The Finished Product

Here's the final product of my multimedia project about my dad and I running in the New York City Marathon. Enjoy.

What the hell is going on?

This blog is basically toast. It should get back up to par over Christmas break when I get some time to write write write but it's been out of touch all semester. Who are the Red Wings even starting nowadays? I got Datsyuk, Zetterberg, Lidstrom, an 80-year-old man posing as Tomas Holmstrom, four Yzerman cutouts for intimidation, and a boxboy from Best Buy that loses fights and goes by the name of May. And who the hell is Drew Miller? I can't remember a time where I had absolutely no clue who a player was that was in the Red Wings organization, but Drew Miller fits that bill. I read his name on one of The Triple Deke's latest recaps so he must be real, but as far as I'm concerned he still pitches for the Tigers and was never traded to the Marlins.

Seriously, what's happening with the NHL right now? The Wings have won 13 games and lost 13 games and have about 13 injured players that are making about 13 million bucks apiece. I'm more confident in Jimmy Howard than I am in Chris Osgood, which isn't saying much but considering I thought of Jimmy Howard as more of an aborted fetus than a hockey player before the season started, I'm pretty surprised that he's risen to the occasion so quickly. I'm annoyed that the Hawks are doing so well, Hossa included, but since goaltending and coaching are two of the most important aspects of playoff hockey, I see a first-round choke job in their future. At least last year they had no expectations. This year, they'll be sure to keep Hossa on the personal train of epic life decision failures.

I'll end this ridiculously random post that does nothing but continue to show this blog as the old senile bastard of Red Wings blogs with a simple prediction that the Wings finish eighth in the conference and lead a 16-0 charge to Stanley's silver chalice. Hooah, what a season it will be. Go Detroit Cougars! Falcons! Red Wings!

The Captain

Steve Yzerman. Stevie Y. The Captain. His long journey through the ranks of the NHL came to a close at the top this week, as he was rightly inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame. People say it was an incredible Hall of Fame class with Brett Hull, Luc Robitaille and Brian Leetch too, but there's no one who compares to Yzerman. He's the greatest overall hockey player I've ever seen. I don't care if you show me statistics; I don't care if you show me highlights. He proved his worth to me with 22 years of loyalty to the Detroit Red Wings, with humble interviews and speeches, with unmatched skill in the 1980s and determination in the 1990s. He's a complete player and the game hasn't felt the same without him since his departure in 2006.

Steve Yzerman is the reason I love hockey. He's the reason I love the Detroit Red Wings. He's the reason I still cling to my first Red Wings jersey, even though now it fits me like a t-shirt would. I think my passion for all sports would be severely less developed and undoubtedly less passionate if not for Steve Yzerman. Why? It's his funky name that only hockey fans can seem to pronounce. It's his humility that showed the world that professional athletes don't all have to be stereotypical, money-grubbing buffoons. It's his tremendous skill that he used to make a name for himself then tossed in his back pocket when he realized it wasn't what the team needed to succeed. It's his goal in the 1996 quarters that will never cease to give me shivers.

It's his 19. There can never be another 19. It's his C. There will never be another captain like him. It's the way he picked up the Cup in 1997 and held it for all of Detroit. It's the way he handed it to Vladdie in the wheelchair in '98. It's the way he avoided the spotlight, despite the fact that he was the one everyone wanted to see and talk to. It's the determination to win another Cup. It's the selflessness to take less money so the team could go out and pay for more star players. It's in the grimaces. It's the way he dragged himself off the ice time after time in the 2002 playoffs. It's his gap-toothed smile.

There's no way I can encompass all that Steve Yzerman has meant to me as a Detroit Red Wings fan. He's got the top spot cemented for my favorite player of all-time; everyone else is just fighting for number two. I might wish for every other fan in the country to feel the same way about a certain player they look up to, but that's impossible. There's just no single athlete in the world like Steve Yzerman. There's a reason he's referred to as "God" in so many Red Wings circles: he's on par with one.


I don't know...his legacy has meant so much to me as a hockey fan that it was really special to see him in the spotlight again. Even though he was wearing a black suit and delivering a speech in Toronto, it almost felt like he had pulled on that Wings sweater again and was skating a lap or two around the Joe. I wish he'd never left the game, and I felt that an honorary post about him was necessary. I haven't touched on much Wings content this fall, but hopefully this does the franchise some justice. Stevie sure did.

Joyless Ride

So newspapers are going down in flames it seems, best exemplified by our speaker in Advanced Newswriting: Multimedia class today who stressed, among other things, to "have a backup plan" because the future is so bleak for journalists today. This coming from a guy named Don Himsel, who has worked as a photo editor and staff member at the Nashua Telegraph for more than 2o years. However, Himsel fails to realize there will always be a ridiculous craving for news and a dire need for writers who can tell a good, newsworthy story. Just look at the latest New York Times series: Held by the Taliban. It took me more than an hour to read the whole thing online but I was so hooked I couldn't stop. It's true the Times and pretty much every other widespread newspaper in the country has cut staffers and slashed circulation numbers, but I just can't be pessimistic with some much reporting out there for the taking. Once newspapers find a way to move from print to online in an effective, efficient manner for business, jobs will be plentiful again. As Ray Liotta said in Blow, "When you're up it's never as good as it seems, and when you're down you feel like you'll never be up again, but life goes on." My future is coming at me; I have no choice but to jump in headfirst.

So that was a long introduction into what I wanted to do, which is try out a few hundred words for my Boston Globe internship application that needs to be on a) a memorable moment in my life, b) my favorite story I've written and why or c) someone who has influenced me greatly. I figure I'll try the first one because it gives me the most room to write how I want, and you readers (if you still exist out there) can comment and let me know in the next couple days what you think. I would appreciate any and all feedback you can give me.

A) A memorable moment in my life.

We had the keys. The cool air whisked past my overgrown hair as I whipped open the passenger door. My cousin Ezra and I, both 15, slumped into the Ford Taurus awkwardly. We were told to lock the car and grab my sister's headphones; we had something else in mind.

Ez pulled the shift in gear. Drive. He released the brake and stepped on the gas. Go.

I sat frightened and excited, watching the trees and suburban homes roll by. We barely touched the speed limit. Chico, California in late November is beautiful. We turned down side streets and let our minds wander. After what seemed like hours, we pulled into an empty parking lot.

Shit. This was a bad idea. I said it to no one. Ezra already knew. My heart started pounding in my throat. A cop drove by. We ducked and covered like schoolchildren.

"Do you have any idea how to get back?" Ezra asked, nerves and puberty present in his voice. Yeah, I think so, I lied. I took the wheel.

I had no idea where I was going. Our directions could have reinvented the compass. Every street had the same strange, unfamiliarity to it. San Ramon Drive. Glenshire Lane. Manor Circle. We knew only one thing: Uncle Peter's house was on Verde Court. A bead of sweat slid down my side as my white knuckles gripped the steering wheel. There's no way they don't know we're gone by now.

Panicked thoughts began racing through my mind. It was nearing mid-afternoon: Thanksgiving dinner would be ready soon. My dad would use that turkey knife to skin me, I was sure of it. My mom would call me Cameron, the full name that emptied my stomach. I needed to find a way back now, or else Ezra and I might have to interrupt Thanksgiving dinner with a call from jail.

Phew. North Avenue. I remembered that one from when we drove in. Verde connected directly to it. And not a moment later, there it was. We were saved.

Oh. No. Our hearts screamed as we saw familiar faces. The entire family was out on the front lawn, awaiting our return. Angry parents. Smirking sisters. Grampie's mouth wide as the open road.

I coasted in and jerked the shift in park. The car doors flew open and we were yanked out of the car before either of us could stammer an apology. Questions flew at us like bullets, each stinging with an embarrassing, overwhelming sensation. Busted.

We were told to rake the leaves in the backyard for the rest of the afternoon. A ball and chain would have been lighter on my conscience, but the punishment was mild. The guilt was a much heavier burden.

I eat Thanksgiving dinner with Ezra and his family every year. In the six years that have passed since that November afternoon joy ride, the story is still as fresh as the day it happened. They love telling it as much as we hate hearing it, but somehow I don't think Thanksgiving would be the same without it.

OK, that's 515 words. It needs to be 400 or less. Help me cut it down, please. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, and a Happy Halloween!

October Check-In

So the Wings played bad against the Blues, decent against the Hawks and Caps and terrible against the Sabres. Who cares. The Wings will end up in the top three by season's end, and I'm plenty happy watching hockey from a distance right now. The Franzen thing isn't even all that worrisome to me, since I assume he'll come back just in time for his February to March craze of goals. That knee will heal and he'll be better for it.

My training for the New York City Marathon is coming to an end...only 17 more days before the big 26.2 through the five boroughs. I'm confident I can do it, but I must say I've been pretty lazy about my running this month. Only 10.3 miles through the first two weeks, and sometimes I run four times that in a single week. Yikes. We'll see if it matters come November.

I don't have much to report; I'm really only updating the blog for the sake of updating. I don't like to see it get all dusty in cyberspace. I feel like Yzerman Is God when that happens. Man, for a blog with such a sweet header graphic, wouldn't you think he'd update that place with a post more than twice a year? Oh well. Not everyone can be as consistent at Animal Drew or the Chief or Snipe Snipe. I honestly don't know why news outlets don't hire bloggers, since The Triple Deke and the other aforementioned bloggers write funnier, more entertaining and overall better stuff than most of the boring briefs I read on Freep or the Detroit News.

Yeah. So I haven't done much with those photoshop renderings I promised, but at some point I'll make another glorious one featuring the wunderkind Cindy Rosby and his merry men Geno Malkin and Maxime Talbot. Ooh, the internet might not even be able to handle that one. I'll have to tone the hate down for viewer's sake.

Now, I hate to disappoint the tiny following I have here at the blog, but this lack of timely posting will continue for a while with the GREs in a month, the newspaper to run and internship application deadlines inching closer. I tend to enjoy having a life, and while writing is a huge part of that, I haven't felt all that inspired recently. The Wings and Wolverines often fuel that inspiration, but at the moment I'm just not feeling all that compelled to put legitimate energy into a post. I'll definitely have somethin' sweet for you after the marathon on Nov. 1, but until then I can't make any promises.

This rambling probably wasted your time, but if you made it to the end here's a great video for your troubles:

NHL Predictions

All these damned NHL predictions are popping up everywhere. The Triple Deke's got some, ESPN's so-called "experts" have chipped in their worthless two cents and I've decided to jump on the bandwagon. So, no bow or frills attached, here's a few things you should expect to see on the ice in 2009-2010.

• Neither the Blackhawks nor the Capitals are making a run for the Cup. Sorry. Too much hype, too little goaltending, too shitty coaching. They'll be fun to watch, but everywhere I look people are picking the Caps and the Hawks, the Caps and the Hawks. Enough people. They're both above-average teams that don't have what it takes to win a championship. As Puckin' Right boldly suggests, I'm not even sure if the Hawks have what it takes to come in second in the Central. Speaking of which...
  
• The Red Wings will win the Central again. They always do. We'll see about the postseason, but for now, there's nothing in this world that says the Wings won't at least win the Central and get a top two seed in the West.
• The Penguins will be sucked into a black hole and disappear forever, never to return again as an NHL team. President Obama celebrates the occasion and declares a National Holiday where we sit around and eat cupcakes while insulting Rosby's unborn children.

That's all I'm predicting. I didn't say I'd have much, but I don't care enough to look up how the Atlanta Thrashers are going to do this year, so I'll stick to what I know: the Hawks and Caps are being ridiculously overrated right now, the Wings will win the Central and the Pens will no longer exist by the end of the year and the world will be better for it. I'll be waiting with that "I told you so" in June.

The Resurrection

I'm back. Probably not on a regular basis because I've got a college newspaper to run with a brand new website and two hockey writing internships starting up soon (covering UNH men's hockey for USCHO.com and the Manchester Monarchs for InsideHockey.com) and I'd like to spend some time savoring this senior year of college, but I'll do my best to get back with some thoughtful content once every couple weeks.

Anyway, here's that Photoshop of the Anaheim Lovefest that I promised weeks ago. I'm no Photoshop pro yet, but I'm working on it. Regardless, I think its beauty outweighs its flaws.

I watched some Red Wings hockey tonight. Their final preseason game against *gulp* the whores of Pittsburgh. The Wings came out on top, 4-1, but I couldn't help but think of those painful mid-June days that made me want to coat myself in oil, light a match and jump of a cliff. And that troubled me. I've dealt with playoff disappointments before, but every other time I've been able to deal with it over the summer and don the Winged Wheel with pride again in the fall.

Not this time.

I still wear that glorious red jersey with pride, but there's a certain sting that accompanies it right now. I'm not sure I'm ready for hockey season. In fact, I'm practically dreading it.

In the past few years, I can barely stand to watch Versus or the NHL Network because of how much crap they spew about Pittsburgh and their highness, Ms. Cindy Rosby the Queen Bitch of Doucheland. And that was all before he "won" a championship. Now, can you imagine how many of Lil' Gary's NHL commercials are going to end with a clip of Rosby and the Cup? I want to puke just thinking about it.

There's so many reasons I'll be happy to see hockey games start up again: Lidstrom playing perfectly. Datsyuk dangle danglin'. Zetterberg and Franzen domination. Kronner's "illegal" hits. Raffy and the most potent power play in the league. Hell, even a little dose of Osgood and his schizophrenic, regular-season self will be a nice change from an inevitable Tigers' postseason loss and more of the same from the Lions.

But some scars have yet to heal. There was some asshole standing next to me at the bar this weekend wearing a Rosby shirt/jersey, and I nearly stabbed him with my straw out of mere instinct. I want the Wings to have their revenge, but I don't think I can handle about eight more months of waiting, all the while hearing about the Wings' demise and the Blackhawks' surge and the Penguins' repeat. Ugh.

I don't know. I can tell from other Wings' blogs that they're raring to go: Tyler at TheTripleDeke has promised a recap after every contest, Kris at Snipe Snipe, Dangle Dangle is posting all sorts of new excitement and Animal Drew at Nightmare on Helm Street is always on top of his game. But I'm not sure I want to jump on the ice just yet. I'm thinking a few more weeks of following these new Michigan Wolverines sounds a lot better, while I keep an eye on the Wings from the shadows. I'll join 'em when I'm ready. Now just seems like a little too soon.