Where have you gone, Sergei Samsonov? In what is typically a boon sports fortnight -- don't worry, I said "sports fortnight," not "beard fortnight" -- a key component is missing this spring: the NHL playoffs. We are concluding a two-week stretch in which we have seen the men's and women's Final Fours, baseball's Opening Day and the Masters. Closer to home, we were even treated to the University's spring sports fest last weekend.
But this year my Boston Bruins jersey has hung unused in the closet, as the players have all stood in the unemployment line. Joe Thornton is playing in Sweden, young gun Patrice Bergeron returned to play in the minor leagues, and, to answer my previous query, Samsonov returned to his native Russia to play for the Moscow Dynamo.
Nothing beats playoff hockey. The play is faster. The hits are more intense. Every year several games go into sudden death overtime, when it becomes a testament of a fan's willpower to watch 20 minutes of hockey without blinking for fear of staying up for the end of the game and missing the deciding goal.
Making matters worse is that the only Bobby Orr sighting I've had all year was watching him throw out one of the ceremonial first pitches at yesterday's Red Sox home opener. I would be remiss to mention, that before yesterday's game, the Sox received their World Series rings and cried with joy.
My love of hockey is strong, seeded in my New England roots. Though I've never played the sport competitively, I have been a lifelong fan. Throughout elementary school, my parents brought me to every home game for the UMass-Lowell Riverhawks. In high school, I co-founded a fan group whose primary objective was to instill the fear of God into our hockey opponents, and it usually worked in our absurdly small rink that featured great acoustics and boards that were only as tall as my nose. Talk about getting close to the action -- standing on my toes, I could hurl taunts at rivals just inches away. A buddy of mine even incurred a penalty for our team when he reached over the boards and grabbed a visiting player's stick.
In the year 2005, however, I find myself surrounded in an environment wholly apathetic toward hockey. It's been my observation that central Virginians care so little about Canada's pastime that they hardly have noticed the disappearance of the NHL (save my colleague Bart Isley, whose Barry Melrose fetish is a little unsettling).
The dearth of hockey presents a serious problem that I need to address. I of course speak of the SportsCenter issue. Do you realize how many extra NBA highlights we've been subjected to the past few months? Acrobatic dunks are exciting and all, but they get repetitive when they account for 60 percent of the show. And the biggest travesty of it all is that ESPN now has more airtime to fill and might be encouraged to pursue more lame corporate-sponsored gimmicks. I swear, if I see one more Budweiser Hot Seat, I'm going to lose it.
Like an addict, I have to take every opportunity I can to get my fix. When ESPN televised the World Junior Championships a few months back, I sat in front of the tube, transfixed for hours on end.
But few things these days can compare with my passion for Charlottesvile adult recreational hockey league. The participants vary greatly in age (18 to 55 or so) and skill level (some played college hockey at Yale and Williams, others played in Canada's junior hockey circuit, while some have only high school or youth experience under their belts). It's not really even a league. It more closely resembles glorified pickup hockey.
Every Tuesday night, I round up some friends for a field trip to the Ice Park. And whichever friends I bring are always the only other fans. And the attendants always look at us funny and ask why we're even there.
Are these signs that I have a problem? Maybe. At this point, I'm not far away from going to random Pee Wee games in town. Or maybe just moving to Europe.
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