Hoisting the Cup ...

Boston, brilliant sunshine!

I've been watching Stanley Cup celebrations since 1972 (when my current "hometown" team, the Boston Bruins, edged my first hockey love, the New York Rangers, in six). And it never, never gets old. Last night was a passing of the torch, as the upstart Pittsburgh Penguins, with three top overall draft picks (a testament to just how bad the team was a few short years ago), slipped past a veteran Detroit Red Wing squad in Game 7, 2-1, to take the hard-fought series, 4 games to 3. Admittedly, being an old jock myself, I was pulling for the aging Wings to have one last dance with Lord Stanley's Cup, and it looked like they were in command after a 5-0 drubbing of the Pens in Game 5. But the tenacious youngsters from Pittsburgh, led by three stars who couldn't grow a decent playoff beard between them -- goalie Marc-Andre "Gumby" Fleury, Evgeni "Gino" Malkin, and "Sid the Kid" Crosby -- came storming back to take the last two games. It was the stuff of champions, and Pittsburgh was a deserving champ.

But what really grabbed me, after the last crazy scramble in front of Fleury's crease and the final horn, was the sheer exuberance of the victory celebration. I only hope Crosby, shown in the accompanying photo (somewhere, Tony "Stale Bread" Davenport is weeping in his orange & blue Islander pajamas), the youngest captain to ever hoist the Cup, understands just how fortunate he is!

The Stanley Cup is, without question, the most revered and most coveted of any major sports trophy. Quick, name another championship named after the trophy?!! Lord Stanley's Cup has taken on iconic status; it is hockey's Holy Grail. It has the power to make grown men cry, and those who hope to one day raise it overhead won't even touch it. That's some powerful magic.

Some of the best players to ever lace up a pair of skates, including two of my all-time favorite netminders -- Tony Esposito and Eddy Giacomin -- never won it. Another favorite, Raymond Bourque, the second best defenseman to ever don a Bruins jersey, had to OK a trade to the Colorado Avalanche to get his chance, and he made good on that one opportunity (so relieve was Bourque after finally hoisting the Cup that he promptly retired, leaving $6 million on the table). The players on the winning teams, all of them, have their names engraved in the polished rings that support the original Cup. In hockey terms, that's akin to immortality. And these Penguins, the long-struggling offspring of the great Mario Lemieux, will now see their names preserved forever. That's how it should be.

Best,
-Brion

Eight is more than enough ... !

Boston, still raining.

So here I am, feeling all sorry for myself after getting absolutely pummeled in my Friday morning hockey game. The final score was 8-3, and that's indicative of how badly we played, myself included. To make matters worse, we even got the early lead, 2-0, and were ahead 2-1 after the first. That was as good as it got ...

The wheels came off pretty quickly in the second period. A shot from the point went just wide, and I got stuck in one of my patented "Help I've fallen and can't get up" positions (as the accompanying photo, above, will attest). The puck caromed off the back boards right to the stick of an opposing forward, Danny McCarthy, who tucked it into the open net. Tie game. Then a soft point shot went through a maze of legs and sticks, slipping into the far corner; 3-2, bad guys. A bang-bang play from behind the net made it 4-2, and a missile from Trevor Hanson over my glove (at least I think that's where it went, since I'm not sure I actually saw it!) capped the 5-goal outburst.

In the third, three more goals got behind me, including another bullet shot, this time from Paul Albano. I couldn't get off the ice fast enough. The weird thing is -- and most goalies can appreciate this -- I didn't feel like I was way off my game. There are days when the puck just seems to hit you, no matter how out of position you are. And then there are days when that three-inch slab of vulcanized rubber seems to find every tiny little crease in your stance. Today definitely fell into the latter category. By the end of the game, I felt like a pinata. I should have stayed in bed!

;-)

Best,
-Brion

This Bud (singular) is for you ...

Boston, overcast again!

I don't think I've ever had a beer that tasted better than the one served up right after a good skate. The brews can be cold or lukewarm, cheap or chi-chi (provided a bottle opener isn't required) -- it doesn't matter. The combo of water, malt, barley and hops is the perfect elixir for the parched puckhead.

The problem these days is that, like the rest of my body, the post-skate, post-Bud Light recovery is more challenging. Like the number of skates I can manage each week without winding up in traction, I also have to limit my intake of carbonated beverages. Last night is a perfect case in point.

It was my Wednesday night pick-up skate with the North Shore Skating Association gang (believe me, that name sounds much more formal than any of the chuckleheads, myself included, who show up for this 90-minute session). My own performance was sub-par -- I felt like I was a split-second behind the puck all night -- but the beauty of pick-up hockey is that the final score doesn't really matter. It's sort of like the points in Drew Carey's "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" Fact is, I rarely keep a running tally, though I know we got drilled pretty good last night. Which left me with a hefty hankering for a frosty beverage afterward. And that first one, a Coors Light served up by Matty "The Total Package" Theriault was just what the nurse ordered. The first six ounces were gone in a gulp. The rest didn't last much longer.

Now, I typically have a single post-skate beer, but I still had most of my gear on, and the locker room banter was lively (most of it centering on one of our younger guys, a recent college grad, and the sexual exploits that awaited him during an upcoming trip to Australia!). So I asked Matty for another brew, and he happily obliged. Before I knew it, a bunch of the guys and I were out in the parking lot, it was closing in on Thursday, and I had cracked open a fourth. But gabbing with friends is one of hockey's great byproducts, and last night, the conversation and the brewskis just flowed.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same about this morning. Four beers on a "school night" is never a good idea, especially for a sore and cranky 51-year-old goaltender (it could have been worse, but the rink lot's lights got shut off at midnight, forcing us to head home). I'm not hungover, just sluggish. And those aches and pains that typically accompany my post-skate wake-up call have a bit more bite. Lauri's "high test" coffee is making a few inroads on the cobwebs, but a few more hours sleep is what I really need. Next skate, I'll try to show a little more restraint!

One last caveat on the topic of hockey and beer. If you offer to bring the suds, bring fresh brew. A while back, I made the mistake of running behind schedule on my appointed "beer night," and was frantic to get to both the store and the rink on time. Then I recalled a case of Bud Light that was sitting in my basement. How long had it been sitting there? Good question. I had no idea. But in my haste, I didn't have any time for such niggling details. I grabbed the case, chucked it in a cooler, packed it with snow, and ran off to the rink. Two hours later, you could hear the howls of protest from my locker room in the next county. To say that the stuff was rancid was a gross understatement. It was bad, bad, bad. I tried to play Mickey the Dunce (I know, not a stretch), but once some of my more enterprising colleagues found the "Born On" date, and discovered the beer was more than three years old, I was toast. They still haven't let me forget it, proving Lord Jeffrey's time-honored adage "A good name, like good will, is got by many actions and lost by one."

Best,
Brion

Why hockey's Stanley Cup playoffs rule ...

Boston, rainy.

Just a few hours before what may be the final game of the 2009 edition of the Stanley Cup Playoffs between the Detroit Red Wings and the Pittsburgh Penguins (with the Winged Wheels up, three games to two), I'm thinking about what makes this game the best in all of sports. Those who know me know I could go on and on and on about hockey's superiority to any other athletic competition, but all you really need to see is the accompanying photograph. It is a classic. Taken in 1952, after the deciding game of the Stanley Cup Finals between the Boston Bruins and the Montreal Canadiens, it epitomizes the very essence of the game.

To the left is "Sugar Jim" Henry, the Bruins goaltender. He's grasping the hand of a battered and bruised Canadien legend, Maurice "Rocket" Richard, one of the most dynamic, and most volatile, superstars of any sport, in any era. Richard had been knocked into la-la land earlier in the game, and was carted off the ice. No one expected him to return. Today, he wouldn't have. But in the 1950s, players were able to shrug off the concerns of trainers, and Richard, despite clearly suffering from a concussion, returned in the third period. Cementing his legend, Richard (pronounced REE-shar) scored the game-winning goal on one of his high-voltage sorties to the net, slipping the puck past Henry. This photo, one of hockey's most famous, captures the two weary but proud combatants during the traditional post-game handshake.

No one knows exactly when the handshake line, which consummates every Stanley Cup series, originated, but I'm glad someone thought of it, and that hockey players embraced it. The idea of two teams battling tooth-and-nail over the course of a best-of-seven series, literally beating the snot out of one another, being able to immediately put their differences aside speaks to the character of the men who play this game. It is that character that hockey, through its team-first focus, engenders.

The handshake concept is so compelling that it's been adopted throughout the hockey-playing universe. I play in two competitive leagues, an Over-50 League on Tuesday nights, and another Friday-morning adult league, the Blades and Breakfast Hockey Club. Both leagues end games with the teams lining up to shake hands. Believe me, that's not always easy. Given hockey's physical nature, there's bound to be a dust-up or two during the games, and I've been in the middle of my share. But the handshake line forces you to "man up," look your opponent in the eye, and win or lose, compliment him on the effort. In a day and age when "respect" is sorely misunderstood, the handshake embodies what it means to honor your opponent. In all my years, I've only skipped the line twice (both times after I felt the opposing team was running up the score). Both times I later realized, after I had a chance to cool off, that I was wrong. Hockey's handshake transcends the game just played; it's a reminder that we're part of something even greater than one game on one night. No matter what the final score, no matter who wins or who loses, the handshake line reminds us of the importance of lacing them up, getting on the ice, and playing the game. It reminds us that sportsmanship trumps everything else.

And tonight, hockey's best go at it again.

Regards,
-Brion

Wen-Ham hard men stay up ...

Boston, Monday.

Sporting a .500 record in one of the toughest divisions of the Over The Hill Soccer League, with five teams battling in out to stay "up" in Div. 3, my Wen-Ham United Football Club needed a win this past Sunday to ensure we would once again avoid relegation. And our scrappy squad did just that, edging a tough P.A.C. Lowell team by a 1-0 score after veteran midfielder Billy Waslick slotted home a penalty shot late in the second half.

It was essentially a game of attrition, as our opponents only had a single sub. Still, Lowell was a very capable squad, and pressured the WHUFC goal with a few nice runs in the first half. Thanks to a boneheaded decision by the Wen-Ham keeper (that would be me), punching the ball on a misguided cross instead of catching it, Lowell had one glorious chance that was booted just wide, deflecting off my ever-present sweeper back, John Sixsmith. From that point forward, I tried to hang onto any ball I could get my hands on.

Meanwhile, our Wen-Ham club started building pressure on the Lowell net toward the end of the first half, but this was a game that was fought primarily in the midfield. We went into the break tied, 0-0. Throughout the second half, my bend-but-don't break D limited Lowell to only a few inconsequential shots on frame (a grateful shout-out to Tom, John, Ahab, Tony and Jeff). Our midfielders, led by the young legs of Carson, Bruce, Billy, Jim and JJ (and occasionally Sharpy and Tim) battled Lowell for every 50/50 ball, eventually wearing the visitors down. Ian was creating chances on the right side, while Jose nearly connected on a glorious chance inside the box. Jose was then taken down on another bold run a few minutes later, resulting in Mr. Waslick's PK tally.

Things got a little chippy in the last half-hour, as youthful exuberance gave way to lactic acid, leading to a flurry of yellow cards (we doubled our season's total in about 10 minutes). But we held the fort, and came away with the three points. Almost as important, nobody got hurt, which is always a nice bonus. The icing on the cake, however, was that our merry band staved off relegation for another season (given our shaky 0-2-1 start to the season, our present 4-3-2 record is a matter of considerable pride). We went on our 4-1-1- run with a patchwork line-up (at least five guys took a turn in goal) and a lot of heart. There might be better teams in our league, but there's not a better bunch of guys.

The win also enable us to go into our spring season finale against crosstown rival FCB a bit more relaxed -- no title, or relegation, on the line. I have a great deal of respect for the Boxford crew -- good guys all -- and it will be nice to play a "friendly." Still, knowing the characters on both squads, it will be a spirited match nonetheless. I'm looking forward to it, and the cookout afterward!

Oh, one more thing. Tim Perry said he'd give me $10 to mention his tremendous 20-yard strike that connected flush against the crossbar before bouncing away harmlessly (technically, not even a shot "one goal," but a real nice effort just the same). OK, Tim, pay up!

Best,
-Brion

Putting my mug on FaceBook ...

Boston, cloudy.

In my ongoing efforts to be more like my hip younger brother Matt (that's the two of us in the accompanying photo, trying to figure out where the hell we are along the White Rim Trail in Utah!), I've decided to put my mug up on FaceBook. That puts me only -- what? -- five years behind the curve on the cooliometer. Matt has got the whole "social networking" thing wired, and when he talks about creating a buzz, I listen. He's the main reason I took the first step by creating this blog, and now am bearing my soul to the world on FB. To be honest, I was hesitant to do either, in part because I never thought I could meet Matt's standard for literary talent, or humor. The guy (almost said "kid") is a riot ... always has been. One time, a good 10, 12 years ago, Matt was wedged between older bro Sean and myself on a chairlift at Loon Mountain, heading up to the North Peak. Sean and I never got a word in. It was then that Sean and I decided that Matt should have his own talk show on TV. The concept was simple and brilliant; Matt wouldn't need any guests -- he could just talk extemporaneously for an hour or so, and the audience members would be left falling over themselves (think of a slightly less manic Robin Williams, without the crotch grabbing).

Sadly, the talk show idea never took off, but Matty and his mad-capped sense of humor still rules the O'Connor family airwaves, with brother Mike and brother in-law Chuck a close second and third. He's also pretty savvy when it comes to "new media." I'm honestly not interested in texting, and Twitter strikes me as the ultimate in mindless self-absorption, but blogging made a lot of sense. It's a great way to keep the creative juices flowing, at a time when print publications are downsizing in a big way. With luck, it will also as a wellspring for other "This Old Jock" projects that I've got percolating. Meanwhile, FaceBook, in only the few days I've been on board, has proven to be a great vehicle for re-connecting with friends and family. Networking has never been so much fun. So c'mon, be my "friend" ... Just click on my FaceBook link right here! Matt and Sean are already in the mix!

Gotta run! The clouds have blown over, and it's looking like a great day for a spin.

Best,
-B

The better part of valor ...

Boston, overcast ...

I skipped my Friday morning hockey game with the BBHC today, opting for the "discretion is the better part of valor" approach (to paraphrase Shakespeare's great line from Henry IV). For the past few days, I've been battling a low-grade bug, or allergies (or both), and was feeling really sluggish. I played with my usual pick-up gang on Wednesday night, and had a decent game, but left the ice tapped. There's a good chance that whatever I've got was passed along by my youngest, Brynne, who missed school on Monday, or Lauri, who missed work on Tuesday. Yesterday, Maddi, my eldest, missed school with a 102 temp, so it's clearly a germ infestation infiltrating the O'Connor house.

Still, I hate missing hockey, especially my Friday morning games. One of the traits that the hockey players pride themselves on is that they always show up (OK, "usually"). That goes double for goalies. Heck, back in the "good old days" of the six-team NHL, there was only one goalie per squad, and those guys didn't even play with decent padding, not to mention masks (of course, this was before the advent of the slap shot and curved blades, in addition ro composite sticks that allow C-level hackers to fire a puck upwards of 80 miles an hour). I can't imagine the nerve required to play with an exposed mug! If a guy got knocked silly, or cut, the trainer would simply stitch him back up - usually without any painkillers - and send him back into the nets, often dazed and confused (and hurting). By comparison, my low-grade bug seemed a pretty lame excuse.

On the other hand, I try to rationalize these absences, knowing that if I played, I risked getting really sick, and spending the weekend on my backside. At 51, I try to incorporate some of the "wisdom" that middle age supposedly brings. But I also know that once I miss a game without any sense of remorse, I'll be one step closer to calling it quits. So while I can't stomach that gnawing feeling that I should have been on the ice this morning, a part of me is comfortable with it. I'll be back soon enough.

Best,
-Brion

That new car smell ...

Boston, undecided ...

It's not often that Lauri and I buy a new car. My bride and I have been together about 20 years (married for 15), and I've had four cars over that stretch. We met while I still had my college-grad Toyota Tercel, festooned with surf stickers. Those stickers were, in fact, the only thing holding the rusted-out hatchback together. Shortly after Lauri and I became an item, I graduated to a Mazda MPV (which Lauri dubbed "the Manly Power Van") because my windsurfing addiction required a vehicle with more storage space. It was a deep red, and when my future father in-law inquired why a single guy needed a van, Lauri told him: "It's for his toys." After which, Dick referred to the Mazda as my "sleigh." I didn't mind the Santa connection ... the truth, as we were taught in journalism school, is usually the best defense.

Unfortunately for me, that same nice deep red paint job proved the Mazda's undoing, as it began flaking off within the first six months I had it. Two additional layers of clear-coat couldn't remedy a poor paint job, and Mazda eventually bought the vehicle back under the Lemon Law. Lauri and I flipped that little windfall into a down payment on our house here in Hamilton, and we went looking for a new car. Tops on my priority list was all-wheel drive. The Mazda, with its rear-wheel drive, was a smooth driving vehicle for three seasons, but an absolute horror show in a typical New England winter. So I downsized, settling on a Subaru Legacy wagon that proved to be one of the best investments I ever made. This tough little rig withstood two trips to the body shop (one collision was admittedly my fault, while the other - a fallen tree limb - was not). For 13 years, my rugged Subaru answered the bell, almost without fail. When Lauri inadvertently fried our second car, a Toyota Camry (the radiator split along the bottom) four years ago, we opted for another Subaru wagon, an Outback. In between those purchases, we had added two beautiful girls to our home, and another rig, a seven-passenger Mitsubishi Montero, to the stable. We picked the Montero up with 95,000 miles, but it came from a friend, and we knew it had been well cared for.

For five years, the "Monty" served as our family bus, and served us admirably. But in the past year, she was beginning to show her age. Last summer, four new brakes set us back a good chunk of change, and the air conditioner gave out. This year, with almost 140,000 miles on her odometer, we knew the Monty's demise was inevitable (and potentially very expensive). It was time to start shopping.

While I was not opposed to yet another Subaru gracing our driveway, Lauri insisted on a vehicle with at least three seats (or room for seven, minimum). We also needed something that would accommodate our lovable Labrador retriever, True. A minivan wasn't out of the question (my sister and our next door neighbors each have a Honda Odyssey, and rave about them), but Lauri is clearly not a mini-van fan. Plus, the all-wheel drive models are pricey, as are the AWD SUVs (the 7-passenger Subaru Tribeca, for example, was at least $10K out of reach). We asked around among other parents. A good friend picked up a Hyundai Vera Cruz last year, and likes it a lot. I liked the price (mid-$20K). A couple of weeks ago, after my Thursday noontime skate, I stopped by our local Hyundai dealership, just to get a few brochures. On the lot was a used, all-wheel drive Santa Fe Limited, simply loaded, with only 17,000 miles on it. Already under agreement, said my salesman, the Rev. Clinton Sherald. Too bad, I replied.

So, after asking the reverend to keep me posted on any new or used seven-passenger Hyundai SUVs that came across his radar, I motored home. Not 48 hours later, the reverend called to say the deal had fallen through on the Santa Fe. Was I interested? I told him I'd definitely like to take a closer look. The vehicle, powered by a responsive V-6 and 5-speed automatic, was a dream to drive, and appeared to be in spotless condition. Even better, after snooping around the glove compartment for more information, like a Car-Fax report, I found the registration, and discovered that the previous owner was a friend of mine. How often does that happen? I called Ron the moment I got back home, and he gave the Santa Fe two thumbs up. "The lease was ending," he told me. "If it hadn't been leased by my practice, I'd still be driving it. We loved that car." Coincidences, and recommendations, don't get much better than that.

So after Lauri gave the Santa Fe her own seal of approval (it will be her car, after all), and the usual give-and-take of negotiations, I brought the Santa Fe home on Monday. It is, as Maddi exclaimed, "Sweeeet!" Plus, it's a lot more car than we could have afforded if we bought brand new. OK, it's not exactly "new," but it's new to us. And if the Santa Fe holds up as well as my original Subaru, I'll consider myself a very lucky man!

Best,
-Brion

The Coaching Conundrum

Boston, gorgeous ...

My wife stood at one end of the pool, glaring at the figure splashing toward her. "She's just not kicking," said Lauri, exasperated. "And her turns are a mess."

I was dumbfounded. Maddi, our eldest daughter, was finishing a practice session, and the water seemed to literally part before her (check out those shoulders in the accompanying photo!). I couldn't believe this 12-year-old, who is far from fleet of foot on the soccer field, made swimming seem so effortless.

"Go easy on her, honey," I quipped. "She looks great." Lauri turned to me, and said sharply: "I can't believe you are telling me to relax."

She was right. I quickly realized why the words I'd just uttered sounded so familiar. They were Lauri's words, almost verbatim, delivered six years ago following one of Maddi's soccer games. Being an avid soccer player, I couldn't wait for my own girls to play. The minute Maddi was old enough to join youth soccer, I signed her up, and volunteered to coach. She was six, I was 44. Clearly, we had different agendas. For me, soccer is truly "the beautiful game," a sport of subtlety, skill, and speed. For Maddi, soccer was social hour. When one opponent – a friend – went running past her, Maddi commented: "Sheridan, I like your hair!" I was apoplectic.

Lauri counseled patience. "This is supposed to be fun. Give her time." It was a humbling lesson. I wanted so badly for Mary to embrace the game I cherish that I lost sight of what it meant to her. Lauri provided a constant, and crucial, counterweight.

Then a funny thing happened. Maddi and Brynne (our second) started swimming, and Lauri, a former competitive swimmer, started coaching. The role reversal was swift and stunning. I was now the inexperienced observer, simply admiring these powerful girls motoring through their laps, laughing with their friends. Lauri was the trained eye, invariably focusing on the flaws in our daughters' strokes, urging them to work harder.

Today, Lauri and I strive to maintain this good-natured yin and yang. I coach Maddi in lacrosse, and Brynne, now 10, in soccer and hockey. I want them to be competitive and committed, investing the requisite effort (hence my oft-repeated adage, "The better you get, the more you'll enjoy it."). Keeping everything in perspective is paramount, though, as we remind each other that fun is an essential component, for all four of us.

Best,
-Brion

Band of Brothers

Boston, TGIF!

With all due respect to our servicemen and veterans, especially given our recent observance of Memorial Day, I couldn't help but think of "Band of Brothers" when I saw this team photo of my Over-50 squad, the Indians (thankfully, political correctness hasn't infiltrated the deep catacombs of Commissioner Larry Abbott's HockeyTown office!). We're one of 11 eclectic teams that make up the Tuesday night Over-50 league, one of the best hockey programs I've had the good fortune of being associated with in my 40 years of playing this great game. We're a motley crew -- just like the other 10 teams -- that inevitably bond over the course of a seven-month season.

Many of the guys have been playing together for years ... I was a relative late-comer. Though the league allows goalies as young as their early 40s to play, pride and an over-inflated ego prevented me from joining up until I had officially past the half-century mark. I started the season with the Tigers (most of the teams are names after either Hockey East or Ivy squads, save for the curiously dubbed Turtles), but was traded mid-season to the Injuns (known to most as Team PBR, for our beverage of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon ... maybe we ought to inquire about sponsorship possibilities?). Johnny Russo (in the white helmet) also came on board, and the Indians went on a late-season tear, moving up from last to 8th place in the league standings. I wasn't around for most of the rally, sidelined by a nasty case of tendinitis in my right elbow. But in the short time I played with these guys, I really enjoyed getting to know them.

Like most of the Over-50 squads, we're a mix of "A," "B," and "C" level talent. Dan McCraine (black helmet) is a granddad who can still skate like the wind (God bless him). Russo is a goal-scoring machine, and Dartmouth grad Tommy Garden (next to McCraine), another late-season addition, is our Energizer Bunny. Our "D" is anchored by Bill Riley, Rich Bowman, Jim Montanaro and Bill Piotowski, while Louie Puccilli, Pat Gallivan, and Ray Sampson add some offensive pop. Steve Palmer is the ultimate rover, willing to play wherever we need him. Sometimes -- OK, every now and then -- we play like a well-oiled machine. Sometimes we can't get out of each others way. More often than not, our performance falls somewhere in between.

The real key to this team's success, though, is getting along in the locker room. Here, the Indians excel. Everyone wants to win, and things have been known to get a little testy, especially when we've wound up on the wrong side of the final tally. But overall, this is a great bunch of guys that get along off the ice as well as on the ice. As someone who works from home, without the normal interaction that an office environment allows, I really look forward to the locker room camaraderie that Tuesday nights offer. Everything is fair game -- jobs, wives, girlfriends, injuries, good plays, bad plays, the referees, each other, you name it. It's all done in good fun, and the non-stop banter and laughter is absolutely priceless.

So here's hoping that Commissioner Abbott decides to keep the Indians together for next year. We may have gotten bounced from the playoffs prematurely this spring (losing to Larry's Blackbears, of all teams!), but we'll be back next year, gunning for the top spot. After all, hockey, like hope, springs eternal!

Best,
-Brion

The 24-Hour Rule

Boston, still raining ...

Oh man, I'm beat. I skated last night with my local North Shore Skating Association gang, on defense, and then again in Peabody this afternoon in the nets. And, in the interests of full disclosure, I got absolutely lit up today. Couldn't stop a beach ball, as they say in goaltending parlance. In truth, I had no legs, which is why I'm considering implementing a hard-and-fast 24-Hour Rule. Back-to-back days are tough enough on this half-century netminder, but trying to play twice within a 24-hour period is, for me, just nuts. I should know better, but there's no guarantee that advanced age necessarily brings wisdom.

It's difficult for most old jocks to admit that their bodies simply don't bounce back the way they did 30, 20, even 10 years ago, but hockey doesn't allow me any such false illusions. The reality is in the results. Today was a perfect example. My legs, and my mind, were sluggish. No reflexes to speak of, no competitive spirit. A younger goaltender might have been embarrassed, but I was simply resigned. I just didn't have it, and that's probably because I need more than 13 hours to recover from a good, hard skate. I got home at about 11:30 last night, and needed another half-hour to unwind. A pending deadline had me up and at the computer by 6:30, and then I was trudging off to the rink shortly after 11. I got on the ice a few minutes late, and the game started without warm-ups (of course, these boneheads don't bother putting the pegs in the net, so the game actually started while I was trying to secure the goal). Even at 51, I know my body, and I knew right away that it was going to be a long hour. And it was.

After I took my punishment, and got a warm shower for my efforts, I limped home, tossed my gear in the basement, and tried to get back to work. After all, I need to get to bed early. Got a game first thing tomorrow morning (Friday), in clear violation of my newly established 24-Hour Rule. Say a little prayer for me ...

;-)

Bravo, Barcelona!

Boston, rainy & cool ...

The UEFA Cup finals in Rome was a showcase of "the beautiful game" as practice by the magicians from Catelon, Spain, as Football Club Barcelona soundly defeated the heavily favored Red Devils of Manchester United, 2-0. I always prefer playing to spectating, but watching this game yesterday was a real treat. It was truly an international affair, with players from Cameroon, Portugal, Argentina, England, France, Brazil, South Korea, Wales, Ireland, the Czech Republic, Spain, and others all gracing the pitch at Stadium Olympico. ManU came out of the starting blocks like a team possessed, and nearly took the lead when Park Ji-sung attacked a rebound off a swerving Cristiano Ronaldo free kick, only to see it clipped wide of the frame. Several other speculative Ronaldo efforts went sailing off target, but ManU was certainly on the attack.

All that changed with a sublime piece of artistry from FCB's Samuel Eto'o, who turned ManU defender Nemanja Vidic inside out before depositing the ball underneath towering goalkeeper Edwin van de Sar and into the back of the net. The goal completely transformed the complexion of the game, swiftly and irrevocably. The Red Devils, so dominating during their UEFA run and the Premier season, lost their composure and focus (though ManU's splendid captain, Ryan Giggs -- the anti-Beckham -- came oh-so-close with a bending free kick at the 17-minute mark). Barcelona, unparalleled maestros at ball control, simply took the game over. Though there were moments of exquisite tension, when another goal seemed imminent, the final result wasn't sealed until FCB's diminutive striker Lionel Messi went soaring for a header on a precise crossing ball from midfielder Xavi Hernandez and, as ESPN's loquacious commentator Tommy Smyth would say, put "the bulge in the old onion bag."

The 2-0 final was a fair result, reflecting FCB's convincing win, and a stunning upset when compared to many pre-game prognostications. Though I'm not of fan of the theatrics of FCB's captain Carles Puyol -- writhing in pain like he had been dismembered anytime he bumped into a ManU player -- the wild-haired defender (who looks like Dee Snyder's long-lost twin) played an immense game at the back, frustrating Ronaldo time and time again. It was a spectacular final, worthy of the two best teams in Europe. It was soccer, or futbol, at its finest. Anyone who couldn't appreciate the speed and skill on display deserves American football. ;-)

Regards,
-Brion