Look, I have a computer. I browse the internet. I see what some of you say about me. And I’m sick and tired of it. I have played my ass off for this team for three years. I’ve played through serious injuries, I was the glue that held the defense together during the desperate stretch run to the playoffs and beyond in 2007, I play nearly 25 minutes a game, every game, injured or not. It’s not my fault I was the #1 defenseman here, that’s just how things worked out. I’m no offensive dynamo, I know that, yet I had to take that role on the defense since no one else could. And, hey, I did alright at it all things considered. Oh, and I also had to take the role of #1 defensive defenseman since no one else could take that role, either! Not a bad bargain for two million bucks a year. We also made the playoffs three years in a row with terrible, awful me as your #1 defenseman. So stick that up your ass.

Why do you hate me, anyway? I mean really, some of you sound like you’d flay my skin off and boil me in oil given the chance. What did I ever do to you? Yeah, I didn’t have a great season last year, but I was hurt for the last couple months. Seriously injured with a tear in my hip! I had surgery on that hip as soon as the season ended. SUR. GER. Y. Do you know what it’s like trying to play professional ice hockey night after night after night with a bad hip? No, of course you don’t. You throw your back out for a week bending over to pick up the Powdered Donette you just dropped on the floor, you grotesque beach ball.

But useless hip or not, I don’t complain. I don’t ever complain. When have you ever heard me complain or not do what the coaches ask me to do? Your hero, Sean Avery, that spaz was crying about a new contract and threatening to bolt to other teams in January for christ sake. But me, I just quietly played out my contract without lobbying to the press, sat patiently by the phone in July, didn’t even accept calls from any other teams never mind their offers, and came running back to the Rangers when they said they wanted me back. I like it here. I like this team. I like the city. Half of you would probably turn gay for Avery if given the opportunity, and he bolts for Dallas and badmouths the Rangers on the way out. Me, I tell my agent not to listen to any calls except from the Rangers this summer, and you hate my guts. And this despite my supposed best friends in the world (according to you people) Jagr and Malik not re-signing here. What’s up with that? You guys endlessly whine about free agent mercenaries ruining your hockey team, then you go all fucking postal when Sean “Spotlight” Avery tries to hold up the team at gunpoint and they don’t give in. Could you at least try for a little consistency? I know a few teenage girls who have their shit together more than some of you do.

And let’s explore this a little further — why do you hate me so much, anyway? Is it because I rarely hit people? The same reason why you mouth-breathing goons hate every defenseman? Look here, you hockey wizards you, you know why big hitting defensemen are so rare these days? Because they can’t keep up. They can’t catch what they want to hit in the first place. The game has changed. For every good skating banger who can keep up like a Dion Phaneuf, there are twenty bangers who skate like concrete shithouses like Derian Hatcher and Darius Kasparaitis who are forced to retire or play in beer leagues. The game gets faster and more streamlined every year. Puck control and outlet passing is prized now, not whalloping some turd at the blueline. Hey, sorry, Ace, but that’s just the way it is these days, no matter how much you complain about it. Hang on to your Don Cherry Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Hits ‘87 VHS tape because that’s about as close as you are to ever seeing that style of hockey become dominant again.

Hey, I don’t want to completely ruin the relationship between us. I’ve got a new 5 year contract here and it would probably be a good idea if we tried to get along. So, sorry about the “beach ball” bit and all that. I won’t get on your case if you complain about me passing too much because you’re right, I am a pass-happy little freak. But let’s tone it down with the “Rozsival is the son of satan and is raping my favorite hockey team” stuff, huh? A little over the top.

Yours,
Mike

Scott Burnside:

Let’s start with this premise: The trade of Wayne Gretzky from the Edmonton Oilers to the Los Angeles Kings 20 years ago this week ranks as the most significant trade in the game’s history.

NHL.com:

Wayne Gretzky was traded from the Stanley Cup champion Edmonton Oilers to the Los Angeles Kings. The trade not only changed the fortunes of the Kings, a team that had finished 18th in the then 21-team NHL in 1987-88, but was the driving force for National Hockey League expansion into the sun belt and the growth of the game at the grassroots level in “non-traditional” hockey markets.

I think most of us here would agree that this is a mixed legacy at best. The good: it spurred youth interest in the game in non-traditional areas of the US, like California, which gave us such notable NHLers as, um…A. Hollwegus. The bad: no way there are franchises in Phoenix, Anaheim, maybe even Nashville or Florida - i.e., unchecked expansion - without the trade.

I remember exactly where I was when I heard about it. To say that I was a little psycho about Gretz at the time would be an understatement. In the days before the Intarwebz, in order to get the late scores, we used to have to either stay up until 1 a.m. when the Pacific coast games finished, or wait to read the newspaper after we got home from school the following day. (Sometimes, you would actually have to wait an additional day, because the paper would go to print before the late scores were in.) I used to grab the sports section as soon as I got home, and run up and add his point totals from the night before to a piece of looseleaf paper I had tacked to my bedroom wall. I wish I still had the sheets from the 215-point season in ‘85-’86.

Anyway, when the trade went down, I was at a movie with some friends, at the Quad Cinema on Central Ave. in Yonkers - not Movieland, but the one where the Pizzeria Uno is now. My dad picked us up, and as I got in the car, he said, “What’s the worst thing you can imagine happening in sports?”

Those of you who know me know that one of my funny little quirks is that while I love the Rangers, and spend way more time and money on them than 35-year-olds really should, I don’t have a lot of love for most other New York teams. This was especially true when I was 15, and especially so about the Yankees.

So when my dad posed this question, I started thinking about all kinds of scenarios where the Yankees made some monster trade that locked up their run for a World Series title. What had they done? The horror! I started spurting out whatever came to mind, whatever were the rumors that were swirling at the time. (Was that the season of all the talk about Rickey Henderson for Orel Herscheiser?) He interrupted me and said those awful words that stopped me cold:

“Gretzky has been traded. To the Kings.”

Huh? What? You mean that team with the heinous purple and gold uniforms that were merely a perennial speed bump on the way to another dominating postseason run by my beloved Oilers and Gretzky? How? No. Can’t be. Why?

I sat in stunned silence, not really saying anything for the rest of the ride home. One of my friends asked me what was wrong, and my dad said, “He’s gonna need a minute. He’ll be fine.” Well, dad, it’s been twenty years.

And so began the end of the innocence for one young hockey fan.

Indeed, perhaps, for an entire sport.

…ex-Ranger Sean Avery’s introduction and comments to the Dallas media?

Mike: Am I a bad fan if this make me like him more?

Leedsy: I didn’t mind his comments that much, though I guess I was a little bothered that he called my mother a dirty c**t.

Rocha: The Rangers should have announced some of their new players as being clearly better than Sean Avery. Oh no, wait, people wouldn’t think that was classy. But when Avery does it, “Tee hee! He’s such a rebel. I wonder if he’d take me for a ride on the back of his motorcycle.”

Sed: He’s just wounded and lashing out, like Lili Taylor in Say Anything. You just know that he’s written 50 awful songs about the situation - “Tom lies when he cries!” Sometime mid-season, when he inevitably goes all Lloyd Dobbler and stands outside MSG holding a boombox over his head, remember this.

Jen B.: There was actually press for the Dallas Stars? That’s cute.

Jerry: The last team he played for was Vogue magazine, wasn’t it?

For those of you who don’t know what we’re talking about:

The clip.

The article.

Also, if you visit the hockey section of the Dallas Morning News online, there’s a picture of “Steve” Avery throwing out the first pitch at Arlington Stadium. Have fun in Dallas, Steve, I’m sure your knickerbocker, bow tie, and vest combo will play out well down there.

I’m sick of looking at that dog already, so here are five Nick Zherdev highlights from last season. The first thing that immediately jumps out is his puck control. Damn. He can deke with the puck like it was stapled to his stick. Kovalevian.

I would just like to make this a matter of public record.

If this guy [Aaron Voros] scores ten goals this season I will drink dog pee.
- Leedsy99

Episode Six: The Last Bang

The Old Man was walking the streets alone, cocky Old Man that he was, the smile of a killer beaming through the wet shreds of his chewed cigar. He was a killer, make no mistake. First he gave Sean the Weasel his final walking papers, terminated with very extreme prejudice. Then he sent Freddy Toots and Chris the Swede to the icy grave known as Columbus, Ohio. Grampa Shanny hasn’t been heard from in months, and Marty the Elf was sent into permanent exile. And what did the Captain get for three years of loyal and distinguished service? Two tickets straight to the Gulag.

But this Bang P.I. wasn’t going to take his execution lying down. Not if Uncle Sherwood had anything to say about it.

The Old Man skipped around the corner, whistling “Lady of Spain” to himself. He seemed prouder than Alex OV after he scored number 65. I came at him quick, hard. Before he could react, I had Uncle at his throat and my steel fist cocked and loaded toward his grim pudgy face.

“You sold me out!” I shouted, spit sticking to his musty brown sportcoat. “Fifth round pick!? Toronto!? With all the bang jobs that I pulled for you!? You’re finished, Old Man! Fours has come for the final bang!!!”

“Wait, son, wait,” he pleaded. “I know you’re sore about this, but the Coach and I felt …”

“Dandy Tom?” I said. “He isn’t going to be calling plays anytime soon.”

I pulled a frayed shoelace from my pocket with a whistle dangling at the end.

“That rattle you hear?” I said. “That ain’t a cork. It’s a tooth. And Uncle Sherwood and I think we need some more.”

The Old Man pushed away with a shove. He was scrappy, for an Old Man. He spit the rinds from his cigar and brushed his shoulders with his hands. I lowered Uncle Sherwood and kept my eyes locked on his, ready to swat him Simon-like if he made a sudden movement.

“I can’t stop you from doing what you need to do, son,” he said. “But there are some things you should know before you throw that iron shoulder of yours into my chest.”

“You got thirty seconds, Old Man.”

The Old Man straightened himself and threw me an eerie wink.

“You know I was once like you,” he said. “I was a Bang P.I.”

He pulled a fresh cigar from his jacket pocket.

“Got my start in Oklahoma City in the mid-60s. Wayne Cashman. Jean Pronovost. Teddy Irvine. Cheevers and Parent—now that was a team. 147 penalty minutes in 57 games, led the team. Next year I was in Boston, three lockers down from Bobby Orr.”

“I didn’t come here to reminisce, Old Man,” I said. “I came here to bang.”

“I was a tweener, kid,” he said. “Just like you. I played about 150 games and had about ten goals. Back in those days, you were either a scorer or a banger. And I was never going to be a scorer. So I got into the Bang P.I. racket. I took lumps from guys like Forbes Kennedy and Jim Dorey and Reg Fleming. Now those were some mean men, kid. Mean mean men.”

“Get to the point.”

“In 1971 I was playing for Pittsburgh and on pace to break the 200 penalty minute mark for the first time in my career when Jack Riley called me into my office and told me that he was trading me to New York. It nearly killed me, kid, because I thought I was through with the game. My fists were mush and with guys like Bobby Clarke coming into the league, tweeners like me were being put out to pasture. You know how many points I had in my first thirty games with the Rangers? Two. Season after that I was dead last on the team in scoring.”

“You’re rambling, Old Man,” I said. “My fists are getting itchy.”

“Point is, kid, is that I was terrible. But I stuck through. I bounced around, kept my ears open, learned the game from the inside. I made friends with the right people and worked my way up the ladder. Eventually the cards came up all Slats and here I am, Hall of Famer earning a seven figure salary to run the most prolific organization in the sport.”

“Congratulations, “ I said, raising Uncle Sherwood to his throat. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You just don’t get it, do you Hollweg?” he said. “I sent you to Toronto, mecca for the game of hockey. Kenny Dryden asked for you personally. This is your big shot.”

I threw him back against the wall and let him get a taste of the tape on Uncle Sherwood’s blade.

“Don’t play me, Old Man!” I screamed. “This is the end for you!”

“But, Ryan,” he said. “You wouldn’t bang … your father.”

His words hit me harder than a left hook for Dan Carcillo. I pulled back for a moment but then pressed forward, the wooden shaft of my stick gripping his jaw.

“No,” I said. “You’re lying! It isn’t true!”

“Search your feeling, Bang P.I.” he said. “You know it to be true.”

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!”

“Summer of 1983 I was out in LA scouting Charlie Simmer for a deal we were thinking about. We were still bitter about the Miracle in Manchester and I wanted to find a way to fleece them in a trade. Anyway, I was out at the Palm with Bob Miller having some drinks and that was where I saw her. She was the most beautiful woman I ever saw in the world.”

“Was that … my mother?”

“Hell no,” he said. “Turns out she was just some hooker working the hotel. But she got me so worked up that I ended up banging a Encino waitress in a diner bathroom. That was your mother.”

“You son of a bitch!”

I dropped back and raised Uncle Sherwood, the glimmer of his Easton decal shining against the moonlight. The Old Man tensed, sensing that his end was near. Sweat was pouring from my brow and sting my eyes. I twisted Uncle Sherwood back further, wanting the bang to be clean, thorough.

“I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t break the Banger’s Code.”

I lowered Uncle Sherwood. I hated the Old Man for trading me and wanted him dead. But the Banger’s Code, the code that I live my entire life by, was clear about this. You don’t bang a man when he’s on his knees. You don’t bang a man with your knees. And you don’t bang an old man, even if he banged you first.”

“You’re lucky, Old Man,” I said. “Lucky I got more respect for the Banger’s Code than you.”

“That’s a shame, kid,” he said.

With one shift motion the Old Man pulled a stick from his coat, and old splintered Koho tempered with age. He slashed that Koho right across my eyes and I nearly fell blind. A warm stream of liquid crept down my cheek. I was down. I look up into the night and saw the Old Man standing over me, smiling, twirling the stick in his hand.

“Goodnight, Bang P.I.” he said, driving the shaft across my head.

When I woke up I was in Toronto. It was all fat chicks and drunk dudes with mullets. It felt like home.

The good news is that the Leafs continue with their own off-season decimation in the process.

That’s right, Ryan Hollweg, Toronto Maple Leaf.

The picture says it all.

Suffice to say that there will be much said about this on this joyous day. Come and offer your thoughts in what will surely be an epic thread. Me, I can’t wait until our esteemed admin arises from his slumber and chimes in.

In the meantime, though, let us all take a few moments and reflect on Ryan’s highlights as a Ranger.

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errrr….

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Well, there was that time he banged Sergei Kostitsyn from behind. That was cool, except that it came in the middle of a Montreal comeback from a 5-0 deficit, in The Game That Shall Never Be Mentioned Again. Then there was that time in the Penguin series in April. Game 3, Pens up 2-0 in the series, Rangers tie it, crowd going bonkers, all the momentum shifting to the Blueshirts, and then…Holly lays the bangeth downeth on Petr Sykora. From behind, again. Game, series, over.

Good times, Ry. Thanks for the memories, and happy trails.

EDIT: Turns out that I was wrong about the boarding penalty in Montreal - it was actually taken in the game on Super Bowl Sunday, 11 seconds after the Rangers had tied it up after being down 3-0. The Rangers went on to win the game, probably their best one of the year, but still…another asinine moment in Bang history.