Hockey is not popular in the United States which is understandable.  It makes Canadians look like badasses, and it forces people to learn names like Niklas Hjalmarsson or Gustav Nyquist, names far more ludicrous than footballs down to
Earth monikers like Barkevious Mingo or Kyle Sackrider.  Furthermore, it requires a fairly constant amount of attention. Consider that the puck is always in play, meaning players are constantly having to make choices that will affect the outcome, whereas baseball, despite some games taking nearly 3 hours, has only about 8 & 1/2 to 15 minutes of real action.  While there is a meditative quality to baseball's lengthy consideration of what to do next, hockey is more about split second decisions that can win or lose the fight.  It's a hectic, deceptively chaotic, collage of blood, sweat, and human pitbulls. Imagine a combination of chess and demolition derby and you get close to its meaning.

However, this year the players have certainly betrayed the fans.  They've decided money is more important than the game or loyalty to the people who make their exorbitant salaries possible.  Still, I can't help missing the game.  Sports don't change reality, though they can offer respite from it.  With that in mind, and for those who miss the game, I offer...
  
Chicago BLACKHAWKS vs. Vancouver CANUCKS, 4-21-11, 9:20 p.m.
a stream of consciousness account of the NHL playoff game recorded as the game unfolded.

The Stanley Cup: one lord's gift to the world of immortality -- his way of making it possible for some to live forever.  After a stunning victory in their last game the Hawks are burning to turn the series around, and it seems more than possible.  Back to back goals, seconds apart, make first blood an arterial strike.  Defending the cup, the Hawks finally look like the team Chicago has been expecting.  While Vancouver proved why they're ranked #1, this game is shaping up as evidence of the Hawks' heart.  Perhaps it's that fact making fair weather fanatics, jerseys still smelling of manufacturing, not so foolish; faith has been placed on the proper shoulders... for the time being.
 
There are still 12 mins. left in the first and Vancouver is a formidable foe.  The first few games looked like a beat down set to end in a gang rape.  However, the Hawks have turned the tide.  Despite the miles in minutes, the series is far from done.  Some might be tempted to say the Canadian team is losing steam, though it's more likely the Hawks are finding their footing, seeing the chinks.  The long road to glory is often littered with bad decisions.  Fortunately, history is written by the victor; and mistakes become the fuel for success.  
  
Already the cautious are being told to relax.  "We got this," is the paraphrase heard round the room.  How smug it may be remains to be seen, though a 3rd goal looks to be the first real nail.
 
Yet, somber elders still fear of curses.  Few teams win back to back cups, and this may simply be the elevation setting hearts up for attacks when the floor falls out.  
  
The Hawks have built a team around speed, the merits of which have been much in debate. Barely making their way into the playoffs has put the Blackhawks in question from the start.  However, the come from behind, against odds & expectations is what real fans live to see.  These are the crucible occasions, when legends are made.  That being said, there is something about being a crushing hammer -- the juggernaut that inspires surrender on sight.  What many are salivating for now, here in Chicago, is that the evolution has begun, the transmogrification into an unstoppable onslaught.  3 to nothing is certainly a good sign but no certainty.
 
Zone defenses, set back around the goal, have worked well for Vancouver so far, such defenses shutting down the Hawks speed.  Yet, Chicago steel is owning the ice thus far.  They're making the Canuck's play the Hawk's game.

As the first period closes at three to zero one can only wonder, "What's next?" Two periods left, 20 minutes apiece, the future isn't as assured as some seem to think.  
  
At this point it's easy to talk about why the Hawks are doing well.  Already there are mutterings, "Those boys are just having more fun."  Of course, this talk easily fades, especially if things turn sour.  It only takes one goal to spoil the milk.  Victory certain to some, the bars are losing the fair weather, while those who remain hope this over confidence doesn't afflict the Blackhawks. The Canucks still have a considerable size advantage.  If it comes down to it they could take a page from the Broad Street Bullies and just batter the Hawks into submission.  Such viciousness hasn't been a hallmark of Vancouver's season, but noxious defeat has been known to birth ugly mutants.  And an early goal by Marian Hossa in the 2nd just spreads the toxic loss around.  Hopes run high however it affects the Canucks the Hawks can come out on top.  
  
A near goal against Chicago shakes the Hawks (and their fans) out of a mild complacency.  This is not the time to run idle.  Work the body to the breaking point and as such... another goal!  Now at an embarrassing 5 - 0 Vancouver is looking like the last dodo.  Chicagoans have already begun the first round of victory drinks.  But Joel Quenneville remains stern.  His serious composure a welcome sight, there's reason to think even a comfortable lead hasn't dulled their edge.  The previous defeats were too shameful to bear.  The only way left to salvage any dignity is to mutilate these Vancouver aggressors.  
  
The Canucks look bloodthirsty themselves.  Despite the deficit, they're playing to win.  In a way, it's an admirable stance.  Instead of wearing themselves out the Canucks could skate to a loss and redouble their efforts at the next game.  Of course, there's always the concern every Hawk's victory, especially such savage blows, will only reinforce the solidity of Chicago swords.  Gotterdammerung isn't guaranteed though it looms; and a near goal for Vancouver proves the point.  With a power play on their side, the Canucks are looking to split open this Chicago come back.... back to full strength, the Hawks continue to defy Vancouver desires.
 
If the truth must be told, as it often isn't wanted, it's frustrating to see the Hawks doing so well.  As nice as it seems, such triumphant games only inspire the tooth cracking wonder, "Where has this fine playing been?"
 
With a fight, the first of the game, closing out the 2nd period, the tone may be changing. Barbed wire was seen being sent to the Vancouver locker room, perhaps to wrap their gloves and make the third a genuine slaughter.  
 
But as the 3rd unfolds, it seems Vancouver has resigned itself to defeat.  A lackluster performance leads to an uninspiring end.  In Canada, Vancouver succumbed to some sense of inevitability and accepted defeated, one might even be tempted to say with a quiet dignity.  In Chicago, the Hawks hammered the fuck out of those bastards coming out on top 5-0; damn Canadians never stood a chance, and now they know:  Chicago is ready to bleed them dry and suck the marrow out of their bones.  It's all a matter of perspective, though one thing is definitely sure.  These two teams will have to meet again.  Who knows how the next battle will turn out?  At least they both look ready to fight.
 
#
 
Unfortunately, despite dragging the series to game 7, things didn't turn out in Chicago's favor.  Vancouver won the series, but to the delight of many Hawks' fans the Canucks ultimately lost the Cup race to the Bruins.  The defeat would spark riots and looting in Vancouver, and quiet contentment in Chicago.

The recent tragedy in Newton, Connecticut has already sparked a number of idiotic attempts to prove human beings have more control over reality than they ever possibly can, will, or should.  From Mike Huckabee's Old Testament style fear mongering to the as yet unconfirmed "Morgan Freeman" quote, the United States, at the very least, is buzzing out every media orifice with statements about how we can control our world; That if we allowed more god into our lives we'd be protected from this kind of depravity or if we didn't let the news media seemingly glamorize these killings, it wouldn't happen.  Such statements aren't really practical solutions.  They ignore the fundamental reality at hand:  human beings do not control the universe.  We only like to think we do.

Let's dissect two of the most common assertions currently being made.  
 
The first is that media attention glamorizes this type of violence while simultaneously numbing society to it increasing the likelihood it'll happen again. Criminologist Grant Duwe, who works with the Minnesota Department of Corrections, has documented the history of mass killings in America.  According to him, while "mass shootings rose between the 1960s and the 1990s, they actually dropped in the 2000s.  And mass killings actually reached their peak in 1929."  His data shows there were "32 in the 1980s, 42 in the 1990s, and 26 in the first decade of the century."  Furthermore, not to detract from this grotesquery in Connecticut, but the worst school massacre in US history occurred in 1927 when Andrew Kehoe set off three bombs killing 45 people and wounding 58 others.
 
Here's another thing to consider.  Do you know what happened in San Ysidro, California on July 18th 1984?  Probably not, although 22 people died.  What about Dunblane, Scotland back in 1996?  17 people murdered.  Here's an easier one:  what happened in an Edmond, Oklahoma post office in 1986?  
  
I'm not trying to be glib.  These are three instances some have probably never heard of yet a total of 54 people died.  Now, there's no connection between them save for the fact they're all instances of mass shootings; and every instance involves a lone gunman who was mentally unstable.  What drives people to the point their illness mutates them into monsters is open to so endless a range of possibilities no one can ever really know.  For some Catcher in the Rye provoked Mark David Chapman to kill John Lennon; The music of KMFDM and Marilyn Manson was believed to be a prime motivator in the Columbine shootings; but blaming any of these things is simply an attempt at censorship.  For the good of all, someone proclaims, If we only got rid of this in time none of these tragedies would have occurred.  Yes, of course!  The penny dreadful Sweeney Todd most likely whipped up Jack the Ripper; and before climbing that tower at the University of Texas, Charles Whitman must have come across a lurid account of Walter Seifert who killed 11 people with a homemade flamethrower in 1964.  
 
This isn't to say the media handles these situations particularly well.  There's something decidedly loathsome about seeing a camera shoved into the face of a third grader who is then asked, "What did you do when shots rang out?"  But the idea we can prevent another such instance -- all we have to do is present things in the right way.  Which is?  Doesn't simply putting it on television glamorize events to some degree?  And if there's even the remotest possibility we'll limit if not outright prevent similar killings shouldn't we catalogue every form of media and entertainment in this particular shooter's life then censor the content most likely to have caused his madness?  In short, should we censor/ban/restrict everything that could possibly contribute to a mass killing?  
 
Ultimately, blaming the media is another way of saying we could have prevented this if only... a hindsight insinuation of our control over reality.  
 
Which brings us to god.  
  
When Neil Cavuto asked Mike Huckabee why God would allow something like Newtown, Mike Huckabee said, "We've systematically removed God from our schools.  Should we be so surprised that schools have become a place for carnage because we've made it a place where we don't want to talk about eternity, life, responsibility, accountability?"  
 
Read that statement very carefully.  
  
Without knowing anything about the shooter, Mike Huckabee automatically presumed godlessness made it possible for Adam Lanza to kill.  Huckabee then went on to assure people God had nothing to do with the killings -- He, the omnipotent almighty, wasn't there for that part of the tragedy -- the Lord, however, is now with those who need love and comfort during this horror.  What's particularly troubling about this is Mr. Huckabee's assertion he knows what God thinks and how He acts; that although the all loving Lord, God, Father of all creation would permit these children to be gunned down, it's okay because: 
  
1.  Those children are now in heaven.
2.  God is sending people to provide love and support to the families in need.
3.  Adam Lanza will burn in Hell for what he did. 
 
Some might say I'm reading into Mr. Huckabee's statement, however, I put forward these inferences come from his closing declaration, "Maybe we ought to let {God} in on the front end, and we wouldn't have to call Him in when it's all said and done." An interesting conclusion to his view since it puts forth the concept God will answer your prayers provided they're timely and in advance of your nightmares.  Again, there is the idea of control:  faith in god affects reality itself.
 
That said, this is a terrifying vision of god that encompasses the full paradoxical view most religious groups, particularly Judeo-Christian, possess.  In it, god is a being who is all loving and viciously wrathful in the same instance.  Not to be jokey, but this implies god's tagline is, "I love you unconditionally, so don't fuck with me or I'll kill your children."  Furthermore, this statement asserts no human being can comprehend ethics or morality without a religious base to such concepts -- only the faithful are capable of being good.  Oddly enough, it then goes on to suggest that without the prospect of eternal consequences, typically some kind of forever-torture, no human being is capable of doing anything decent; it is necessary to instill fear in order to ensure people act properly. And what's worst is the most vile proposition the dead are better off.  
  
I understand the comfort of faith.  In this instance, it would be nice to believe the dead are merely separated from the living, one day to be reunited, and I would not want to take that comfort from any of the grieving parents.  There is a sense of safety one can have believing a god is watching over you and a solace in thinking that even the darkest times are meant for your best.  But at the end of the day, this is all about feeling in control of your reality.  The idea you can pray to something which will answer you, changing things for the better.
 
Everyone in this country has an opinion on why this shooting happened.  Many can be lumped together like the two sides in gun control.  But they're all really arguing the same point.  How can I control the world around me?  Because most people want to make the world a better place.  Humanity doesn't always agree on what that means, but it tends to be the intention.  However, events like Newtown painfully remind us how little control we really have over things.  What little actual influence we have, well, hug someone you love.  Because there's no telling what happens next, but at least you'll know you did that.




SOURCE MATERIAL:


Statement attributed but as yet not confirmed to be from Morgan Freeman
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/l-steven-sieden/morgan-freeman-article-pr_b_2309869.html

Mike Huckabee
http://now.msn.com/huckabee-blames-school-shooting-on-no-god-in-classroom?ocid=ansnow11

School shootings 
http://listverse.com/2008/01/01/top-10-worst-school-massacres/  

Bath school Massacre
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103186662


Charles Whitman, University of Texas massacre
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/University_of_Texas_massacre

Dunblane, Scotland school shooting -- lone gunman kills 16 children & their teacher.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/march/13/newsid_2543000/2543277.stm

San Ysidro McDonald's Massacre -- 21 dead.
http://www.nctimes.com/news/local/years-later-san-ysidro-mcdonald-s-massacre-remembered/article_2ba4343e-7009-54ce-98df-79a23ff8d0d7.html

Mother Jones mass shooting map
http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map

The first in a continuing series where we'll read from literature's most noteworthy authors.  This time around we are proud to bring you a selection from Norman Mailer's Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Executioner's Song.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55EDIIxEmyk

Once upon a time I decided it would be a good idea to try my hand at sports writing.  I in no way considered it a simple task.  It just struck me as something worth trying.  Bars tend to routinely play sporting events, and I routinely happened to be in bars.  One might almost call it serendipity, so I decided, Why not use the knowledge I'm incidentally accumulating?  As such, I mailed the following article to a few publications hoping to earn a spot as a sports
reporter.  

Soxtober:        
a stream of conscious account of the first game between the Chicago White Soxs and Tampa Rays (formerly the more impressively titled Tampa Bay Devil Rays) MLB playoffs October 2008.      
              
First blood came on the hands of the Rays, and the ignominious beginning to Soxtober is underway.  However, glory still feels at hand as Chicago hammers three nails into an impending coffin. But wait for the champagne to pop. Because the bottle may not be in the Southsiders’ dugout just yet.  As the third inning continues to unfold the Rays make their rebuttal, pointing out that the real battle has only just begun.  
             
There are many things to keep in mind as the tension builds.  Such as, what would Lenin think of a corporate themed stadium in St. Petersburg (,Florida)?  
             
Then all questions mean nothing save for one:  the Rays have four nails to the Sox’s own three -- who will win this game?  It only feels wide open.  The chances are miserably equal for both.  No one wants to admit it.  Not the old ladies, social security plugging them in right behind home plate; never mind the Ray attired fans, silent till the team returned the Sox’s punches; forget about the few slivers of Southside coloring Tropicana Stadium.  And always take salt with the opinions of bar dwelling fans, brewing the frenzy that makes games worth watching.  There’s only one way to know the answer to the one question on their lips, few, if any, ask with balanced objectivity.  No one knows till the ninth has left a body dead and done.  
              
Some will say blech at the thought of an objective appraisal of the field.  For what is baseball, or any game, other than the wild intensity meant to replace the battle royale?  We can no longer club each other with wanton abandon, but we can take out all the day’s frustrations on a small ball to center field, up into the bleachers.  The work hours are miserable, though lightening with every strike the Southside fires home.  The Rays will swim past the pathetic nature of their name, once glorious and fun to pronounce, now a sad spittle with no punch, to run home relief from everyday failings.  
              
The Ray's pitcher, a fine standing #33, waddles the game along, slowly cutting down the offensive assault.  However, some might feel he’s taking too long to effect the closing.  He’s only tiring himself, but the fans are on their feet, thumbs down demanding the third out, lending their breath to stave off 33’s huffing throws, wilds gusts that dust off the plate leading to full counts.  Then all is forgiven as the outs total to rejecting any future Sox batters.  
              
Breathe easy fans. The quiet exchange of positions is underway, and there is no need to fear.  No one can fail for now.  
              
Somewhere on Addison Avenue, the bars are dotted blue.  And though it feels like blasphemy, even they are keeping their eyes on screens devoted to the Sox.  Sweating and chugging to the sticky conclusion of one foot closer to Chicago civil war.  Or perhaps one less dream for the windy city.  There is no center of gravity, drawing the weight of chance to one certainty over another.  
             
Just once, there are whispers, it would be nice to hear the announcers talk about something other than their own boredom.  This late in the season, though the really riveting action has begun, they’ve exhausted everything they have to discuss.  As good and easy a job it may be, after hundreds of games there is only the well worn hackneyed observations already made, to be replayed for the audience that barely pays any attention.  
             
Commentating takes a moment to sprinkle a little spice, exchanging a few words with Ozzie, the Sox’s beleaguered manager.  Tired eyes watch his team firmly trying not to fumble the ball, while half a city screams for the failure of his players.  Boiling blood cracks his eyes, and he intends to lead his team, but has to break from the battlefield to make a few remarks.  He says what anyone would expect.  We hope it all comes to mean something.  
             
Meanwhile Swisher is busy decorating his bat rather than notice the clouds looming over the lip of the stadium.  The camera angle reveals little, other than the voodoo essence of his scribbling. But the magic must be miss aligned, as it charms a Ray to second base.  However, the Rays only have intentions of delivering a can of corn. So the innings march to the gutted period, the fifth.  
              
Much to the chagrin of Steve Erwin, the ray tank holds the attention of simpler fans.  Already a cover up is underway, to shuttle off the body of a man who tried to pet one.  Details are sketchy.  However, what is known is that a carcass vanished into the bowels of the stadium shortly before vendors emerged with hotdogs.  It will be a tragedy quickly forgotten because there’s a game to play. And Pierzynski’s failure to rob the Ray’s has whipped their devilish fans back from questions about odd flavors and Indian tales of the Wendigo.  
              
This is the speculative inning.  All the fury of the opening volley is simmering.  Fans and commentators are settled into the war.  Now we can discuss the averages, and injuries, and the strategies that brought our respective fellows here.  An error brings a collective cry, a mix of anguish and joy.  However, it doesn’t renew the boiling pot.  Only the simmer remains to steadily wait for a chance to scald or scold.  
              
The velour field looks in need of a good shampoo, but it holds no ball.  While the Rays position another nail, a highlight reel reminds everyone what happened five minutes ago.  Focuses are too much on moment to moment.  No one is sure a past exists and that is for the best.  All the failures of the regular season are forgotten in part, and forgiven so long as reminders do not arrive.  For the Soxs, that latter time is now.  Vasquez is quickly sacrificed for the good of Chicago.  
              
The Rays’ nail is secure, but the coffin is far from closed.
             
Though this may set the tone, it doesn‘t mean everything.  While the series may not be defined by an opening loss, the sun doesn‘t shine on anyone in Tropicana Stadium. There are miles left to trip over one‘s own feet.  
             
The Ray‘s are an impish bunch.  Feisty with one another since Spring training, and various altercations all season long.  Tack on the fact they‘ve been branded twice, first as the worst and now as contenders, and you have a recipe for crowded taverns.  This is the type of team bar owners love.  Losses cooled over buckets of brew, the atmosphere is ripe for the sight of that rarest of “regulars”, the fair weather fan.  These are the wearers of pressed jerseys and T-shirts that never knew a drop of beer.  They don’t know the games die hards have learned since the age of six.  Shots of such and what not to foist the luck of the team, and ritual chants in sacred garb, that even through a television, can change the outcome of any encounter.  The Soxs have their own such people, make no mistake.  However, this is Tampa territory.  So their flocks get the first word.  
             
It makes sense that the weather has gotten chilly in Chicago.  The cold slap of Fall is heralding more than just the temperature. This is a tense time for the city as two teams venture into the Post struggle.  Someone will be left out in the cold when this is all over, but the question of who is guardedly not spoken.  Not because the fans don’t have a feeling.  Rather, because neither may have the chance to gloat.  Jaws clenched, the people know what they want, but won’t whisper for fear it may change the rotation of the world.  
              
Now the Rays’ fans holler at the top of their lungs.  Cow bells clamor for the final hammer fall.  Cushioned by a three run lead, they feel more than comfortable proclaiming their glory.  It certainly seems impending.  Even the most steely Soxs fan must admit that perhaps the planning for the next game should begin.  Some win may still be salvaged in the course of this series.  What it will mean is another matter entirely.
             
This is the time when long memories begin invoking the great moments and players of past victories. Names are spoken with hushed revere. Perhaps the ghosts of yester-year will lend a hand to now.  On the other side of the coin, the past serves to prove why wins are guaranteed. 
             
However, some thoughts can’t help but turn to wonder, why is there a blimp view of an enclosed stadium? 
             
Leaning hard on the remains of the game, the Rays are dropping into a three point stance.  They intend to run through the Soxs and be done without a full ninth.  It would seem like a good strategy except the Soxs’ swings have become lackluster.  The paper tiger is being labeled a denizen of Chicago and a train is intending to run it down.  There’s still a glimmer in the eyes of fans, but the black and white is running red.  
             
Another pitcher goes down to appease the gods, and the Soxs’ wonder what the point was, until the final out arrives.  A brilliant strike out that leaves the road three outs to an exit.  You can tell by the looks from the dugout that the White Soxs are anxious to get out of here.  They have already shifted their daydreams to the possibilities tomorrow may bring.  However, there is the dripping wound that today leaves behind.  It can be dressed this evening but only the next encounter will reveal how much the blood loss affected the team.  
             
The long bony finger of a man, born and raised in the eighty-eight years it took the Soxs to find the World Series, points to the horizon.  He can see a come from behind that only the Southside can magic.  His dreamy eyes are moist with tears.  He can recollect the death of his own father, decades too far from seeing his beloved team victorious.  Though the son carries on, it was a bittersweet sight to behold when that trophy came to Chicago.  Since then he lingers on the sweet rather than bitter.  He’s seen war, gas famine, and death.  But nothing makes his heart flutter more than the swing of the team, scything down the competition.  He knows how the worm can turn and has a shot of Tequila ready to accentuate the point. This day isn’t over till three ravens are buried.  One for each base with no fourth to carry home.  He doesn’t expect or demand anything.  Too many years have taken the edge off that hatchet of fandom.  He only waits for the promise to be fulfilled and carried on by his own children.  And his manner seems to be the way as Konerko’s homer proves the old fans often know best.   
             
The gap is lessening, but the short hop across feels like an illusion.  Maybe the team could traverse it in one fell swoop.  Maybe they’ll leap out to find the edge an inch too far.  Either way, some chance has to be taken before the first out multiplies.  
              
The Rays remain confident though the smugness has left their faces.  It could return in a flash, buoyed by a second out. Meanwhile, the old man is pointing, sipping his shot.  “No one knows,” he mutters.  It’s the only thing he’ll risk saying.  But even that may have been too much.  The world no longer turns the way it used to anymore. 
               
I got distracted and didn't catch the end of the game.  Perhaps that's what stymied my career in sportswriting -- people typically want to know how the games end.  I couldn't help thinking, at the time, There'll be like 87 baseball games this week, but this may be my only chance to watch two squirrels banging.