Memories On Ice

There are certain things in Los Angeles that you can’t even imagine.

Going 55 on the 405.

Going 45 on the 101.

And the Kings winning the Stanley Cup.

Monday night, hell froze over.

In front of 19,000 fans at the Staples Center.

And at least 19,000 more watching on TV.

The Los Angeles Kings hoisted the Cup for the first time in franchise history.

And while I was never the biggest Kings fan.

I always loved hockey.

I loved it so much that I used to travel from Southern California to Eastern Canada.

3,005 miles.

4,836 kilometers.

Just to watch my favorite team play the sport I loved the most.

The Quebec Nordiques.

But following the labor stoppage in 1994.

And the Nordiques moving to Denver in 1995.

My love for the game had disappeared.

The sport I always called my “favorite” had faded away.

In fact, Monday night was probably the first start-to-finish hockey game I watched in at least ten years.

Ok, maybe eight.

But the point is, for whatever reason I’d rather watch ice melt than ice hockey.

Oh I tried to find the magic again.

I even started a fantasy hockey league this year.

But even that didn’t work.

If it wasn’t for my hometown team trying to make history on Monday night, I probably would’ve been watching The Bachelorette.

This coming from a guy who used to buy the $5 seats to sit at the top of the Fabulous Forum.

To just watch hockey.

All the way at the top.

I was sitting in those seats on April 10, 1990.

The night of the hat trick.

Three different Kings scored three goals.

In the same game.

The same playoff game.

Dave Taylor.

Tomas Sandstrom.

And Tony Granato.

The only time in NHL playoff history that has ever happened.

Ever!

The Kings beat Calgary that night, 12-4.

But two short weeks later, that season was over.

Over without a championship.

Just like every season before it.

And every season after it.

Until Monday night.

Unfortunately I can’t remember my first Kings game.

But I could never forget what they were wearing.

Talk about retro.

Those uniforms were so bright, you could actually see them from the top of the arena.

Purple and gold became the signature of LA’s hockey team.

That and the fact that they could never win the big one.

14 times in their first 20 years the Kings made the playoffs.

And 14 times they got eliminated.

Eliminated without even getting a sniff of the Stanley Cup.

But that all changed in the summer of 1988.

August 9th to be exact.

That was the day the Kings acquired The Great One.

The day Wayne Gretzky brought hockey to Southern California.

Or so they say.

It took Gretzky five minutes to put the Kings on the map.

And five years to put the Kings in the Stanley Cup finals.

But even with all of Hollywood behind them, the Kings couldn’t find a script with a happy ending.

Losing the 1993 championship to Montreal, four games to one.

Gretzky stayed in LA for two more years, but he never even got the Kings back to the playoffs.

In fact only one time in the next 17 years did the Kings even win a playoff series.

And this year wasn’t supposed to be any different.

The Kings barely skated their way into the post-season.

Finishing with the eighth and final playoff spot in the Western Conference.

But instead of folding like the teams before them.

This group of Kings became different.

They became royalty.

They disposed of the #1 seed from Vancouver.

Then the #2 team from St. Louis.

Then the #3 team from Phoenix.

And before you knew it they were just one win away from bringing the Stanley Cup to Los Angeles.

That win came Monday night, in front of the home folk.

On TV it appeared that the Staples Center had never been louder.

And why not, LA fans do love a winner.

And winning is what the Kings did.

Erasing the memories of the four plus decades before them.

Beating New Jersey to win the Stanley Cup.

6-1.

They won it for Marcel Dionne.

And Jerry Korab.

They won it for my friend Phil.

And my friend Erik.

They won it for the dozens of fans who watched hockey in LA before Gretzky got there.

And the dozens more who watched it after he left.

Believe it or not, the LA Kings had won the Stanley Cup.

There was a time when that would’ve been a big deal in my life.

But on this Monday night, it was just something to watch.

Strike... and Yer Out

I LOVE THE NBA!

I have been a basketball fan three days short of forever.

I’ve been in the same NBA Fantasy League since 1993.

My son shares the same birthday as Michael Jordan.

I was the ball boy underneath the basket for Magic Johnson’s first game in the NBA.

A game which ended when Magic’s teammate, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, hit an 18-foot sky hook at the buzzer.

A sky hook that beat us by a point.

I’m old enough to remember watching Moses.

Malone.

And Dr. J.

In person.

And the Jordan before Jordan.

George Gervin.

(Best Nike Poster EVER by the way.)

Lloyd Free gave me a new name before he changed his.

To World B. Free.

He called me “Stove.”

I thought it was because I had a pot belly as a teenager.

He said it was because I was warm on the inside.

Loved that guy!

Now before I cut a tire on Memory Lane.

Let me say that I still the love the game today.

At times, it may be too much me me me.

But it is still a great game.

I just hope we don’t start saying it “was” a great game.

There’s a good chance by the time you read this, the NBA will be on full lockdown.

Lockout.

Whatever.

Honestly I don’t care if you call it a strike.

A work stoppage.

I call it bad news.

And if the reports are even close to true, this bad news might be with us for a while.

I haven’t watched a full NHL hockey game for probably five years.

Really.

I used to be the biggest fan.

THE biggest.

In the late 80’s, I fell in love.

With the Quebec Nordiques.

I watched every game.

On the satellite dish.

Even though I lived in Los Angeles.

I made several trips to Le Colisee to watch my Nords.

And eat Pomme Frites.

Even though they were gross.

I read the French newspapers.

Even though I don’t speak French.

I bought a Joe Sakic jersey.

Rooted for Mats Sundin.

And Owen Nolan

And Tony Twist.

And Ron Tugnutt.

I loved them all.

I couldn’t wait for the day that the Nordiques franchise would finally bring home the Stanley Cup.

That day finally came in 1996.

One year after the team moved to Colorado.

And the great people of Quebec City got nothing.

I don’t really care why the team moved.

Greed.

Money.

Owner.

Player.

Whatever.

The bottom line is they moved.

And us diehard fans just died.

In 1994, Major League Baseball went on strike.

Eliminated the World Series.

I still can’t say that out loud without spitting.

Major League Baseball eliminated the World Series.

Poof.

Gone.

Wow!

That same month, the genius NHL went on strike.

Lockout.

Whatever.

They ended up missing 104 days.

The 1994 season didn’t start until 1995.

The NHL, the ugly step sister of all the “major” sports, had a chance to show off.

While big brother baseball was in a time out.

Instead, the NHL decided to sit in the corner.

And pout.

I said it then and I say it now.

That was the death of the NHL.

Of course it didn’t help that another lockout put the entire season on ice in 2004.

No games.

Believe it or not, if you put a loaded gun to your head and keep pulling the trigger.

You will eventually kill yourself. 

The NBA’s pistol is loaded.

And this one’s not named Maravich.

The NBA somehow survived a work stoppage in 1998.

Starting that season in 1999.

I’m not sure it can live through another triple bypass.

With nearly ten percent of this country without a job, it’s pretty near impossible to have sympathy for these devils.

The average unemployment check is $293 per week.

The average NBA salary is $92,199 per week.

I’ve heard that something like two thirds of the teams in the NBA are losing money.

And I actually believe it.

At the end of the day, I’m probably an owners guy.

And I do understand why these multi-millionaire owners don’t want to keep losing multi-millions of dollars.

And I do understand why these multi-millionaire players don’t want to give up their multi-millions of dollars.

But here’s my one fan's opinion.

Figure it out.

Period.

Order some Gourmet Chinese Food.

Lock yourself in the Ritz-Carlton.

And figure it out.

If you don't.  

We will.