Thursday Morning Cupcheck - You’re a Good Man, Dustin Brown

Part One of our Pulitzer-nominated expose on this gentle giant.

Good morning, hockey fans! Last week we gave a little impromptu history lesson on the wise & storied New York Rangers franchise. This week, we're going to get to the bottom of one of the most predictably controversial storylines of the Stanley Cup Playoffs: the incredible, mind-bottling transformation of LA Kings "captain" Dustin Brown from cowardly chickensh*t little dive artist to knightly paragon of lordly might who scores back-breaking goals.

He's not a serial embellisher, he's just misunderstood.

No one is more shocked by this than Stars fans (Sharks, Coyotes and Ducks fans, however, are precisely as shocked), who have grown to hate the "captain" of the Kings as a man who's not afraid to drop to the ice like a gunshot victim twice on one hit.

Or as someone who, after laying out his standard after-the-whistle cheap shot, is somehow unable to remove his gloves to defend himself.

Or as someone who puts up as many shorthanded goals in one playoff series as he had in 600 regular season gameswaitwhat?

Of course, there's been no shortage of massively controversial borderline hits in this year's playoffs.

So what should we long-suffering Pacific Division fans make of this man who's put up 16 points in 14 games, including 5 shorthanded points and 3 game-winning goals, and basically putting on the most Claude Lemieuxesque performance since Claude Lemieux Claude Lemieuxed himself into Lemieuxite history by being Claude Lemieux? Using my super-confidential sources in Brown's hometown of Ithaca, I was able to snag this once-in-a-lifetime, game-changing interview.

Nothing ever seems to go right for this sad-luck loser.

I'm waiting at my reserved table at CiCi's. It's now 45 minutes after we agreed to meet here, and the fake mustache and beard I'm wearing are starting to irritate my skin. The proprietor stops by for the twentieth time asking me if I'm going to order any food and if I'm not to get the hell out of his store, but I just shake my head and mutter "no speaka de englash." He leaves in a huff and starts dialing 9-1-1, again, but he doesn't know I cut the phone lines an hour before I walked in. Can't be too careful in Ithaca.

Finally, Brown walks in. He spots my fake ZZ Top beard and ambles over, raking a booth full of 8 year olds with his stick as he walks past. He swipes some little girl's pepperoni slice, then skate-stomps her mom's BK Knights when she gets all huffy. When the dad arrives, confused, from a trip to the restroom, Brown tosses a pitcher of Diet Rite in his face and darts away. Slinking into our pre-arranged booth, he nods to me, then spears me in the groin under the table. I grunt in appreciation.

Me: (in a falsetto voice) "Ok then."

Dustin Brown: "Hey, f*gtard, is this going to take long? There's a daycare at the end of this stripmall that's beggin' to get their faces rocked. Amirite, man!"

(Brown starts to laugh. Huge gobs of pepperoni-laced spittle spew out of the tooth-free side of his mouth, covering the forged signature on my Valerie Bure Kings jersey.)

Me: "I just want to ask you a few questions about your recent playoff success."

Brown: "Oh, that?" (blows a snotball across the room, hits the plump and unsuspecting cashier square in the face) "Ka-ching!"

Me: "So... playoff success?"

Brown: "Yep."

Me: "I mean, like, tell me about it and stuff."

Brown: "Like what?"

Me: "You know, like, what are you doing so differently in, say, these playoffs than in previous one-and-done years, and why things are working out so well for you and your team, how you've been able to elevate your game against what are, at least technically, the top three teams in the Western Conference, and how your role as captain has been affected by the presence of controversial Flyers ex-captain Mike Richards, and what we can expect moving forward, as you reach the Stanley Cup Finals for the first and likely only time in your already surprisingly-long career."

Brown: "Ok."

(awkward silence)

Me: "...Dustin?"

Brown: (momentarily stops ogling a grandmother of twelve at the next table) "Mm-hmm?"

Me: "My questions... you know, about the playoffs and stuff?"

Brown: (cowering in the corner of the booth as a dad walks past) "Huh?"

Drew Doughty and Dustin Brown discuss icing strategies for the next series.

Me: "You... you don't, uh, really have an answer for any of that, do you?"

Brown: "For what?"

Me: "All my prize-winning journalistic questions."

Brown: "Dude."

Me: "Ah."

Brown: (makes exaggerated gesture of exasperation accompanied by quizzical 'who, me?' look)

Me: "I declare this interview over. You are no longer welcome in my booth."

Brown: (slides out of the seat and onto the sticky floor with lightning-like speed, knocking over my glass of warm RC Cola. Clutches his elbow, then his knee, then his other elbow as he writhes around in pain) "REF!! PROPRIETOR!! REF!!"

What happened after that is a matter between me, Brown, and a certain foxy CSI investigator from Ithaca P.D. Tune in next week when we break down Kings versus Devils: Natural Enemies in the Wild.