Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Ice Breaker - Final [v.3]
I’ve never been much of a fighter.
But when the crowd of over eighteen-thousand got on their feet instinctively in reaction to a harshly physical play, all of that changed for me.
The Anaheim Ducks have always had that “bad” reputation; the kind that NHL referees absolutely thrive on because they can blow their sharp whistle during basically any play (especially when the Ducks are losing). No sane fan of any team gets pumped up thinking about their boys fighting a player from Anaheim.
I’d hate to think about how anxious our Wild fans were during Game Two of the Stanley Cup’s first-round playoffs. Tension was probably high with hostile insults toward valued players and fuming face-offs. It definitely ran tight down on the ice—I could almost feel the daggers being shot at me from the other players’ eyes.
It’s true that I’ve really come out of my shell as a player fit for the National Hockey League this past season. I guess that may be why I seem to have a freshly-painted bulls-eye glowing and pulsing quite noticeably on my jersey. Attention, let alone attention like that, has never been on the list of things I covet.
One would think an athlete in this sport would get more heat for fitting into the stereotype of missing an obvious tooth. But no, the Wild boys never let up on the fact that I don’t take advantage of my “big-guy” stats and toss around a few guys once in awhile.
The Ducks have a different set of rules, however, namely for themselves. It could be called Wrestle-On-Ice, coming to a rink near you!
Exhilarating but deadly, that’s just the way they play.
In the middle of the game, A feisty player got in our goalie’s face and fired his wrist at Backstrom, and I immediately glided in for Backy’s defense. That’s what being a defenseman is all about: guarding your zone. I couldn’t help but shove the guy a bit and tower over him in an attempt to be intimidating and say “lay off.” Anaheim, both fans and players, definitely got the wrong message.
One of the Ducks’ forwards took the provoked offense with such speed that you’d think he was streaking down the ice in a breakaway to score a goal from deep in his own zone rather than bounding a whole two feet to shove one of our defenseman. Not much to my surprise, the other Anaheim forward hurried over to try and help out his breathless teammate. There was one thing that stood in his way, however.
Me.
Once again, I skated over to defend a teammate. This time though, I exceeded the speed and vigor the second forward had and was in front of him before he landed a punch to our other defenseman. Chris Kunitz then directed all physical fury at me, seeming just as fueled for a fight as ever.
Restrictively entangled, we drifted away from the other fights that may or may not have broken out to my knowledge in response to the sudden outburst of intensity the first period had taken. In a few short seconds with our bodies interlocked waist-up, we wrestled over to the corner to left of the goal.
The maddened mob behind the plexiglass created a droning hum of “boos” quite obviously aimed at Anaheim. The rest of the place probably couldn’t hear the deafening crack of glass as I boarded Kunitz into the edge of the ice over their roaring cheers. I was sure the adrenaline was pumping in his veins at a high rate after that—the force he exerted into pushing more than twice his body weight away from the boards was incredible.
In the multiple attempts to gain the upper-hand, Kunitz and I ended up looking like two oddly-aggressive dancers: bent over, grabbing one another, and uncomfortably close. I felt pressure lift from my left shoulder and it was replaced by his right hand intently reaching towards me. Towards my face.
His moist palm slicked up my left cheek, and I could smell the disgusting warmth as the hand glided over my nose and eyes. Hand still gliding, my own tried to reach for a better grip on his dusky jersey before a force on the side of my head dragged my entire upper-half towards the ice.
To say the least, the crowd was severely displeased. The “boos” turned into obscene tauntings calling Kunitz “cowardly” and “cheap.”
“You don’t pull hair in the NHL!” a fan bellowed before exploding into a list of just accusations towards the Anaheim forward.
Letting the crowd take over with their repetitive and stimulating cheers of “Burn-zie! Burn-zie!” I took one deep breath and pulled my entire body back before launching into my response to the so-called cowardice.
All of my physical instincts seemed to bubble up to the front of my mind, taking over the happy-go-lucky attitude I effortlessly radiate to everyone. Self-proclaimed goofball: out the window.
After landing a big right hand explicitly to the face that had Kunitz staggering, I let the fans’ proud encouragement urge me on. Right hand after right hand, punch after punch, thrust after thrust, the explosion of the crowd seemed to get more enthusiastic—urging me on.
The forward bent back down to one of our original positions in an attempt to lift me off my skates or knock me off-balance, at the very least. I felt his feeble and sluggish retaliation punches lightly land on my torso before the two of us somehow ended up wrestling directly on the ice; it was then that the referees decided enough was enough.
After being helped up with quite some effort by the wiry-looking referees, Kunitz and I parted ways for the time being into the different locker rooms.
If I’d known that pushing the first forward would cause a rambunctious uproar to weave through the crowd… I probably wouldn’t have changed what I did. I finally dropped the gloves for the first time in my NHL career, and I was ready to take any consequences that came with the exhilarating experience. That includes a roughing penalty for “instigating,” to the crowd’s displeasure.
It took me four years to drop my purse and “be a man.” All I need now is to get a tooth knocked out, and I’ll be all set for the Hall of Fame.
But when the crowd of over eighteen-thousand got on their feet instinctively in reaction to a harshly physical play, all of that changed for me.
The Anaheim Ducks have always had that “bad” reputation; the kind that NHL referees absolutely thrive on because they can blow their sharp whistle during basically any play (especially when the Ducks are losing). No sane fan of any team gets pumped up thinking about their boys fighting a player from Anaheim.
I’d hate to think about how anxious our Wild fans were during Game Two of the Stanley Cup’s first-round playoffs. Tension was probably high with hostile insults toward valued players and fuming face-offs. It definitely ran tight down on the ice—I could almost feel the daggers being shot at me from the other players’ eyes.
It’s true that I’ve really come out of my shell as a player fit for the National Hockey League this past season. I guess that may be why I seem to have a freshly-painted bulls-eye glowing and pulsing quite noticeably on my jersey. Attention, let alone attention like that, has never been on the list of things I covet.
One would think an athlete in this sport would get more heat for fitting into the stereotype of missing an obvious tooth. But no, the Wild boys never let up on the fact that I don’t take advantage of my “big-guy” stats and toss around a few guys once in awhile.
The Ducks have a different set of rules, however, namely for themselves. It could be called Wrestle-On-Ice, coming to a rink near you!
Exhilarating but deadly, that’s just the way they play.
In the middle of the game, A feisty player got in our goalie’s face and fired his wrist at Backstrom, and I immediately glided in for Backy’s defense. That’s what being a defenseman is all about: guarding your zone. I couldn’t help but shove the guy a bit and tower over him in an attempt to be intimidating and say “lay off.” Anaheim, both fans and players, definitely got the wrong message.
One of the Ducks’ forwards took the provoked offense with such speed that you’d think he was streaking down the ice in a breakaway to score a goal from deep in his own zone rather than bounding a whole two feet to shove one of our defenseman. Not much to my surprise, the other Anaheim forward hurried over to try and help out his breathless teammate. There was one thing that stood in his way, however.
Me.
Once again, I skated over to defend a teammate. This time though, I exceeded the speed and vigor the second forward had and was in front of him before he landed a punch to our other defenseman. Chris Kunitz then directed all physical fury at me, seeming just as fueled for a fight as ever.
Restrictively entangled, we drifted away from the other fights that may or may not have broken out to my knowledge in response to the sudden outburst of intensity the first period had taken. In a few short seconds with our bodies interlocked waist-up, we wrestled over to the corner to left of the goal.
The maddened mob behind the plexiglass created a droning hum of “boos” quite obviously aimed at Anaheim. The rest of the place probably couldn’t hear the deafening crack of glass as I boarded Kunitz into the edge of the ice over their roaring cheers. I was sure the adrenaline was pumping in his veins at a high rate after that—the force he exerted into pushing more than twice his body weight away from the boards was incredible.
In the multiple attempts to gain the upper-hand, Kunitz and I ended up looking like two oddly-aggressive dancers: bent over, grabbing one another, and uncomfortably close. I felt pressure lift from my left shoulder and it was replaced by his right hand intently reaching towards me. Towards my face.
His moist palm slicked up my left cheek, and I could smell the disgusting warmth as the hand glided over my nose and eyes. Hand still gliding, my own tried to reach for a better grip on his dusky jersey before a force on the side of my head dragged my entire upper-half towards the ice.
To say the least, the crowd was severely displeased. The “boos” turned into obscene tauntings calling Kunitz “cowardly” and “cheap.”
“You don’t pull hair in the NHL!” a fan bellowed before exploding into a list of just accusations towards the Anaheim forward.
Letting the crowd take over with their repetitive and stimulating cheers of “Burn-zie! Burn-zie!” I took one deep breath and pulled my entire body back before launching into my response to the so-called cowardice.
All of my physical instincts seemed to bubble up to the front of my mind, taking over the happy-go-lucky attitude I effortlessly radiate to everyone. Self-proclaimed goofball: out the window.
After landing a big right hand explicitly to the face that had Kunitz staggering, I let the fans’ proud encouragement urge me on. Right hand after right hand, punch after punch, thrust after thrust, the explosion of the crowd seemed to get more enthusiastic—urging me on.
The forward bent back down to one of our original positions in an attempt to lift me off my skates or knock me off-balance, at the very least. I felt his feeble and sluggish retaliation punches lightly land on my torso before the two of us somehow ended up wrestling directly on the ice; it was then that the referees decided enough was enough.
After being helped up with quite some effort by the wiry-looking referees, Kunitz and I parted ways for the time being into the different locker rooms.
If I’d known that pushing the first forward would cause a rambunctious uproar to weave through the crowd… I probably wouldn’t have changed what I did. I finally dropped the gloves for the first time in my NHL career, and I was ready to take any consequences that came with the exhilarating experience. That includes a roughing penalty for “instigating,” to the crowd’s displeasure.
It took me four years to drop my purse and “be a man.” All I need now is to get a tooth knocked out, and I’ll be all set for the Hall of Fame.
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