Thursday, January 10, 2008

Thursday Morning Cupcheck - My Day with the Detroit Red Wings

By Todd Maternowski

Top of the morning, hockey fans! Last week we glanced askew at my pre-season predictions, and learned that if I had typed what I'd really thought, my dead-on picks would've been 110% on the money. I was planning on dedicating this week's column to my brilliant idea of having the financially-troubled Nashville Predators relocate to Mexico City ("Preds" is a pretty lame team name, anyways, and although it perfectly fits the team's lame fanbase, I'd much rather tune in to Versus and watch the Mexico City High Priests. Or the Monterrey Cajones. Or anything having to do with this sponsor. But I digress).

Where was I? Ah, yes, the Preds: no sooner had I put e-quill to i-paper when I was invited by my all-time favorite professional sports team, the Detroit Red Wings, to travel and live with them for 24 hours. How could I pass up such a golden opportunity? I had often dreamed of this very moment: cooking meatballs with Nick Lidstrom... playing Uno on the team bus with Johan Franzen... looking on with the rest of the team while Henrik Zetterberg and Pavel Datysuk make out on the Red Wings logo in the locker room... I was giddy with excitement! Although my memory is still hazy about the details of that amazing day --and why is my tuckus so sore?-- I'm presenting my transcribed notes. To all you Red Wing lovers like myself, enjoy! Everyone else -- go to the roof of the tallest building in your podunk little nowhere town, and sit there in the cold until you get further instructions. Go!! Go now!!

Chumps.

Anyways, here are my notes, although I had trouble reading some of the pages, as most of them had odd-smelling stains and unintelligible messages written in crayon and what seems to be human blood. But I think you'll get the jist of it.

Strangely, I didn't see any females in Detroit, but I did see a lot of guys wearing these

4:35am: My alarm goes off. As part of the deal with the Wings' PR department, I had to spend the night in the Detroit Media Room, a breezy, lightweight tent outside of Joe Louis Arena. Man, it's cold in here! And the "press outfit" I have to wear isn't helping any: really, when I look at it, it's just a few square inches of studded leather straps and a see-through veil. In fact, pretty much 95% of my skin is exposed in this thing, although I was able to retain some warmth with all the pillows in the tent. But it wasn't easy: pillows are at a premium here. Two media members died last night from injuries incurred fighting for these things. Note to self: get some neosporin on some of these bite wounds when it's all over.

4:46am: As befitting a member of the exalted cadre known to some as "the hockey writers," our handlers arrive with what I assumed was our breakfast, as I see PR interns empty bags of soiled utensils on the now-frozen corpses, whip a nearby writer for NHL.com and command us to "FEED!" Strangely, Wings' PR leaves without bringing in any food. After the blindfolded ride in the trunk of that Rambler from Dallas, I was so looking forward to the tasty cuisine Detroit is so known for. Fortunately, I had stepped in some sort of gum/chewing tobacco hybrid earlier, and succeed in scraping most of the meaty part off of my prized LA Gear sneakers. Mmm, Hubba Bubba!

5:31am: After I'd witnessed some generally unspeakable things in the Media Tent, Wings' PR finally returns to take us inside the Sacred Temple of Hockey, the NHL's Star Chamber: Joe Louis Arena. My wrists and ankles are starting to chaff a bit from the iron manacles, but with the threat of so many Avalanche fans about, I understand that you can never be too careful.

5:46am: We're led to the ice rink itself, the hallowed ground of Detroit hockey! Despite my now-frostbitten extremities, I am filled with warmth inside! I've long waited for this moment, the culmination of my hockey writing career! If I had had taken any fluids in the past two days I would've wet myself right there! The PR people tell us the players will be out shortly for their morning skate, and to wait here. I close my eyes in gleeful anticipation.

5:47am: I open my eyes in agonizing pain -- Jamie Samuelsen of the Detroit Free Press is gnawing ferociously on my leg! I beat him off with my rolled-up 1996 Wings-Avs game program, and although my arm strength isn't what it used to be even two days ago, he eventually relents and scuttles into the corner of the rink with some of the other Detroit media. I'm not bleeding that badly, but after all this is done I'd better get that checked out: his bright red, glow-in-the-dark saliva can't be natural. Should it be fizzing like that on my open wound?

7:45am: After two hours waiting on the ice, there's still no sign of the team. Fortunately, I've learned enough from my time here to pretty much know when the other members of the media will attack, if they're coming in groups, solo, etc. The Toronto and Detroit tribes are the fiercest. They really let into a writer for the Columbus Dispatch who was busy eating a pile of yellow snow left by the Detroit tribe. Poor sucker fell right into their trap. His wounds are far worse than mine, and are festering pretty badly. I should pay attention to his condition to see what's possibly in store for me. His eyes are starting to get a little glassy.

9:03am: Finally, the players come onto the ice! Just in time, too -- we lost two more writers, a pair of French-speaking columnists, although with the lights off it's hard to really distinguish anything. They did replay most of the attack on the Jumbotron, but the view from my makeshift ice-fortress is not good, and I don't dare pop my head out and draw attention to myself. I'm pretty sure those blood-curdling cries were in French, though.

11:35am: Phew!! Lots to update here, although my writing hand is a little shaky from all the exercise. Once the players hit the ice and they turned on the stadium lights, it was ON! As a member of the hockey media elite, I never once dreamed I'd be so close to the action! The last two hours were basically the most exhilarating of my life --or maybe not, my memory's a little cloudy after that Kronwall slapshot off the back of my neck-- but the Wings' PR really knows how to introduce you to the speed and power of the Red Wings! I think the players must've been tired, 'cause after the second hour of checking and slapshot drills, the frequency of media getting highsticked or pucked in the face got higher and higher. Hard to focus, I guess, with all that cheering and testosterone and writer's blood being spillt. I'm able to scoop up most of my teeth before the Zamboni runs over them.

11:40am: The PR guys led us back to the relative warmth and safety of the Media Tent. And--hey!! What's this?? As if it weren't crowded enough already, when we get back to the tent it's full of 12-year old Cambodian boys! Already all the pillows have been re-claimed by the interlopers. This will not stand.

1:24pm: It's a little hard to write with my right hand anymore after that last push, but after all is said and done, I'm happy with the small piece of cushion-down I managed to chisel away from that damn kid. The Cambodians might have had sheer numbers, but never underestimate the dark depths of inhumanity we hockey writers will stoop to -- I bet some of the cagey vets in this tent could even qualify to be NHL referees in a pinch. Especially that guy from the Chicago Tribune. He's living the good life over on the other side of the tent, what with all those gamey young corpses he's rationing out.

3:30pm: With no allies in the media, I've struck up a tenuous alliance with a small group of Cambodians. They seem to have smuggled in some food: my Cambodian is a little rusty, but I think they're telling me something about "box seats," or "player's buffet?" No idea. I trade some of my teeth for food: the small bit of baloney is a little tough to chew with my blood-soaked gums, but I manage to mash it up pretty good before swallowing. The Cambodians seem receptive to me, and are using my teeth as jewelry.

5:02pm: After more uneventful waiting, and an unsuccessful attempt to reach out to the Cambodians --I tried trading my Henrik Zetterberg rookie card for a crust of bread, but the kids seemed to react to the card's picture with shock and horror, followed by a strange posterior-rubbing ritual-- we are once again led out of the Media Tent and back onto the rink. Holmstrom be praised! We're going to ride the Zambonis!

Above: artist's rendition of the Red Wing Victory Ceremony

5:24pm: (unintelligible)

6:02pm: At last.... pain subsiding... you know, those Zambonis look pretty small from my usual seats in the 500-section at the AAC, but up close, they're a lot faster than they look! A PR guy comes to the surviving media members and says we're going to get to hang out with our very own Red Wing! They assign me to Chris Osgood, give me the routine clubbing to the back of the head and drag my groggy body deep into the bowels of the Joe Louis Arena! Yay!

6:45pm: Plenty has happened in the last 45 minutes or so, but a quick recap here. I was treated to the awe-inspiring sight of Red Wings GM Ken Holland negotiating a contract with goalie Chris Osgood. Both personal heroes of mine, it was a pleasure to watch it all unfold!

Holland: You vill sign for $1 million, yes?

Osgood: Are you kidding me? I'm 19-2-1!!

Holland: Vine, den. $1.5 million.

Osgood: Have you even seen my GAA? I deserve at least Pascal Leclaire money!

Holland: How vould you like to tend goal on zee Russian front?

Osgood: Actually, $1.5 million sounds pretty good to me. Where do I sign?

7:35pm: After joking around with Osgood for awhile --the guy had me in stitches with his "Kill me. Now." routine-- the Wings' PR leads us up to the Press Box for the game! As if this day could get any better!!

8:15pm: Wow, all those rumors of Detroit being Hockeytown, U.S.A. are spot-on! I've never heard a crowd like this! It seems like all 9,000 of them are really giving it to the players on the ice... "Go Wings!" "Boo Avs!": where do they come up with this stuff?? It's almost as if each and every Red Wings game is more like a big meeting of anywhere from 9 to 11,000 hockey geniuses under one roof. I feel especially blessed to be witness to this greatness.

9:55pm: With the game over, time for post-game interviews, and the Apex of my trip: a look inside of the profane, consecrated ground of the Detroit Red Wings' locker room. Many hockey writers across the Western Hemisphere excite themselves under the sheets, night-dreaming of this very moment. I could hardly contain my--scratch that, my excitement got all over the place. I wasn't alone in this: the Wings' logo in the center of the room is caked with hallowed media protein.

10:03pm: I'm psyched --my very first post-game interview with a real-life player! Not like those previous interviews where I stood up my cardboard cutout of Darren McCarty asking me if I "Got Milk?" and quizzed it with made-up questions. A living, heavily breathing, hockey player! Not to over-hype the moment or anything, but this moment is the culmination of my entire life. And by extension, it's the culmination of all of your lives, too! I don't exactly recognize the player from my media guide, but he's really old and says he's a Red Wing player, so --gulp!-- here goes!

2:24am: Man, my head feels like I got hit in the forehead with an endless series of frozen pucks... and who was that first guy, anyways? I'm starting to doubt his claim to be a Red Wing. What did he say he was? Trike Trabcock? Dike Nabcock? Crap, my head hurts when I try to remember stuff. The peals of high-pitched laughter are ringing in my skull like a stadium full of drunk fans armed with airhorns. It's so dark here... and cold. And bumpy. I need to brush up on my Swedish... something about testikelen, or skita, or maybe it was something like kön med din pappa... I dunno... and what's with all the Red Wings repeatedly shoving their tiny penises into my eye sockets? My eyes are burning, and it's a little difficult to open them. Best to just sit this one out. Ouch! Wait --am I in the back of a truck again?

4:35am: The truck is speeding away now, I think it's heading south but from the bottom of this trench it's hard to tell exactly which direction is what. Glancing at my Casio calculator wristwatch, it appears my 24 hour Dream Day with the Wings is over, almost as soon as it began. Too bad, I think I was actually starting to enjoy it a little there. Except for the end, there --I think I'm going to be sore all over for a few days after that exclusive visit to the Wings' locker room. Dang! I hope Red Wings' PR gets my teeth back from those kids and mails them to me. I'm pretty sure they will. Hey... where am I? This doesn't look like the civilized, cultured Michigan that I know. I'm starting to think that incessant pounding noise in my skull might be related to those gunshots from that warehouse with flames coming out of the windows over there. Probably best to put my notebook away and crawl on my belly to safety under the cover of night. Survivors tell me it's the best way to get out of Detroit.

Well, that's it for this week's column -- the rest of my notes were used as a torch to fend off a swarm of hungry rats, although that makeshift light proved pretty useless against the wolves...funny story. Tune in next week when I try and tend to my open wounds with Henrik Zetterberg's Magik Cure-All Salve!

Related stories

• Thursday Morning Cupcheck - And Then Came Fabian (Oct. 16, 2008)
• Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Horoscope Edition (Sept. 18, 2008)
• Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Go West, Old Men (Sept. 4, 2008)
• Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Want to be an NHL owner? (June 26, 2008)
• Thursday Morning Cupcheck - Dominating Today’s Youth (June 5, 2008)

See more stories in:

• Hockey > NHL > Stars

Comments