only Monday.

So once again, Canuck fans have to sit around twiddling their hockey-gloved thumbs – or more likely, over-analyzing the shit out of the next round – while, on a positive note for one girlfriend, Christene gets her boyfriend's full attention for an amazing four consecutive days.

(Except Wednesday. I have baseball.)

:: A long wait ::

Ninety-year-old retiring* Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens is old enough that he saw his first baseball game before the Great Depression, and while he confirms here the long-held myth that Babe Ruth did in fact call his shot, the saddest part of that story is the fact that, barring a an absolute miracle, Steven will not live to see his beloved Chicago Cubs ever win it all.

Non-sports fan probably scoff and wonder what the hell the big deal is – it's just sports, after all – but this, to me, is incredibly sad. I mean, 90+ years is an awful long time, and obviously the Cubbies got close a few times only to fall short – paging Steve Bartman – but still, more than 90 years without a break going your team's way is really, really tough to think about.

I can't imagine being 90 years old, still waiting for the Vancouver Canucks to win the Stanley Cup. It could very well happen, mind you – we're at 40 years and counting, Canuck fans – but I have to think that, over the next 60, something good is going to happen. 

It's got to, right?**

*Just retiring at 90? Really? If I made judge money I'd be out by 55.

**Want to play a fun game with yourself? If you aren't worried about "jinxing" your team, take a minute and imagine what it will actually feel like if the Canucks won the Stanley Cup this year. Just think about being in that room watching TV, probably with all your buddies, as time ticks down in a deciding game, with Vancouver ahead. Imagine Roberto Luongo lifting the cup over his head. Imagine Robson Street. Imagine the looting (maybe). I get worked up just thinking about it. It's painful to think about though, because who knows when it will happen.

:: Throwing hands ::

In my adult life, I've been in two fights - both, incidentally, at hockey rinks. The first, some of you may recall, came about 5-6 years ago, when a handful of us were watching Chris, Gorski, and... other people (sorry, can't remember if anyone else was on that team. Lambie maybe? I dunno...)

Anyways... that altercation came about when - after a bit of a brouhaha on the ice - I cheered when Gorksi, who was in net, hit an Aldergrove guy with his stick. An Aldergrove dad, sitting a few rows behind us, did not like it, and we started yelling at each other. Then he called me fat, yelled at my mom, and that's when I punched him. Pat broke things up about five seconds after that.

Fight #2 came Friday night, when I went to the rink to watch the Mooseknuckles game. After the game, a bunch of us - all the players, plus Chris, Me, Sean, Amanda and Jenna - were sitting in the dressing room, having some beers. I was sitting next to the goalie, Danny.

Right from the start, he was being weird about me being in his space - I'm not sure if he noticed how small the dressing room was, but there's really not a lot of places for that many people to sit, and I'm also not sure why he thought he deserved eight feet of bench, but that's really not important. What matters is that he was being weird about it.

Eventually, we started jostling for space - trying to knock each other off the bench, etc... it was all just goofing around. We were laughing (at least I was).. no big deal. But then he decided to put me in a headlock and quite literally, try to choke me out.

Whether he knew it or not, this is when it went beyond just a couple guys screwing around. I honestly could not breathe - my face went red, and I didn't enough have enough oxygen to say, "OK, joke's over. Stop." I mean, this Danny kid was a strong guy, and I really had no way of getting him off me.

So I elbowed him in the junk (which missed and got him in the thigh), and then when he finally let me up, I threw a beer at him and punched him twice in the face, before he came back at me and Bucholtz - wearing his delightfully tacky Cowichan sweater - broke it up.

I never got hit, and then I left the room, followed by Sean and Chris. A few seconds later, the goalie tried to come after me again in the lobby, but Chris stopped us from having round 2 (And almost started trading punches with him, himself, he said.)

After the situation defused, Chris (who, not surprisingly, was pretty jacked up about the whole ordeal) and Sean both said I did the right thing. Jones did too. Jeremy said "Well, he owes you a punch" which is, of course, bullshit (No offence Jer - so you can't be mad). And it's only bullshit because fights are inherently not fair - somebody has to start it, somebody has to throw the first punch, and unless it's one of those schoolyard, "Meet me at the swings at recess" fights where both parties know it's about to happen, a fight is usually going to be a surprise to somebody. If he owes me a punch, I owe him a 15-second choke hold, because I didn't see that coming either.

And sure, I know that it was unlikely I was going to get the worst of it - I was in a room with 10 of my friends, you think they were gonna stand around while I got pummeled? No, of course not. But regardless, that's the situation we were in.

Besides, I think everybody knows I'm not a violent, angry, fight-starting person. But when you can't breath, you panic. And I definitely did - and when I could breath again, I just sort of snapped. I mean, you gotta stick up for yourself, and that's what happened. I didn't even consciously decide to do it - I mean, it wasn't until afterward that I even knew I hit him twice. I thought it was just once.

It was all a blur. And though I feel bad for making the dressing room an awkward place - and for making Dan suffer through the world's most awkward drive home (He gave Danny, the goalie, a ride), I don't really apologize for much else.

But I'll tell you what - for a guy who never really got hit, fuck was I ever sore on Saturday morning. Back, shoulder, neck - from the choke - it all fucking felt like I'd been in a car accident. I'm definitely too old for that shit.

Therefore, I think it's in everybody's best interest if I retire. With a perfect 2-0 record and without ever having taken a punch*.

*Whether this is because a) I'm one helluva crafty scrapper, or b) because I'm lucky or c) because my friends break things up quick, is really here nor there.)

(The line of the night goes to Lambie, who apparently said after I left the dressing room, "Leave it to Nick to insult the guy with a joke about the Internet." As me and Danny yelled at each other on the way out, I called him a "fucking Craigslist hack" because he's not a very good goalie, and because Jer found him for the team via the online classifieds.)

:: The Process ::

You hear versions of it all the time, how it's not about winning, but how you play the game. And coaches, with increasingly regularity (especially in the NHL), like to talk about "the process" - that most elusive of concepts. Then, conversely, there's those from the Al Davis "Just Win, Baby" camp. For the record, this is usually the camp I've fallen into. What can I say? I'm a competitive person.

But last night I changed my mind.

I was working, covering the B.C. senior boys basketball provincials downtown at the Agrodome. Saturday night was the final. The game was actually a terribly sloppy one - neither team shot anywhere close to even 30% from the field - and the team I was there to cover ended up blowing a lead and losing in the last three minutes. So it was not necessarily a fun night for me (It's awfully tough to talk to kids who just lost the last high school basketball game they'll ever play, and lost it in front of 4,500 people, no less).

One coach, I know very well. Fantastic guy. Likes to talk about "the process" a lot, and borders on being hokey when he starts talking about worrying more about turning his boys into well-adjusted men, than top basketball players. From almost anybody else, I'd call bullshit, but he's genuine, he really is. Talk to him for 5 minutes, and you know that he really cares about his players.

His team lost, but it still took him 20 minutes to leave the floor, because everyone - fellow coaches, parents, players, younger students - wanted to talk to him, give him a high-five or a hug. It takes a special coach, a special person, to have that kind of effect on people.

But last night, my courtside seat along media row happened to be behind the other team's bench, where I watch closely a coach I knew nothing about.

I was not impressed - right from the first impression.

For starters, as far as high school sports are concerned, this tournament is pretty much the Stanley Cup. So the coaches look presentable - suits, ties, jackets.. nice shoes, that kind of thing.

This coach, however, chose to wear ill-fitting black pants - which could've been track pants, for all I know - and a stretched out, awful sweater that was about two sizes to big. He was balding, and his hair on the sides of his head stuck straight out, mad-scientist style.

And oh, did he yell.

At the referees, sure - not that uncommon - but mostly at his own kids. And not that "constructive criticism" kind of yelling, not the motivation kind. It was the screaming kind. And loud, with arms flailing, hands grabbing the collars of his player's jersey. It was ridiculous. With his bright red face, I would not have be surprised if he'd dropped dead right there from a stroke. There were times where he reminded me of comedian Lewis Black, with his over-the-top, scream until your voice goes raspy deliver.

At one point, he pulled a player - who'd just made a mistake - off the court, sat him down on the bench and got right down in his face.

"You can't do this to me!" the coach yelled.

Funny, I always thought it was about the kids.

His team won, of course, thus validating his approach, which actually bugged me more than having to interview teary-eyed kids. But had his team lost, I would've known why. Teams, you see, often take on the personality of the guy in charge. And this guy's team, which trailed until its late-game comeback, was rattled right from the start. The players yelled at the refs, they pushed and shoved the other team, they screamed back at their coach. There's a fine line, obviously, between intensity and out of control, but I'd suggest the team was the latter.

The other bench? Calm and cool.

But like I said, the crazy coach won. After the game, talking to the coach I know, I mentioned my observations to him. Not wanting to rag on another coach or his style - like I said, he's a good guy - he just kind of shrugged.

"Regardless, it's a championship style tonight," he said.

He's right, of course. All the yelling, the screaming, the grabbing kids' collars, it worked. His team won.

Still, there's something to be said for the process.

:: Chips and a Coke ::

On Friday afternoon, needing a junk food/caffeine rush of some kind to get me through the last few loooong hours of work, I walked across the street and bought a Diet Coke and some Doritos. And as I walked back with these two items in my hand, I was for some reason reminded – out of the blue – of my Grade 8 gym teacher.

I am, as you are likely aware, not in the greatest shape. Sure, I'm not 288 pounds like I was in my Alberta heyday (I'm a svelte 227 now for those scoring at home), but I'm not about to go run a marathon either. Or wear anything slim-fitting, for that matter. 

But during the early days of high school – before what I'll call the Pizza Hut Era – I wasn't yet The Fat Kid. I was just a regular-sized guy. And my Grade 8 gym teacher was Mr. Bergen. He was a gruff no-nonsense guy, but he always got along well with the jocks – pretty standard for all gym teachers everywhere, I'd guess. He was likable enough, as far as most were concerned. But I never really liked him. To be honest, I thought he was a bit of a pompous dick.

So that's probably why I never paid much attention to anything he said, and it's also the likely reason I quit the Grade 8 basketball team halfway through the year. But more on that in a bit. 

One thing – possibly the only thing – I ever remember Mr. Bergen telling us in class came during a little speech he gave about the importance of being in shape and all that stuff. His point was that a healthy, active lifestyle was actually pretty easy to keep up. (His ulterior motive was to get us to sign up for the basketball team. He was the coach.)

"It's easy to stay fit, but it's all about choices," he told us. "When you go home from school today, for example, you can do two things. One, you can grab a basketball and go get some exercise in the driveway or at the school. Or two, you can go sit in front of the TV and watch cartoons with chips and a Coke."

Obviously, I eventually chose to align myself with the chips and Coke option. But it may surprise you to know that this wasn't my first choice. 

My first choice was to actually get some exercise. So I signed up to play basketball. Which wasn't really a stretch for me – I knew how to play, had a modicum of athletic ability, and I loved sports, so why not?

But aside from the 7 a.m. practices before school, the other thing that dissuaded me from the game – and made the chips and cartoon option look pretty sweet – was what I quickly noticed about the rest of my new 13-year-old teammates.

They were all douchebags.

Of course, at the time, I probably didn't think of them as "douchebags" but I know that I didn't like their attitudes one bit. They were mostly from James Kennedy Elementary – which was the elementary school hoops powerhouse, if there was such a thing – and I just thought they were, much like the coach, pompous dicks.

(Turns out my suspicions were correct – by Grade 12 they had all turned into your typical douchey jocks. You know, the kind of guys who all shave their heads to look the same, and say "Bro" a lot. So in retrospect, I'm glad I recognized it early and got out when I did.)

I was a mediocre player on the team. I played a few minutes off the bench, don't remember scoring much if at all (the latter fact also describes my early 20s) but I do recall being a pretty good rebounder, which was shocking for a kid who was barely five-feet tall. But basketball interfered with my weekend hockey schedule, and because hockey was more important and less douche-infested, I quit the basketball team after about a month. 

And that was really the beginning of the end for me, fitness-wise. I suffered through two years of miserable gym classes, where the pompous teachers spent most of class-time trying to act cool around the jocks while not really giving a shit about the regular kids, while the token one-year-older-because-he's-a-retard-and-failed-gym bully spent his time making life hell for the younger kids.

By Grade 10, my knees and head (concussion) were pretty sore from hockey, so I got a doctor's note to exclude me from my last year of mandatory high school gym. Sure, I probably milked it, I could've toughed it out, but by then I'd just had enough of all that high school gym class entailed – the asshole teachers, bullies, dumb jocks, etc...

And thus began my long, loving relationship with the Coca-Cola company.

Now, I'm not blaming douchey high-school basketball kids for putting me off the road to fitness and down Dorito Boulevard. I've become what I've become because of my own choices, and to be honest, I don't necessarily regret it. I'd rather be fat than an asshole. 

Just makes me wonder what might've been, is all, had I stuck with the whole basketball thing.

Maybe I could've played pro. Or at least been a gym teacher.

:: File this under "Not Surprising" ::

Chris and Jenna are in Edmonton this week, for a hockey tournament. On Wednesday night, they went to the Canucks-Oilers game. As you may be aware, the Oilers – losers of 15 of 16 heading into the game – blew a late lead, and the Canucks won it in overtime.

Had this result been in Vancouver, the rink would've been filled with Wooo!'s (which to the uninitiated, is the newest fad, Rick Flair-esque cheer at GM Place). Apparently, the numerous Canuck fans in attendance in Edmonton – Chris said "at least half" were wearing Canuck jerseys – tried to recreate this trend. Some more, uh, directly, than others.

Chris, via text message: Oh, there are some unhappy Oiler fans in here. This is hilarious, I don't think I can get enough Rick Flair's in before I leave.

Me: Haha, excellent work. Woo it up.

Chris: Oh, I did. Everyone was doing it. Especially me. Very loud too. And right in people's faces.

Me: Are you drunk?

Chris: No, buzzed maybe.... only had like seven beers.

:: Putting it in writing; a follow-up ::

Well, Canada announced its men's hockey roster for the 2010 Olympics this morning, and though I don't like to brag, my predictions from yesterday were nearly spot on. I mean, I only missed three players on the whole team – that's an 87% success rate, for those of you scoring at home.

Now, I know many of the roster spots were easy to predict – all three goalies, Iginla, Crosby, Pronger, and the like – but the only three I missed were Patrice Bergeron, Mike Richards and Brendan Morrow. In their place I had Martin St. Louis, Steven Stamkos and Shane Doan.

Morrow is essentially Shane Doan, so that's a wash, and to tell you the truth, the reason I had St. Louis on the team – aside from the fact that he's having a good year – was because I heard on TSN that he was gaining momentum with Yzerman's crew. If you read my predictions, you'll see that I had him as a possible replaceable player.

That said, I still picked him and was wrong. But 87% right, with all that talent potentially making the cut? That's pretty good. I'm especially impressed that I got a 100% perfect score when choosing the seven defencemen. I kept all three Calgary blue-liners off my team, even Bouwmeester, and it proved to be right.

I do really like the team that was chosen, although I'm a little bit bummed that Doan isn't there, and that Stamkos isn't the 13th forward. I mean, with scoring at a premium in the '06 disaster, you'd think they'd add an pure sniper as insurance. Instead, we've got more grit with Toews, Richards and Morrow, et al.

Might come back to bite 'em. Hopefully not.

:: Putting it in writing ::

They say that predictions are a fool's game (Well, I'm not sure who exactly says this, but I've heard it before), but even so, I'm going to go out on a sports-related limb today. Canada announces its Olympic men's hockey roster tomorrow, Dec. 30, and such an announcement will no doubt stir all kinds of debate.

And by that I mean that, for the next 3-4 days you won't be able to find a radio station, internet site, or TV channel not talking about it. And I – like 30 million other general managers in this country - have opinions and guesses on what the team would and should look like. And while it's easy to say, after the fact, that "Oh, I knew that guy would/wouldn't make the team" I figured I'd put it in print beforehand. My team is listed below. The over/under on how much I actually get correct is about 65%.

Keep in mind, this isn't the team I would pick, necessarily. It's the team I think Steve Yzerman and his staff will pick. So here goes:

FORWARDS (13):

Jarome Iginla

Sidney Crosby

Rick Nash

Corey Perry

Ryan Getzlaf

Martin St. Louis

Patrick Marleau

Joe Thornton

Dany Heatley

Eric Staal

Jon Toews

Shane Doan

Steven Stamkos

Notable omissions: Jeff Carter, Vincent Lecavalier, Brendan Morrow, Mike Fisher, Patrick Sharp

DEFENCE (7):

Chris Pronger

Scott Neidermayer

Duncan Keith

Shea Weber

Brent Seabrook

Dan Boyle

Drew Doughty

Notable omissions: Jay Bouwmeester, Dion Phaneuf, Mike Green

GOALIES (3):

Martin Brodeur

Roberto Luongo

Marc-Andre Fleury

So there you have it. Of course, like I said, this team isn't the one I would pick. If I was in Stevie Y's shoes, I'd have Morrow on the team (for grit), possibly in place of Stamkos or Marleau, but in the predicated lineup, I suppose Doan figures into that role.

And on the blue line, I have Doughty in my top 6 (instead of the 7th guy) and bounce Neidermayer, simply because he's not playing well this season. He's a lock for the team though, because of his experience and leadership. Can't say I really disagree with that, either, which just shows you how tough these calls are. If the Olympics were on Olympic-sized ice, I'd put Bouwmeester on the team in a heartbeat, but I think Canada can get away with no having his skating ability, since it's NHL ice.

As for the goalies, well there really isn't much debate. Cam Ward had a shot to start the year, but he's been hurt and also playing on the league's most terrible team. Steve Mason too, was once a leading candidate for that third goalie spot, but he's been awful this year. The only other name I've heard is a darkhorse, St. Louis goalie Chris Mason, but he hasn't done enough to bump Fleury, who's been good all year and has a Stanley Cup ring.

:: Yes, we're talkin' 'bout practice ::

The best part of my day – best part of my week, actually – came about an hour ago, as I talked to a basketball coach on the phone. Now, I haven't met this coach in person yet, but – and excuse the generalization – he sounded like he was black. He had a distinct twang in his voice, and some of the slang/expressions he used led me to assume this. (In essence, he basically just sounded way cooler than anybody I know).

I asked the coach what he thought of his team this year – a local senior girls high school team. His response was priceless – he went on a good rant about how he didn't even know what his team would look like because more than half his players were still playing volleyball ("You tell me how my team looks. You're covering the volleyball, so I bet you know better than me!), and then this led into a diatribe about how the two high school sports' seasons overlapped too much (he's right) which made it impossible for him to coach, and for his team to get off to a good start.

Just yesterday, he told me, he only had five girls out to practice. For the next five minutes, he said the word 'practice' approximately 15 times (ex: "I can't even get half the team out to a practice?! How we s'posed to play games, man... I mean, only five girls at a practice! A practice!)

Of course, considering the bemused yet frustrated tone of his voice, not to mention his twang and accent, reminded me an awful, awful lot of another famous practice rant. In fact, it was almost identical, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. That's how awesome it was. He is definitely my new favourite interview.

:: Small Victories ::

"This one guy, a goalie, keeeps bitching that his stats are wrong because I missed the shots on goal in two of his games, which throws off his goals-against average and his save percentage. He actually emailed by fucking boss to make sure it gets done. They're fucking men's league stats, for Christ's sake! Anyways, I pulled all his team's gamesheets and entered all his stats properly, sort of. I divided all his shots in half, so now his save percentage is so low it's ridiculous." - Chris, on how to deal with problems at work.

:: Surviving the round ::

"You prick! I hope you lose 53 balls (ha!), hit every water hazard and bunker on the course, and get kicked off the course for holding everybody up and generally being the worst golfer in history." - Kelsey's message to me yesterday, after my Facebook status bragged that I would be golfing while everyone else was working.

When I was in high school, I had a friend, let's call him Mike (because that was his name) who loved to tell stories. And by stories, I mean blatant fucking lies. Now, I've never begrudged a person for embellishing a good story ever-so-slightly - God knows I've been known to tell a good drawn-out story now and then - but Mike's fibs were so ridiculous they were beyond believable. In fact, looking back on it now, I wonder why none of us called him on his bullshit, but that's besides the point I guess.

One of my favourite Mike stories included the time he was a pitcher in a Little League game and accidently hit the batter in face, and his pitch was so incredibly fast that the ball stuck in the kid's forehead and when they took it out, you could basically see his brain.

I'm not even making this up - this was the story told by a 15 or 16 year old.

Then there was the time that he took his 2-wheel drive truck off-roading, smashed the shit out of all his fog lights and punctured a tire, then tried to tell ICBC that somebody had vandalized his truck in the school parking lot. The insurance adjustor took one look at his truck, saw the undercarriage caked with mud (which he stupidly didn't think to clean off), and told Mike to get the fuck out, and never try pulling that shit again or he'd be charged with attempted insurance fraud. To this day, he'll never admit the truth.

However, for the purposes of this post - which eventually will be about golf, I promise - my all-time favourite Mikeism was his tale about a round of golf he once played. He told us once that, when he was 13 or 14, he was golfing on a PGA course, and on a Par-3 he got a hole-in-one.

Now, consider so far the holes in this story:

- Mike was just as bad at golf as we were, if not worse. The odds of him hitting a hole-in-one on any course, ever, in the history of time, were about 53,000:1.

- He had never travelled anywhere, and with no local course being of the PGA variety, the mere idea that he set foot on a pro golf course was impossible.

However, despite these pretty significant problems with his story, Mike proceeded to dig himself into an ever bigger lie when he described how it happened. To hear him tell it, his tee shot made it just to the side of the green, then it clanged off the clubhouse (or some other on-course building), then hit an old man who was doing some maintenance (seriously), and then bounced off the man and into the cup.

So...yeah. That is my favourite golf story ever. Me and some friends from high school still laugh about it to this day, about 12 years after its first telling.

And now, the point of this story (I told you earlier I tend to ramble, what the hell did you expect?): Yesterday afternoon, Bobby and I golfed a round at Newlands that, at times, was nearly on par (pun intended) with Mike's story.

Well, in truth it's not really very close at all, but it was still the craziest round I've golfed in a couple years, and I wanted to tell you about it. (But I also wanted to write about my old friend Mike's stupid stories, so I had to find a way to combine them).

We teed off at 11:52 a.m., and the first tee box is oddly situated - it's elevated, and tucked right between the restaurant and the pro shop. I teed off first, and expected to hit a mighty slice (it's just what I do). However, no slice I've ever shot topped this one - after making contact with the ball, it did not travel the usual 85-100 yards before fading right. Instead, it went right immediately after contact, and smashed into the pro shop window.

(editor's note: Hi, I'm the next Tiger Woods. Nice to meet you)

Slightly embarrassed, I took a mulligan and tried again. Clang. Once more, off the pro shop, and into the garden. Lost ball #2. Now I was pissed off. So I teed off one more time, and this time successfuly got the ball 15 yards out - thus missing the pro shop hat trick - before it curved hard right and nearly killed some people on the putting green.

Now really mad, I just decided to hit from somewhere up the fairway so I could get on with things. So, we continued on our way up the fairway, and after Bobby rattled a few shots off some trees, we were both equally rattled and angry.

"Let's just get this fucking hole over with," we said.

So we hopped into the cart, planning to finish the hole asap. I stepped on the gas.

Nothing.

Put it in reverse. Nothing.

The fucking cart was dead.

So, we left our stuff there, on the edge of the first fairway, and marched back to the pro shop to explain what happened and get another cart. Soon, we had a working cart, went back to our old cart and transferred all our gear over. However, as we got set to continue, we realized that there were about 4 different groups on the par-5 hole, including a pair of old guys right where we were.

So we waited. And the people behind us waited. And the people on the tee waited too. We (or, to be specific, the course's broken cart) single-handedly delayed a whole ton of people before even finishing the first of 18 holes.

We rushed through the second hole, a short par-3, and the third was a rush job too. I was so rushed and rattled, in fact, that I lost another couple balls with my terrible slice. It was at this point thatI realized my summer goal of breaking 100 was not to be reached today. If I could break 115 that would be a small miracle.

By the fourth hole, we started calming down, and ended up joining up with the two old dudes in front of us - both of whom were awful golfers too, and one of the guys looked like John Madden's identical twin, which was actually pretty kick-ass.

Anyways, the next 15 holes went OK, although I eventually lost my eighth and final ball and had to borrow a couple from Bobby (plus I found a couple, which helped). In fact, I even had a couple of birdie putts (which I obviously missed) and I re-learned how to hit my three-wood from the fairway, which was another bonus.

But my main source of enjoyment was watching John Madden golf. I already mentioned his age - probably late 60s or early 70s - and because of this, he was certainly not the strongest guy, and his tee shots were pretty short, although usually straight. His mid-range game wasn't too bad either, but what was awesome was his putting.

It was absolutely terrible. He assumed every putt - no matter the green, no matter the distance - had a break on it, and he'd play it as such. He pushed every single putt at least a foot wide, sometimes much more.

And then he'd swear and piss and moan and complain about the course.

"This fucking course is a joke. Where's the break!? We're on a hill for crissakes!"

"I'm never making the mistake of coming here ever again. This is ridiculous."

I'd guess from these outbursts that he was either a) losing his marbles in his old age, and therefore thought he was much better than he actually was, b) having stroke and therefore not seeing straight, or the most likely, c) He was a pretty good golfer in his younger days, and could not come to grips that his game was getting worse as he aged.

Whatever the case, he was fun to watch. He didn't even putt out on probably 8-10 of the holes. He'd just make his putt from 6-8 feet, miss it by 30 yards or so, swear, pick up his ball and stomp over to his cart, where he'd sit and stew until the rest of us were finished.

And after we finished on the 18th green (well, he finished first because he just picked up his ball and went to the cart), we went over for the customary "Thanks for the round" handshake, and all he grumbled was, "You too. Now let's get the fuck out of here and go to the bar."

And then, the best part - when we added up our scores afterward, I had shot a 102.

Somehow, despite losing seven balls (and taking the penalty strokes that come with them) I had, inexplicably shot the best round of my summer.

102. If I took away the shitty first hole, in which I nearly killed a man on the putting green, I would have fucking done it. When I get back from Vegas, I still have a week's holidays, and I plan on golfing that fucking course until I get to 99 or better.

And if I have to kill a man on the putting green to make it happen, or bounce a hole-in-one off the head of John Madden's grumpy identical twin, I'll do it, so help me God.

:: Christene becomes a hockey fan* ::

Midway through Canucks/Blackhawks Game 3, after three months of being forced to watch games with me but not really ever caring about the outcome, this happened....

"Where's the effing defence? Get Vigneault out there - he'll take care of business!" - Christene, who by the way, likes head coach Alain Vigneault and his snappy suits better than any one player.

And just because I'm here, I might as well liquidate some old quotes from the system, too.

"Wine is not for guzzling!" - Vanessa, after doing just that, with not-so-good results, during a Canucks watching/house-warming party at Amanda and Kyle (and Maverick's) new condo.

"Dan's rad. I hope when I'm 45 I'm as awesome as him." - Bucholtz with the backhanded compliment.

"I'm gonna open a store that only sells things that I like. That way, all the other totally rad people will know where to shop." - Christene, after an unsuccessful experience at the Target in Burlington, Wash.

"I'm not drunk. But I'm... pretty drunk." - Bucholtz again.

"I want to get there and see him before he has a heart attack and dies." - Christene, talking about Big Elvis, who performs on the Vegas strip at Bill's Gambling Hall.

"I love cows - they're so cute. Too bad they're so tasty." - Christene, on Catch-22s.

After Rach got her ear pierced at the tattoo show...
Rach: I had to pay an extra $15 for the second hole.
Me: Oh, that's not too bad - I've done that plenty of times.
Rach: Uh, I was talking about the piercing.


*C'mon, it was inevitable - only a matter of time.

:: How to know when it's time to take a vacation ::

I just got back from a four-hour, double-overtime playoff hockey game. I am exhausted, but somehow still quite energetic and cheerful.

I don't know if it's because I just saw a very entertaining hockey game (which the good guys won, too) on an otherwise drab Monday, or if it's because I have a fantastic lede already written in my head for when I sit down at my desk early tomorrow morning and pound out the story on deadline.

I'm not exactly sure, but I think it's the second one.

That frightens me.

Trevor Linden, Part I

:: The importance of being there ::

I spent nine hours yesterday at a three-hour hockey game.

Take a minute and figure that one out.

Well, no, I wasn't necessarily at the game itself for that long, but it was all in the getting there and coming back. Yesterday, the Vancouver Canucks retired Trevor Linden's No. 16. Raised it to the rafters, never to be worn again.

Since it was announced, Dec. 17 vs. the Edmonton Oilers has been the hottest ticket in town, almost impossible to find. Being the possessor of a certain all-access pass, however, I was going. Obviously.

But then, on the morning of the big day, it started to snow. A lot – and for a very long time. And though snow and its accompanying problems are rarely long-lasting here in Vancouver, when they do happen, there's chaos for a day or so as road crews do their best to plow and salt the roads, and fellow drivers struggle in vain to remove their tuque-covered heads from their snow-covered asses.

All morning and early afternoon, I kept checking the weather and road statuses (statusii?) and never did they improve. I complained and complained, and tried to justify to myself the prospect of just going back home and watching from the comfort of my living room.

Yes, all the work required of me for my job could be done from home. No, it was not necessary for me to spend nearly 20 minutes in a blizzard unearthing my car from under five inches of powder. And nobody forced me to wear improper footwear, which left me with soggy shoes and soaking wet socks from late afternoon until I got home just before 1 a.m.

No, I didn't really have to go.

But, yes, I really did.

It was Trevor Linden.

My will-I, won't-I waffling, which culminated in my Facebook status complaining of how I didn't want to travel downtown to the game, was brought to my attention by my brother – and brought forth in stark relief, I may add, as Chris is rarely one to mince words. He would've killed to have been able to be at that game. So would've a lot of people. And we both knew it.

"Wow," he text-messaged me.

"Could your Facebook status make you sound like any more of a jerk? First of all, everyone loves snow, so get over it. Second of all, it must really suck having to get to GM Place tonight so you can sit in your free seat and watch the best game of the damn season. You ungrateful bastard."

Well said.

So I got out the ice scraper and began along my merry way.

For one hour and 20 minutes I turtled along the ice covered road, determined to stop at the first SkyTrain station I could find, and hop on.

The first station, I soon found, was a mess. Cars splayed randomly in the lot, parked like loose change tossed into a jar. So I continued on to the next stop – which I actually couldn't find, as side streets and snowbanks hampered my navigational attempts. So I went one more – my usual stop – and parked the car. Finally.

The train trip there was fine, without incident. The trip home? Not so much.

The game, scheduled to start a half hour later than usual due to TL's pregame ceremony (which was awesome, by the way, and will be subject to Part II later this week), but, as could be expected, even that cushion wasn't generous enough.

Eventually, after the ovations subsided, the chairs and carpets were folded up, and the various dignitaries and ex-players tucked snug in their VIP suite (editor's note: I had a nice, albeit quick, moment in the press box with ceremony emcee and legendary broadcaster Jim Robson, and bumped into – quite literally – longtime Canucks colour man Tom Larscheid as we both came around the same corner sharply, but in opposite directions), the game began at 7:45 – 45 minutes past the usual time.

With the delays right off the hop, I knew it would be tough to meet my 10 p.m. deadline, which I managed to get pushed back a bit. The game, and the deadline-meeting, was uneventful and successful, but I still got out of the game about an hour later than I usually do.

And when I trudged out into the cold and the slush to grab the train home, there was still, for some reason, an abundance of fans milling about. Usually by the time I leave, the trains are quite empty and peaceful.

Not tonight.

I got stuck in a train car with about 8 coke-fueled meatheads, two of whom were actual coke dealers (I know this because I heard them talking, and each had about $2,000 in cash on them at the time. I know this because one guy took out the stash and paid a kid $20 for his seat, and another dropped his wad of bills on the floor, because he was tackled by his similarly coked-out buddy.)

After about 15 minutes of getting jostled about by the aforementioned d-bags, I'd had enough. I hopped off the train at the Joyce station, planning on hopping on a following train soon after. Good idea, in theory. But, of course, the trains stopped coming.

Something about ice on the tracks a few stations ahead. Delays. Sorry for the inconvenience, a SkyTrain cop said. Thanks for your understanding, a recorded voice blared.

Fuck. You.

I stood on the train platform, shivering, for 20 minutes until the next train came. For those unaware, usually the wait is about 3-4 minutes, tops. I hopped on, and again it was busy. But at least not rowdy. Considering I'd been up since 6, at work since 7:30, and still soaking wet from the knees down, I couldn't do rowdy.

Now, the fun part.

Because of the threat of icy tracks, the train stopped at each station for 10+ minutes, while workers inspected the tracks for ice and any snow that had accumulated throughout the day. Considering I was in Burnaby and had to ride nearly to the end of the line in Surrey, this took some time.

With only 11 minutes to spare on my SkyTrain pass before it expired, my station was finally next. As the train approached the platform, it became clear that it was not going to stop. Ice on the tracks, I guess. The operators, without warning us via the loudspeaker, apparently decided the best course of action was to use the emergency stop procedure.

So the train literally screeched to a halt – imagine pulling the E-brake on your car while doing 90 km/h down the freeway – and, well, it got a little messy. People fell, bags got flung. It looked like an earthquake drill, there were so many people on the ground and in seats that did not belong to them.

I was standing at the time, and was tossed practically onto the lap of the guy in the seat next to me, my laptop bag being crushed all the while.

Then, as I suppose is customary with emergency procedures, the doors remained shut. Couldn't be opened for another five minutes – the longest five minutes in history, possibly - as the system reset itself.

Eventually, however, I hobbled out and down the stairs, and found my ice-covered car in the parking lot. By now it was well after midnight. Being so late on a Wednesday night, everything, of course, was closed – I usually grab a really late dinner at Subway on my way home – which meant I went without dinner, too.

By the time I eventually got home, at 12:45 a.m., I was too tired, too cold and too frustrated to make anything to eat. I had to be up in 6 hours for work, anyway, so I took a hot shower and crawled under the covers.

At work today, I relayed my adventure to some co-workers. And though the story ignited a fair amount of "I hate public transit" responses, some people were less understanding.

"You should've just went home. I told ya...." was a common response.

I tried to explain the game's importance. That it was an event I'd remember the rest of my sports-watching days. Twenty years from now, there will be a hundred thousand people who will purport to have been in the building the night Trevor Linden's number was lifted into the sky, desperate to feel included, desperate to say they witnessed something great.

But I was actually there. And 20 years from now, the last thing I want is to be that guy who tells people that he could've gone, but passed up the chance because he was afraid of a little snow.
I've never seen a Stanley Cup game in person, never been to the World Series or the Master's. Never seen a lot of things I wish I had.

But to add Trevor Linden Night to that ever-growing list, well, I couldn't live with that.

My co-workers still didn't understand.

Then one woman, from another department, wandered over to join in the conversation.

"You sports guys and you're 'I had to be there to see it,' nonsense," she said, shaking her head.

"I'll never understand..."

:: A chance for greatness ::

At the risk of having my Canadian citizenship revoked, I admit that I cared very little for today's Grey Cup between the Calgary Stampeders and the Montreal Alouettes. I tried hard to care, I really did, but I couldn't do it. Unlike some sports and leagues (baseball, NFL), I can't watch a complete game unless I have a vested interest in at least of the teams, or a player on one of the teams (I watched, for example, nearly an entire Minnesota Wild game the other game on TSN2 simply because I knew the rookie right winger). And the Stampeders/Allouettes just wasn't doing it for me.

Instead, I spent my day running errands, going for lunch with a friend and helping my dad put up the Christmas lights. In fact, I didn't even know what time the game started, and I didn't plop down on the couch and turn on the TV until the game was already well into the second quarter.

Eventually though, I found myself drawn to the game, not so much because I cared who won (because I didn't), but because the game was relatively close. And when the score is close in a meaningful game - championship or otherwise - I'll usually watch, for the simple reason that I don't want to miss some amazing moment that goes down in sports history.

Nobody wants to be the guy who missed the Hail Mary pass or the Music City Miracle.

Granted, those things rarely happen, but there's been more than a few sports moments I've missed or can't remember, and as a pretty big sports fan, that bugs me. If the Canucks ever make it to the Stanley Cup finals, for example, I won't even leave the couch, just to ensure I don't miss something great.

So that's why I watched the game on Sunday. And although there wasn't much in the way of historic moments, there was a somewhat dramatic 50-yard field goal by Calgary's Sandro DeAngelis (his fifth of the game!) that iced it for the Stamps.

And, of course, I missed it.

I was in the garage, grabbing myself a Diet Coke.

That aside, I'll leave you with these two Grey Cup moments:

The first came in a text message from Jenna, who was watching the game with her family. They were picking squares, and her mom won the first quarter:

"My mom just won the first. She's a bitch."

Ouch.

And then this from my dad, after TSN showed a clip of Montreal's dreadlocked Larry Taylor making two TD returns in last week's Eastern Final against Edmonton:

"Of course he's fast. He's probably used to running from the cops."

:: All over but the cryin' ::

Nearly five years ago, I wrote the shortest post ever to appear on this blog. It summed up, quite succinctly, the Vancouver Canucks' premature end to the season, losing in seven games to the Minnesota Wild despite leading 3-games-to-1 at one point.

It was, is, and always will be one thing: A choke job.

Today, the season is over prematurely again, although I'm hard pressed to call Game 81 a choke job. Yes, they needed to win to stay alive. Yes, they were playing the already-out Edmonton Oilers, and yes, they hadn't lost to the Oil at home, in regulation, in 16 months (16 months!!).

But it's not a choke job in the typical sense, because really, what did you expect? They haven't played like a professional hockey team for most of the past 4 weeks. If you want to label anything as a choke, label the entire month of March.

Because let's be real here, tonight's game wasn't any different than any other night. Plenty of opportunity. No finish.

No heart.

But disappointing as the last month has been, it all came to a head tonight. All the struggles could've been erased with a simple win (and then another Saturday, but we're living in the present here for the moment), but they just didn't have the heart.

And the most disappointing thing?

It wasn't the fact that they couldn't put the puck past a washed-up, 38-year-old goalkeeper who lost his starting gig this season to a guy (Mathieu Garon) who was once not good enough for the Los Angeles Kings.

And it wasn't the fact that they scored but one lone goal - near the end - despite a 2-man advantage, a 5-minute major power-play, and with nearly one-third of the game's total time (18 of 60 minutes) played with one player more than the other team.

It wasn't that Alex Burrows was the team's best forward, either; nor the fact that Trevor Linden won't play his final game as a Canuck in the playoffs - where he belongs - but rather in a mean-nothing Saturday night tilt that will have all the emotion of a crib tournament down at the senior's centre.

And believe it or not, it wasn't even that the immortal Linden happened to be in the penalty box when the winning goal was scored, even though we all know he deserved better.

And though it's a close call, the worst thing isn't even that I now have no meaningful hockey to watch until October, or that now all the bandwagon-jumping, fair-weather fans will be shooting there collective mouth off until then either, about all the things they knew that Dave Nonis didn't.

No, the saddest, more aggravating thing about suffering through all of this?

It was pay-per-view, and it cost us $12.95 to do it.

Like charging admission at a funeral.

It's been awhile since I've written anything, but I promise something will come eventually - I've got a few things in the works, including one story that involves me getting trapped inside a garbage can (Well, not really, but close..).

In the meantime, here are some quotes I've been collecting, as well as a couple links you should check out but probably won't.

"I swear I've seen Bobby 10 times already." - Chris, hanging out near the bar at Sharks' Club on Saturday night.

"Penguins look sad when they're walking." - Buchs. (Editor's note: Of course they're sad - haven't you seen this movie?)

"It's actually a pretty acceptable movie, and not just for the gays - for the normals, too." - Bucholtz again, giving a review of the movie Juno, which isn't - too my surprise - a biopic on this guy right here.

"I just can't get behind religion." - Buchs, after a few midweek beers.

"I call Wednesday, 'Friday Jr.'" - Buchs explaing why, after said beers, it was OK to be a little tipsy on a weekday.

"I might've bought the bed for us, but it goes where I go." - Scott, explaining how he managed to keep his new king-sized bed at home, despite the fact that he gave it to Kelsey for Christmas before she moved back into her own place.

And now for something completely different: I don't follow NCAA basketball very closely (but still probably closer than most people) except to periodically check out how a few local players who I happen to know are doing. However, I found this today on Yahoo! and I immediately like this kid named Kevin Love a lot.

The shit he's taken from his own hometown and home state is sickening, but not altogether that surprising. God forbid we be proud of talented people.

And on a goofier note, go read this story about Jonathan Coulton, the former nerd/computer programmer who quit his job to become a nerd/rock star. He wrote a song a week for an entire year, and posted them on his website. His song and his story don't exactly conjure up images of Led Zeppelin, but anybody who writes songs about giant, lonely squid trying to "play" with ships (song: I Crush Everything), and insanely ridiculous homages to former baseball commish Kenesaw Mountain Landis, is okay in my books.

Additional tunes: Code Monkey, The Town Crotch, Re: Your brains - and a cover of Sir Mix A-Lot's Baby Got Back. Click on his name above and have a listen - it's all there online.

And that, folks, is all you're getting today. Oh - and how 'bout them Canucks?