Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Captain Yes Positive rates NHL Officiating

by Todd Maternowski

Top of the morning, hockey fans! Last week we went over the semi-recent managerial changes in the Stars' front office, and pored over reams of statistical analysis in determining, with less than 1% margin of error, why they went from neuticle-slurping hella-losers to godlike beacons of Hockey Righteousness. This week I was planning on writing my bi-annual "Which Lord of the Rings Character Does This Dallas Star Most Resemble?" (Brendan Morrow=Strider, Sergei Zubov=Gandalf, Bryan Marchment=Sauron), but in light of some riveting recent events I witnessed while laying on my futon on a Tuesday night, I've decided to temporarily forgo the LOTR idea (sorry, loyal reader frodosballs917... keep on truckin', brother!) and instead focus my hockey energies on last Tuesday night's Penguins versus Flyers game on Versus.

There was much to be proud of as a hockey fan in this game: endless retaliatory penalties, the rare and elusive double-hat-trick, and some terrific fan cheering during the game (are you paying attention, JeffK?. Your Havocs could gleam some knowledge from Philly's ridiculously loyal fan base). Even more tellingly, the game represented all that is wrong with how the NHL markets games.

Now before I go any further, I want everyone to know that I'm not necessarily a nattering nabob of negativism, and in the spirit of the Holidays I'm going to keep this column as light and pro-Gary Bettman as is humanly possible. You all are probably sick to death of the Holidays already, so I'm just going to skip over Christmas and New Year's and go straight to Saint Valentine's Day: and for every one of my well-thought-out insights into the game that might possibly be perceived as an uncalled-for, below-the-belt groin-grinder, I'm going to include a message of positivity to restore the karmic balance.

Now, several highly entertaining things occurred in the Flyers-Pens game, not the least of which was the 8-2 final score. Yowza! I'm not particularly a fan of either team, or even of the Eastern Conference in general, but even I found myself rooting for a tense, tight-checking 10-9 goaltender's duel after that wild first period.

But like a beautiful monarch butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the game started changing into something far, far more entertaining in the second, when longtime referee Bill McCreary decided, as is his wont, to start calling ridiculous ticky-tack penalties on the Penguins while roundly ignoring the borderline physical play of the Flyers. That's what I call a "Can't-Miss Strategy for Guaranteeing Future Unsportsmanlike Conduct." There may be no NHL referee more skilled at setting up ugly cheap shots late in games than McCreary, and man, he was in fine form Tuesday night!

Three minutes into the third period is when the action went from "easy on the eyes" to "hella-amazing": that's when mouth-breathing Flyers "enforcer" (I call him that because he seems to serve no other purpose than getting his ass whipped) Ben Eager decided that, his team already up 5-2, he would take matters into his own hands and run a 6-3, 243 pound slab of angry muscle known as George Laraque. For those not familiar with Laraque, imagine a bulldozer with spiked morningstars for fists and you're halfway there. At any rate, Laraque was presently engaged along the boards when Eager, out of nowhere, decided to introduce his elbow and stickshaft to Laraque's unsuspecting cranium. Eager, a card-carrying MENSA member who also holds PhDs in Algebraic Topology from M.I.T. and Tectonophysics from Harvey-Mudd, was promptly thrown to the ice and punched in the face. Most viewers were probably wondering the same thing I was: why run a guy on the losing end of a 5-2 butt-kicking? Captain Yes Positive says: no doubt Eager had an itch on his face that could only be scratched by Laraque's massive mitts. My theory? Running Laraque with an elbow to the schnoze is no different than buying your ticket to Collapsed Windpipe, population: You. Eager's a bright young chap --have you read his paper on Euclidean Space as it relates to Fourier series?-- perhaps he had a nasty ailment from sitting so long on the bench (I'm guessing a yeast infection), and needed a good, healthy blood-letting -- but not having any life-saving leeches on hand, decided to take matters into his own hands. Right-o, Eager! That's the positive, can-do spirit!

So, Eager runs Laraque and gets a mouthful of knuckle while laying on the ice: and does not get called for a penalty. In fact, Laraque gets a double-minor for roughing, while Eager got nothing. Heckuva job, McCreary! Ten milliseconds later, Eager is once again having his face transformed to play-dough, this time by 41-year old Gary Roberts, who decides to help Eager explore his body by showing him where the nerve endings in his head are. From that point on, the game transcended your typical, run-of-the-mill 8-2 drubbing, with the Penguins on a non-stop procession to the penalty box, and the Flyers scoring at will on perennial Gelatinous Goalie Ty Conklin. The evening's antics were capped off by Laraque sliding into second base --except that second base is Flyers' goaltender and early-season savior Marty Biron-- in an obvious attempt to separate Biron's ACL from his knee. Captain Yes Positive says: Normally I despise the 8 games-against-divisional-foes idea, but with five more Pens-Flyers games left on the schedule, here's hoping every one of them is on Versus, and every one is twice as entertaining as the previous game! Huzzah!

Added bonus: is it possible to have McCreary referee those remaining five games? Actually, is it feasible for him to referee every NHL game? When it comes to losing control of a hyper-emotional game, no one's better.

There was much more than that going on in this game. Regular readers already know what I think of Sidney Crosby, and the league's ridiculous NBA-style marketing campaign that desperately tries to make Crosby bigger than the sport itself. Well, you can imagine how elated I was to find out that Flyers fans not only agree, but are decidedly vocal about getting their opinion across. Nearly every time "I am a Golden God" Crosby touched the puck, 17,000 in attendance booed lustily, and several times during the game, the fans in attendance sang sweet music to my ears: "CROS-BY SUCKS!! CROS-BY SUCKS!!" This was especially apparent in the third period, after Crosby slew-footed Marty Biron behind the net and Biron went down like a soccer player, then challenged Crosby to fisticuffs (like I said, it was a highly entertaining game). The two Versus announcers went far, far out of their way to completely ignore the anti-Crosby cheers (more on that later), but even with modern sound-deafening technology the crowd made its point to all 143 of us watching Versus across the country. Captain Yes Positive says: way to go, Flyers fans! Throw in an f-bomb into the middle of that chant and you will attain hockey fan transcendence! Tally ho!

Finally, the announcers: when the Pope of Hockey Daryl "Razor" Reaugh is not announcing their games, the chaps at Versus are as exciting as drinking three bottles of Nyquil in three minutes, and not nearly as good for your health. Taking a page from the NFL, which delights in making sure the lightning-fast violent action of football is muted by the NPR-esque, monotone voice of a former player, the NHL also tries its best to take the excitement out of hockey. Hockey announcing, especially on Versus, has become the equivalent of going to an exotic foreign country known for their amazing food, heading to a world-renowned restaurant, and ordering porridge with a side of water. If the NHL was serious about re-invigorating the sport's fanbase, they would fire these guys and replace them with an all-Slayer/Sepultura/Dragonforce soundtrack. Captain Yes Positive says: Too bad, old bean, nothing good to say about those boring chaps in the booth. Perhaps we could inject adrenaline directly into their eye sockets for a grand old time? Bully for that, cheerio!

Well, that's it for today's Cupcheck. Tune in next week when I dig through my attic and find those old, rose-scented love letters I wrote --but never mailed-- to #41 on People's list of their Top 50 SuperHunks, Colin Campbell.

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