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.

Star Trek

If you could have dinner with any three people, who would they be?

I’ve always loved that question.

Honestly, I’ve never put my list together, but I love the possibilities.

Some more obvious than others.

Abraham Lincoln, John Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr.

Obvious.

Buddy Holly, Jackie Robinson, John Steinbeck.

Not so much.

Robert DeNiro, Mel Brooks, Lucille Ball.

Order an extra dessert. 

I’m not sure which three it would be.

But I’m pretty sure it would include someone from sports, someone from politics and definitely someone from music.

Or maybe all three would be from the music world, as long as they brought their guitars.

But as much fun as it might be to meet one of my heroes, it is also something that I’m totally ok if it never happens.

Just imagine if you met your idol and he or she was a jerk.

I’ve never met Bono or Dylan or Madonna.

And it’s probably better that way.

It’s definitely better for them.

My friend David met Bruce Springsteen at a bar in LA.

And Bruce was.... great.

David has a picture of the two of them in his living room.

My other friend David delivered pizza to Wayne Gretzky’s house.

And he got a signed pizza box.

And a nice tip.

Sunday I got a chance to meet one of my musical heroes.

Up close and personal.

For at least five seconds.

More on that in a moment.

With my family in town this weekend, we did quite a bit of traveling around Manhattan.

They wanted to see Times Square and the Empire State Building and of course, FAO Schwarz.

Check, check and check.

Sunday, our big stop was a meal in Little Italy.

So we took the E train to Spring Street.

It was about a ten-minute walk through SoHo to get to the world famous Mulberry Street.

Along the way, we did some window shopping and food cart smelling.

As we approached a main intersection, we noticed a group of five singers and a stand-up bass player making some incredible noise.

From the caddy corner, we could hear them singing, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” loud and VERY clear.

A song, my seven-year old was hoping to hear on Broadway at the stage version of The Lion King.

“Um, sweetie, how about if we hear five strangers singing the same song on a street corner instead?”

For free.

So we followed our ears and headed that way.

We heard them sing that song and about five others, dropping some appreciation in the tip jar along the way.

Midway through the set, a lady walked right up next to us.

Within a beat or two, she started singing to the music.

Well, actually whispering to the music.

As if she didn’t want to be heard.

And based on the baseball cap pulled down over her eyes.

And the sunglasses covering them.

She didn’t want to be seen either.

Sorry ma’am, if you’re trying to fly under the radar, you’ve just landed on the wrong runway.

I looked over, about five times, then whispered to my wife...

“That’s Melissa Etheridge.”

Now that may not be a big deal to you.

And if it is not, you’ve never heard her music.

“Yes I Am” is one of the greatest CDs of the 90’s.

“Like The Way I Do,” is one of the most powerful songs in the last 25 years.

I own all of her records.  

I’ve seen her in concert several times.  

I have been inspired by her more than several times.

But I wasn’t about to be that guy.

She clearly didn’t want to be recognized.

So I didn’t recognize her.

Until she started walking down the street, away from the crowd.

That’s when I walked up right behind her and mumbled, “Melissa?”

She turned and said, “Yes.”

“Melissa, I just want to thank you for your music.   You have truly inspired me,” I said.

“Thank you.  What is your name?”

OMG.

Melissa Etheridge just asked me my name.

What the hell do I say?

After what felt like a long pause to me, I told her my name.

She then shook my hand and informed me that it was nice for her to meet me.

It was nice for HER to meet ME?

Honestly, I could care less if that exact line came from page 93 of the “How Celebrities Should Deal with Stalkers” handbook.

Melissa Etheridge just shook MY hand and said it was nice to meet me.

How cool.

Sitting here now, several hours later, I have about four million things I could have said. 

But about one milli-second after she let go of my hand, she went her way and I went mine.

That was it.

My family came up to me seconds later and asked how it went.

“Great,” I said.  “I now have a blog for today...”

...And a moment I will never forget.