Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Heckuva job, Brownie!

by Todd Maternowski

Hola, hockey amigos: donde esta su biblioteca? Last week we had a scholarly discussion with Captain Yes Positive regarding the Stars' less-than-perfect start to the season -- this week, I was planning on fighting through the tears and penning a farewell paean to Brian Burke ("There once was a man who could suck it..."), when recent events in my favorite telenovela, Las Estrellas de Cuidad Dallas, forced my hand once again. Naturally, I'm talking about the Stars' recent three-game road trip out Californ-ay Way, a laid-back, relaxing and enjoyable vacation where nothing of note occurred and little transpired worth talking about.

Well, that is, unless you took a gander at the box scores and noticed this: we gave up just six goals in three games! That's a massive improvement over the 2008-09 norm, which was six goals every three periods. The fact that two of those games were losses shouldn't overshadow the fact that mediocrity is an amazing accomplishment at this point in the young season.

Stars fans will be split on the road trip: is taking 3 of a possible 6 points a glass half-full, or effort half-assed? Realistically, the Stars were just one Worst Play of All Time away from taking a minimum of 4 of 6, and possibly a whopping 5, so at least they've got that going on for them. But something happened in that LA game, a series of events that completely and clearly delineates That Which is Cool from That Which Doth Not Rock.

With time winding down in the final game against the Kings, Mike Ribeiro took a wild swing at a puck, was slammed in the back by the unstoppable Dustin Brown, sent face-first into the boards causing massive blood stains across the ice, and Morrow and Brown had at it for a minute or so. You can watch video of this sequence here. Portugretzky skated off, came back in the shootout and did this, then skated past the Kings bench and told them to shut the eff up.

So far, so good: an amazing and entertaining sequence that, if repeated in every other hockey game, would have the NFL quaking in its goose-stepping boots.

But then there was That Which Doth Not Rock: a fighting instigator for Morrow for standing up for his center, game misconducts for Morrow and Brown, and a bunch of whining crybabies calling for suspensions for either/or player. The NHL, in a rare intelligent decision, opted not to suspend Morrow for the "instigator" in the final minute.

Phew! Had they done so, pink uniforms with frilly lace would likely have been made mandatory by next week.

Here's the truth of the matter: everything happened the way it was supposed to happen. Brown laid a clean check on Ribs, who unfortunately had just turned his back to the oncoming check and, again unfortunately, was left with a face full of plexiglass as a result. Heckuva check, Brownie! Morrow saw Ribeiro down, blood gushing over the ice, and did what every captain should do in that case: stick up for his wounded teammate. Doing anything less should mandate an unceremonious stripping of the 'C'. Morrow and Brown fought, albeit half-heartedly: again, the right thing to do. Ribs got up, temporarily made the Kings "pay" for their crimes by schooling them in the shootout, and that was that. Although the Stars lost the game, the Kings got the worst of it because that highlight-reel goal will be remembered far, far longer than the extra point in the standings from some meaningless game in early November. Again, the Best Possible Outcome.

Basically, this is hockey the way it was meant to be: entertainingly physical, fast and emotional. Anyone watching who was horrified: awesome! You were horrified! Anyone watching, cheering for blood: even better! You were cheering for blood!

Anyone falling asleep while watching all this transpire: lay off the horse tranquilizers, and get back to your job as Head of Marketing for the National Hockey League.

The mouth-breathing imbeciles at the league office have been trying to eliminate hockey's brutally physical aspect for over a decade, with pretty clear-cut results. The instigator penalty, the annual "crackdown" on clutching and grabbing, the endless parade of snooze-inducing hooking calls leading to an NBA-style half-rink game: it's caused a steep drop in the number of fights from the 80s and early 90s, and a steep increase in the number of cheap shots to the head, injured players and media pundits harassing the league for its pathetic TV ratings.

The skinny: hockey is physicality. Physical play, whether it's fights, open-ice checks or herculean efforts in goalscoring, is the #1 selling point of the sport. Physical = Emotional = Blood. Even the most squeamish human beings (i.e., my wife) has to watch the fights. It's ingrained in our DNA, a part of our biological and evolutionary makeup for the last 250,000 years. Tons of easy goals, on the other hand, stretches back to roughly 1983. (And most of that offense would not be possible without the vast number of bench-clearing brawls that were commonplace in the go-go high-scoring 80s...more on that later).

Ask any 49ers fan which was a more defining moment for the franchise: Garrison Hearst's sweet 96-yard run against the Jets in overtime, or Ronnie Lott amputating his finger so he could go out and play? Which Cowboys defensive back is more beloved by fans: Deion Sanders, or Bill Bates? Julius Jones or Marion Barber? Valeri Bure or Brendan Morrow?

Sports figures are our ancient Warrior class -- except not as gay-- and are treated as such by the fans, i.e. civilians. Fans admire pain with a purpose, blood spilt for a city's honor, and military conquest on the scoreboard. Anything less, and people stop showing up for games.

Players are no different: the Stars get into trouble when they play the way the NHL wants them to. This is not a team built for the flash-and-trash cheap-goal pseudo-hockey bullshit that the NHL wants to sell: last year this team scored up close, charging the net, while standing in the crease. Once the Stars re-discover their physical identity, all will be well in Stars-land; the quicker the Stars realize how awesome the Brown-Ribs-Morrow-Ribs sequence was, the quicker they will return to their Pacific-dominating ways.

That's it for this week's blood-caked, gore-infested Cupcheck. Tune in next week when I decry the league's lack of padded rinks, nerf pucks and blindfolded goalies.