Reflections On A Hand Shake Game
“We welcome passion, for the mind is briefly let off duty.” – Mignon McLughlin
By Rich Lindbloom
In 1979 Graham Parker recorded his album, Squeezing out Sparks. The album contained one of “them” songs, you know, the songs that you are compelled to turn up the volume 3 to 4 notches. If you’re really bold, and no one else is in the car with you, you might even try to sing along. One of the lines in the song Passion Is No Ordinary Word reminds me those moments in life, whether victorious or in defeat, where passion rules the day;
“Passion is no ordinary word ain’t manufactured or just another sound that you hear at night.”
Certainly, what we are passionate about in life takes on many forms. Obviously, the passion between Romeo and Juliet was an unquenchable fire, (marriage, no doubt, would have cured that). Then there are the passionate kisses that Mary Chapin Carpenter so passionately sings about. There’s also the passion one feels to write, to garden, to try and master the game of golf – good luck with that one, to paint, to make music “to calm the savage beast.” (Anyone who is not seriously moved by Andrew Lloyd Weber’s and Charles Hart collaboration, Music of the Night, must be devoid of a soul. I doubt you could name a more passionate song.) Of course there is always the unremitting passion of the die hard Cub fan still waiting for next year. Passion has the power to bring irrepressible tears or huge, teeth-y smiles.
One thing for certain – passion can not be manufactured; other than the aforementioned Cub fan who would do his best to brain wash his child into bleeding Cubbie blue, (coerced passion). I vividly recall my brother John disgustingly stating, “There ought to be a law against that,” when he saw an infant in a stroller whose mom had him decked out in a Cub uniform. For the most part though, what we are passionate about seems to emanate from deep within our heart. I’m inclined to say it’s the way God wired us.
I attended the Game Six Clincher against the Predators last Saturday with a friend who was born in Colombia. I recall Carlos telling me one time that fans in America don’t understand the passion so many soccer fans in the world have for their National soccer teams. I started to tell him that soccer’s popularity had grown substantially in the United States. Upon further reflection, I began to realize what he was saying was true. It would be like comparing Barney’s song, I Love You, You love me…, to the aforementioned Music of the Night.
However, it dawned on me that perhaps the most passionate fans in the United States are hockey fans. Take a look around the various arenas at all the fans clad in their team’s jerseys. It seems 80% of the fans in the United Center have a red sweater on. When we split up tickets every year, one of the first games I select is the Maple Leafs. In addition to having one of the best uniforms in the league, you can pretty much name your price if you want to scalp your ticket. I recall asking a Leaf fan one time at the United Center how much he paid for his ticket; his answer was simple – “Way too much.” Passion compels you to do nonsensical things. I suppose there are exceptions, but it seems to me you either love hockey or you find a better use of your time. My old boss once told me, “There are 18,000 hockey fans in Chicago, and they go to every game.”
The possibility of a hand shake game had both Carlos and myself pretty passionately jacked up, as we headed towards the United Center on Saturday after a pregame refreshment at Park Tavern. (Try the pulled chicken tacos there, you’ll love them!) Carlos came to the United States when he was 10 years old in 1970. His family was visiting some friends when Carlos noticed an unusual sport being played on an old black and white TV, fined tuned with tin foil rabbit ears of course. “Dad, what’s this,” as he pointed the strange game taking place; at this point in his life, he had never seen a sheet of ice before.
He and his brother took an immediate liking to the larceny laced mayhem on frozen pond. Actually, playing a game where you get to skate around with a weapon is pretty natural for a Colombian. (JK, Carlos!) They soon convinced their dad to buy them skates. Unfortunately, Carlos’s dad, thinking ahead, decided to buy the skates 3 sizes too large so they could grow into them! This temporarily stifled their skating progress, but not their burgeoning passion for the game. I don’t think kids nowadays realize how tough we had it as kids. Do kids still get hand me downs?
We got to the rink about an hour early and took in the sights and sounds of the United Center. While our seats were up in the boonies, we went down to ice level to watch the players warm up before the game. As I watched the players buzzing around the ice, firing a barrage of shots at Scott Darling, Corey Crawford finally took his turn as the target in the shooting gallery. I’ve never seen Cor-dawg so intense in warm ups. It appeared he was 100% focused on every shot that was fired at him. Literally, he was intent on stopping every puck fired at him in warm-ups! I thought to myself, “Corey’s ready if his number is called.”
The laser show on the ice just prior to the anthem was pretty awesome. It’s pretty hard to go wrong when the sound track of The Who’s Baba O’Riley is blaring over the PA system. However I did find it somewhat sacrilegious that Aaron Copland’s Fanfare For The Common Man, was excluded from the opening. No song will ever announce the beginning of a Hawk game with such crystal clarity. The sound of those horns seem to reverberate in the soul, resurfacing memories of so many Hawk warriors who donned the Indian Head sweater. Spine tingling isn’t the right word – Copland’s song goes much deeper than that. At any rate, some 21,000 fans were pumped up moments before the opening face off.
And then the game began…
James Neal scored on a nifty back hand off a feed from Seth Jones at the 1:10 mark of the opening frame. Seven minutes later, Neal deflected a shot from the point to put the Pred’s up two. At this point, there was less joy in the United Center than in Mudville when Mighty Casey struck out. The sun was not bright, hearts were not light, men were not laughing, children were not shouting and the band was not playing – I’m sure you get the picture. A dark pall had descended on the United Center. It was pretty much impossible to conjure up a worse start.
I doubt that I was alone wondering what time Game Seven in Nashville would be starting on Monday. It was then though that Carlos reminded me of the most dangerous lead in hockey, 2-0. While I knew he was right, with Pekka Rinne manning the pipes even that half hearted grasp at hope seemed futile.
Then, at the 10:31 mark, Patrick Sharp’s rebound off a Keith blast was the equivalent of performing the Heimlich maneuver on the thoroughly depressed United Center throng. We were all momentarily breathing again until Matt Cullen completely disrobed Duncan Keith less than a minute later. Keith’s gaffe seemed to momentarily stun Hjalmarsson. I don’t think Niklas ever did stop skating backwards on that play- appearing to clear a path for Cullen. In Colombia, either of the Hawks defensive finest would have been advised to lay low for awhile for their efforts on that play.
Again, less than a minute later, Johnny on the spot deflected a Sharp blast from the point, rekindling the sparse embers of hope. The game had me so confused at this point I asked Sam Fels why Hossa wasn’t killing the penalty at the 15:15 mark of the first period. “Hossa’s in the penalty box,” was a pretty good answer. Ok, I admit it; sometimes thing are just moving to fast for me out there.
“Where’s Hossa?”
The emotional swings in the first period were cataclysmic. Certainly, all playoff games are not for the feint of heart, but this contest bordered on the absurd. With “one minute to play in the period,” (stick tap to Harvey Wittenberg),, I headed to the bathroom. I was relieved in more ways than one when I heard the glorious sound of the goal horn, and Chelsea Dagger being played. With 9 ticks left on the clock, Richards took a draw in the Predators zone to the right of Rinne. Coach Q had a special play designed which basically amounted to “Get the puck to Kaner!” Richards won the draw cleanly to Keith, who quickly dished to Crazy 88’s. Kane unleashed a wicked half slapper snapper into the upper corner of the net. Ba da bing, ba da boom.
In my mind, the turning point in the game came when Corey replaced Darling after Matt Cullen’s goal. In Darling’s defense, all three of Nashville’s goals were prime scoring opportunities, two resulting from a total defensive collapse. As Corey skated unto the ice to relieve our beleaguered hero from Lemont, Il., one of those special moments happened. A lot of times when there’s a goalie switch, the two masked men sort of give a nod to each other as they pass – similar to that Barry Manilow song about two ships passing in the dark of night. When Crow left the bench, he made a beeline to Darling and gave him an embrace. Wouldn’t you love to know what he said to Darling? Probably something along the line of “Glenn Hall or even Tony-O couldn’t have stopped those shots. Keith and Hjalmarsson suck. Good luck, you’ll need it!”
Crawford relieving Darling reminds me of my daughter’s championship game in the Homewood Juniors League when she was 12. I suppose most Baseball leagues are the same, with a few psycho Billy Martin’s striving for their day in the sun. The Homewood baseball leagues border on being a cult however. There are times the “lets have fun and learn how to play the game,” are replaced by Vince Lombardi’s “Winning is everything,” philosophy. You want to talk about passion – watch the parents at a Homewood Little League game!
The fact that we ended up in the final was sort of a miracle in itself, as the team hovered around the .500 mark all season. Our problems stemmed largely from our secondary pitchers and their control problems, replacing our Hannah after the maximum 4 innings she could pitch. In perhaps the most brilliant coaching decision in my life, in the last regular season game, I went up to my assistant coach and said, “I think I’m going to start Taylor tonight and bring Hannah in the last four innings.” My thought was, bringing in our secondary pitchers after Hannah’s four solid innings was putting way to much pressure on them. George surprisingly agreed with me and we rolled the dice against the best team in the league.
When I told Taylor she was starting, she looked incredulously at me and said something like “Why or What?” I remember looking at the opposing coaches, noticing they were trying to figure out what was up my sleeve. The decision worked though and Taylor consistently threw strike after strike. It seemed to validate Yogi Berra’s famous observation, “90% of baseball is half mental.” We started Taylor the next three games, all in the playoff, and fortunately she kept throwing strikes. (It may have helped that legendary Homewood umpire Mike Nickolau seemed to take a liking to Taylor – you know for those pitches that kiss the corners!)
In the Championship game, Taylor limited our adversary to 2 or 3 runs in the three innings she needed to get through. When the fourth inning started, I told Taylor, “I’m going to pitch you one more inning.” Taylor again shrieked, “What! No put Hannah in.” My thought process was if Hannah got wild and hit two batters, by league rules she would have to be removed from the mound. While everyone else in the park thought I had lost my marbles, with the bottom of the other teams order coming up, I thought it was a wise decision.
To make a long story short, Taylor could not hit the broad side of a barn in the fourth! After each pitch she threw, she’d look over at me as id to say, “Dad, get me out of here!” My assistant coach said “Rich, she’s done,” after she walked the second batter that inning. When I walked out to the mound to make the switch to our ace, well, it was a bit like that Crawford/Darling exchange. Taylor had done her job; she had put us in a position to win. I’ll never forget the PA System blaring M C Hammer’s U Can’t Touch This as Hannah warmed up though. Nothing quite like the sound of the pop when a fastball hits the catcher’s mitt.
As Darling and Crawford switched, it made me wonder, “Why would anyone in their right mind want to be a goalie?” While I’m sure Darling didn’t go into the game with “What, no play Crawford tonight Coach Q,” certainly the pressure in this game was intense. So many outcomes are determined by our masked men and their miraculous saves or lack there of. They are lifted high on a pedestal when they win, but the fans can turn on a net minder quicker than a lightning bolt when things head south. Every passionate fan needs a whipping boy, someone to throw under the bus, a scapegoat to pin the loss on. As the saying goes, “Someone’s got to do the time.”
I’m thinking the Hawk players felt responsible as they watched the Crow/Paul Bunyan exchange. For whatever reason, Crawford only had to face 13 shots in the last 49 minutes of the game. Maybe the rest of the team felt intense shame for leaving Darling hang out to dry like they did in the first 11 minutes. In a bizarre set of circumstances, not only did the Hawks advance to Round Two, Corey was able to win the net back, at least temporarily solving Coach Q’s goal tending controversy. When Keith redeemed himself with a blast from the point with 4 minutes to go – well as the old bard wrote, “All’s well that ends well.”
Not that I would quickly dismiss Darling’s incredible contributions this season, but Hawk fans, Corey is our Hannah. Period. As we head into what will undoubtedly be a nerve wracking series with a Wild team loaded for bear, I’m glad Corey will start between the pipes. “Break it down now!” Cor-dawg.
Hopefully the Hawks will be going through three more handshake lines this year. They are passionate moments.
“Softly, deftly, music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight
The darkness or a triple overtime at night”
Other Important Stuff:
–While watching the triple OT game on Tuesday, I glanced over to the seats where Earl and RoseLee Deustch sit. They are 89 and soon to be 88 years old, and are still attending Blackhawk games. I think unless you’re over 60, starting to pile up a host of physical ailments, you’ll have no idea how strenuous that can be. Both RoseLee and Earl have been passionate Hawk fans since the early 1950’s! (Earl said the one mistake he made in their marriage was when he took her to her first Hawk game.) Over the last 8 years I’ve been acquainted with the Deustch’s, I can count on one hand the number of times they were not at the United Center when I was there. So I was a bit surprised when they were not in their seats in the second OT. Perhaps they were just too tired to watch any more of the game, I thought.
A few days later I found out that RoseLee had slipped in the bath room, I think in the first OT, breaking a few bones in the process. While her son would only call it a lower body injury for the time being, it appears RoseLee has some rehabilitation in store the next few months. As Larry put it, “It will be a long process (Patrick Kane-like, but she’s not a 26 year old winger.) I’m not sure if the rehab, or not being able to attend games at the UC for awhile, is more painful.
Below is a painting RoseLee did of Keith Magnuson after the 1971 Stanley Cup. A better view of it adorns the cover of a great book entitled, Wardrums In The Distance. In both of our minds, Maggy was probably the most passionate hockey player you will ever see in a Blackhawk uniform. I’m guessing when Maggy shook hands with you, he looked you in the eye. I recall asking RoseLee one time, “who was your favorite Hawk player of all time?” She answered that it was a tough choice, reflecting back over some 63 years: “Hockey players in general are such down to earth people.” She settled on #3, citing his flowing red hair! I’m down with that RoseLee, good a reason as any. (Actually, it wasn’t the only thing red that flowed from Keith!)
I was thinking, while RoseLee is rehabilitating, it might be nice to get some get well cards. One of those “practice random acts of kindness” things. If the spirit so moves you, address them to:
RoseLee Deutsch
1511 Greenwood Rd.
Glenview, Il. 60026
–Did you ever notice how it seems nobody leaves the stadium early to beat traffic in a hand shake game?
–It was great seeing the Irish jig guy back! The dude can throw it down.
–I could be wrong, but it seemed some of our veterans were the quickest to form the handshake line after momentarily rejoicing. Class act not making the other team wait and watch the celebration after a hard fought series.
–Every once in awhile I love to yell out, “Kill the Ref.” After the Ref sent Richards to the box for tripping in the second period I had to voice my opinion – even my Colombian friend seemed to think that was a little excessive. It’s amazing how many people chuckle around you when you let a “Kill the Ref” fly.
–How many of you remember chanting, “Ashley’s a bum, Ashley’s a bum, Ashley’s a bum…”
–Kudos to Ken Hitchcock for saying, “We win as a team and we lose as a team,” when pressed by reporter’s for an evaluation of Jake Allen’s performance in Game Six against the Wild.
–Which leads me to another piece of wisdom from my old boss. Never let your kid play goalie. They have to split games and if you lose, the parents will place a good deal of the blame on your kid.
–When my boss and I were walking out after the triple OT game at 1:16 am he said, “And this is only Round One.” I wasn’t feeling too passionate at that point, just dogged tired.
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Rich Lindbloom
