Five Reasons the Hawks Won't Win the Stanley Cup

I stirred myself up a bit re-reading my blog today (hey, somebody has to keep the page view numbers up) and felt an urge to write again. I know I said "wake me in April" just yesterday about the NHL, but I've got a couple more stones to throw. The league's "best" team right now is the Chicago Blackhawks and all the hockey pundits are smiling as if they've just let loose a huge fart and blamed it successfully on someone else -- they called it. They all said the Wings would be too tired, too old, too every-excuse-in-the-book to compete for the Central Division again this season and the fresh new Hawks would reign. Well, statistics and standings say those smug, so-called experts are right on the money. I say they're still wrong.

If the Blackhawks hold on to win the first non-Detroit Central Division title in many years -- still a big 'if' in my book -- there's a huge mountain to climb afterward that they have no chance to summit: Lord Stanley's Cup. These Blackhawks won't win it. Here's why.

• Cristobal Huet. He's never shown he can be counted on in the playoffs and his stats this season are ridiculously misleading. He has the seventh-best GAA in the league at 2.17, but that's all Duncan Keith and Brent Seabrook's doing. The better stat to look at is his 26th-best .908 save percentage. That's not going to get any better this year and it'll get worse in the playoffs. Huet is a headcase and he can't bail out his defense when they make a mistake. Goaltending is the most important piece of the puzzle in a Cup run, and the Hawks don't have it.

• Marian Hossa. Sounds like sour grapes, doesn't it? Well, I won't deny that seeing him in a Hawk uniform or a Hawk headline makes me cringe a bit, but the motivation to have him on this list is warranted. Hossa was a no-show in last year's playoffs for the mighty Wings. He hid behind Zetterberg and Datsyuk and Franzen, and he'll do the same behind Toews and Kane and Sharp. The Hawks will count on him for points and he won't produce. He's not a clutch player; I learned that much last year when he disappeared in the two biggest games of his life (games six and seven of last year's finals). He's driving himself crazy trying to coast his way to a Cup, but a championship is earned (except of course in the Penguins' case). Hossa's lackadaisical playoff play will sink the Hawks.

• Joel Quenneville. The guy's got a great resume, good rapport with his players and one helluva mustache, but that won't get you sippin' out of Stanley. Here's an interesting comparison for you. Quenneville-coached teams in the playoffs since 1996 have won nine series -- he beat the Kings, Coyotes, Sharks, Stars, Blackhawks, Stars, Wild, Flames, and Canucks. Quenneville-coached teams in the playoffs since 1996 have lost 10 series -- he faltered against Detroit, Detroit, Dallas, San Jose, Colorado, Detroit, Vancouver, Anaheim, Detroit and Detroit. Six of the teams he lost to went on to win Stanley Cups. None of the teams he's defeated strikes me as a legitimate contender. Translation: he can't win the big one. He's hockey's Marty Schottenheimer; he'll win plenty of games for ya and getcha into the playoffs, but don't plan on raising any banners the following season.
• Jonathan Toews. One of the few players on the Hawks that I like and respect, Toews is a great player and has many great years ahead of him. But he's 21 years old and he'll be called upon to lead his team to a championship. Somehow, I don't see that ridiculous outcome happening two years in a row. Youth is tricky to judge, but in almost all cases, the veteran teams win out. I hope that bodes well for the Wings, but even if it doesn't, I can see other teams stepping in to level the chances of Toews and his baby Hawks.

• Common sense and experience. A team two years removed from the league basement doesn't win a Stanley Cup. Maybe a Super Bowl or an NBA title, but not a Stanley Cup. The road is too long, too tough, too much for a bunch of young punks to break through that quickly. And they are a group of young punks: the only guy on their roster with his name on the Cup is John Madden, the Eastern-Conference version of Kris Draper.

It all adds up to one thing: they're just not there yet. Chicago hasn't won a Stanley Cup since 1961 -- that's 48 years for you English majors out there -- and that drought will stay dry for another season. As I see it, they'll be lucky to make it back to the conference finals. Go Wings.

Twenty Ten

Happy New Year. It's been more than a month since my last post and there's no legitimate reason why. I've been writing constantly, though mostly in journal/grad-school essay form, and I've had a ridiculous amount of time on my hands during my 45-day winter break from school that ends in two weeks, but I haven't touched the blog and rarely read others anymore. I haven't read the Chief in months and I never make the usual trip down the blogroll to see what others are saying about the Red Wings' season anymore. (I still read the Triple Deke, but who doesn't? Those guys not only write hilarious and consistent posts, but now they're providing video entertainment too. A Blogger's Gold Standard, I say). Perhaps it's shame from not ever writing about the Wings anymore, but mostly it's just the fact that I'm getting a little sick of the NHL. Not hockey, not the Red Wings, not Datsyuk and Zetterberg and Lidstrom and Draper and all my favorites, but the NHL. I'm sick of everyone's infatuation with Crosby and Ovechkin. I'm sick of Pierre McGuire and NHL on NBC. I'm sick of everyone crowning the Blackhawks and the Sharks already. I'm sick of the injuries and call-ups the Wings are forced to use day in and day out. I'm sick of the Avalanche doing well despite a team no one thought could compete prior to the season. This season is just annoying. So, since it irritates me, it's hard to follow it the same way I usually do. Go Wings as usual, but with the exception of the Olympics, I say don't wake me til April.

Now that we have that squared away, I'll start by addressing the new year. It's 2010. That's twenty-ten or two-thousand-and-ten. I have no idea what I'll be doing in four months time. That prospect is slightly terrifying, but I'm 21 years old (22 come St. Patty's Day) and need not worry about the future just yet. I figure if I read enough books, write enough stories and make the most of my days, I'll find a way to make ends meet and enjoy my time doing it. Jobs are scarce, graduates are panicking. I could certainly fall right in line with that fear -- and I've had bouts of that thinking just about every day I've been home this winter -- but I'm going to make my main goal of 2010 to stay calm, take what comes my way and live. Just live. Sounds like something a hairy happy hippie might say, man, but that doesn't mean I'm going to throw my best shirts in a bowl of tie-dye and groove to the Dead's greatest hits. No; it's just a choice. I figure I won't have too many other periods of life where things are this good or this free, so why not just sit back and enjoy it.

Quick hits on some topics that have passed me by in my blogging absence:

• The whole Tiger Woods situation surprised me. I'll admit it: the guy's an idiot for what he did. But it changes nothing about why I idolized him, why I still do. He plays golf really, really well, and I admire that. I love the game and I love watching him play it with unmatched skill. Maybe some will say that's ignorant, but I never really planned on taking notes about relationships or character from professional athletes. Seems like a road with more bad endings than good ones.
  
• Pete Carroll's decision to leave USC for the NFL's Seahawks is a puzzling one. I really liked Carroll at USC and I don't understand his motive for leaving. Perhaps he'd like to feel what it's like to screw up a football program again rather than rebuild a contender.
• The Colts were stupid to rest their starters and lose their last two games. A team's objective is to win games at any cost. I think it's stupid for a coach to ever think otherwise; it doesn't matter what you've wrapped up already. You play to win the game. It's that simple. You don't play for the Super Bowl. You play to win every down, every minute, every quarter, every game. That's the whole idea. When you lose sight of that by resting guys who don't need resting, you send the wrong message.
  

I'm all out of words, ideas and rants for the evening. I might be back soon or I might be gone another month. Hard to say without any real inclination of what each day will bring. I've resolved to read 100 books this year and I've already finished three through the first 10 days, but it'd be nice to get some suggestions in the comments for some others if you feel so inclined. Goodnight.

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: