Yu Fucker

Less than 12 hours before the Spouse and I fly out to the Dot for X-mas, and we're pretty jacked up to say the least.

Over the last week I had visions of walking out of the baggage carousel into ground zero of screaming sports pages trumpeting the newest Jays Japanese Robo-tech super weapon. An acquisition that would spell certain doom for an aging Yankees lineup next season. A cybernetic, lazer hurling beast who would be the final piece to send us back into Contention.

I mean hell, we even issued new battle fatigues.

But. Apparently nay.

On one hand, a damn shame, seeing as since the last WBC I've seen Darvish as some utterly lethal, yet ultimately composed Chow Yun Fat style Crouching Tiger master.

On the other hand, forking out 51.7 mill US just to talk to someone for 30 days is kind of ridiculous.

Regardless, I'll be sure to sit at the Maniwaki Oaktown HQ kitchen table tomorrow AM and pour over the Globe to see just what the fuck happened.

My initial guess? Yu poo pooed the northern Igloo, in favour of pitching for the Series contending Rangers. Or maybe Nolan was still really pissed about losing the whole thing with one strike left and bet the ranch.

Anyways we'll find out exactly what's what tomorrow right from the showroom floor.

WHAT THE HALO???????

Holy smokes, I've got to to work a thousand hours in the food and the beverage right now, but I'm literally losing my breaky at this bomb coming out of Anaheim.

Oh and this $77 million dollar grenade thrown on top for good measure.

They just forked out over a quarter of a billion dollars on two players. How about we all occupy Angels Stadium?

And On The 168th Day, They Pressed Charges...

24 weeks to the day, and we see the first slate of names come out of the courthouse. I say throw the Big BC Book at them.

Yet, I wonder if any of them don't manage to deal down and are in deed found guilty, when will they be sentenced? 2020?

And what will the final disciplinary action be? A public apology? An afternoon picking up garbage around GM Place?

While everyone's prancing around beaming about the recent five game win streak, let's remember that these motherfuckers turned this city into a smoldering shit show, injuring a slew of people and collectively flushing any goodwill and global accolades left over from the Olympics right down the international toilet.

Fuck at the very least, I'd like to see the Canucks organization slap a three season ban on each and every convicted rioter hoping to walk through the Garage turnstiles.

Stanley Still Stings

Ok, here's a couple of tilts to tide you over until I actually feel like posting anything about the NHL. Oh yeah....we won. (still not there yet. perhaps in the new year. perhaps...)

Bear Hunting

Ok. So there's this sitch with Lucic.

Ryan Miller is pretty pissed, Sherrif Shanny is vowing that it's not "open season [on goalies]", Lindy Ruff is sticking to his story and no one can agree if the right call was made.

While I've always been a proponent of goalies being fair game when they're out of the crease, and while Lucic's hit was a kosher shoulder to shoulder, let's just remember who's testing the unspoken rule in NHL court. Lucic and the Bruins. Quelle surprise.

Admittedly, I'm a bit biased against Boston, after they hammered on Hank and Dan in last year's Cup Finals and were ultimately rewarded for their neo-brand of Broad Streeting. Reading NESN crap like this doesn't help either making me want to lose my Looch in standing by Shanahan's decision.

So ultimately the only reconciliation can be taking solace in Don Cherry's much touted, "law of the jungle". Crunch our goalie, face wash our star....fine. But know that next time you come to our bar we're calling up our 7 foot Sasquatch from Cold Lake Alberta to line match with Lucic on every shift.

Teams need to start crunching the B's back. Plain and simple.

All Fun And Games Until Someone Gets It In The Eye

Re: yesterday's post.

Oops.

A Shitty Cell Phone Picture Is Worth 454 Words

Ok there's really no sports shit to talk about here, but I figure that since this is the only place I spew thing, I'll vent out my "fuck I love Halloween" rant here. Here goes.

Fuck do I love Halloween.

Didn't really do anything tonight, but take a very empty shift at the shack. The old shack on All Hallows is pretty damn creepy. Especially when there's barely a soul in it maowing random ahi and black cod morsels.

I spent the night concocting drinks for fall/winter. Got nice and toasty. Sat around and bullshit with the chefs about the ghosts which inhabit the place. (I'm not kidding. More on this later. After I recant my tales, even the most logical scientific of minds will be running out the doors like Shaggy and Scoob.)

Hit the road early. Poured a pop for the hike. Meandered down the dark and boogly path through dark and boogly Stanley Park. Saw some fireworks getting lit off by some kids at English Bay. Decided to plant myself down on a park bench, and take it all in.

Did. And what a damn nice view. Tried to take a cell phone photo of it. Didn't work with a damn. Will have to describe it here instead.

A bright copper laughing crescent moon (which could've given Spielberg's Dreamworks stamp a run for its money), laying out a path so golden over the shimmering English Bay water, it would've made Pony Boy look like a late 19th century chimney sweep.

In addition random bursts of fire works were not only blasting off from the nearby beach, but all across the horizon. From East Van to Point Grey random blasts of various colours and configurations kept lighting the place up. All underneath the lazy, approving gaze this really jolly looking "man in la lune."

I don't know, it was like all these random pockets all over the city were unspoken yet united in their sole mission of the night. Namely to set it off and provide a brief break from The All Encompassing Routine. Not in an idiotic an unfocused way like the riots. I don't know, it was like being in V For Vendetta the end of Fight Club or something. An anti- Celebration Of Light.

Made it home. Took the dog for a stroll. Passed a few heritage houses on Davie with many o Jack O' Lantern perched on the stoops. People that would never usually yak with each other, stopping at each stoop, to weigh in on each piece. Just absolutely fucking neighbourly.

Passed many costumed drunken stragglers. Some pretty creative. Some not. Some pretty skimpy.

Made it home again. Original Halloween with Jamie Lee's on. Got eats, vino, and a tired ass dog.

Yup.

The Cry Of Collapse

What the fuck was that?

You know you've just watched one of the most epic Series Games ever, when you get home and your Spouse (who could give half a shit about pro sport) asks you what was going on, as her Twitter feed was lighting up like the Super Himalaya at Midnight Madneess.

I've consumed one glass of wine, a stiff shot of Washington vodka, and an easy Buffalo Trace chaser and still I feel like I need about a full distillery's worth to work through the insanity I've just witnessed.

Where to start?

Did everyone forget how to catch? Did everyone forget how to pitch? Like the Skip aptly asked via text across Maniwaki Country:

"Does anyone want to win this game?"

Look, I know nerves come into play on the big stage. And we've seen teams quickly turn their spikes into plastic as they soccer boot their way out of contention (see the 2006 Tigers).

But this. I can't comprehend.

Or maybe I can. As much as I hate to admit it, the Texans are MLB's Canucks. Think I'm wrong? Consider.

1. An original expansion team which has been around for 40 or 50 years, with limited finals appearances, which has never taken home the big prize.

2. A team who on paper is heavily favoured, and is more than capable.

3. A squad who get so excruciatingly close (a potential Game 6 close out), yet make it so excruciatingly painful. (The Rangers unable to clinch the Series with one strike left. Twice in one night. The Canucks going up 2-0, then 3-2, conquering their demons only to have them charge back out at Warp 13 out of hell.)

4. A club who is ultimately doomed to a "traditional" franchise boasting a ton of titles and experience.

I was at the shack holding down the fort in both circumstances. Which leads me to point # 5.

5. The random bitch. I've worked with the stinking public for a long time. Don't get me wrong, I hate them all. Well most of them. But they can be dealt with. 99.99 times out of 100, when dealing with an annoying characters, you carry a variety of arrows in your quiver capable of chilling them out. But sometimes there's a personality so far gone that no matter how much fire across the bar, even a complete projectile blackout ala 300, you will the not puncture the impenetrable shield of stupidity.

More specifically, you will find "the random bitch" the one who won't shut up and who only gets louder at all the wrong times. She is light years beyond shrill. She is incredibly incessant. She says the most inane shit.

And she only shows up when the aforementioned long suffering team, is about to shit the bed in the grandest of fashions.

The last time I encountered such an enraging entity was Game 6 of the 2011 Stanley Cup Playoffs. A Bruins fan from fucking Langley who probably thought she was Cam Neely's 10th cousin. And tonight I encountered another. Who randomly squawked out O.M.G!!!! Every two seconds. Who made the ground breaking analysis "baseball is so slow and boring". And who managed to announce every woe of her last place NFL team (also the Cardinals! Crazy!) every time the game was on the line.

The second she planted herself at the bar, I should've known it was over.

Wasn't Josh Hamilton supposed to be the hero? Looked like it for about half an inning. Weren't we all supposed to clap as Nolan Ryan graciously accepted the Rangers' first Commisioner's Trophy? Weren't we supposed to feel smug as Albert and La Russa slinked off into the dugout after the final out?

The out that never seemed to come. No matter how close. Why was Nelly playing so shallow? Why couldn't Neftali get that big out?

Why couldn't Nolan Ryan himself suited up in extras to close it out?

I'd like to offer the Rangers and their fans some hope, but the writing is on the wall. They get blown out in Game 7.

And I'll probably have a full bar of harpies commentating all 9 innings.

W.C. Fields

A guy walks into a bar, and asks, "Are you playing the World Series on the TV tonight?" To which we responded in unison, a resounding, "yup."

Now while this sounds like the opening of a bad joke, in a round about way it is as;

1. The guy was from St. Louis, a huge Cardinals fan. So much so that he recanted a story about meeting Big Mac and asking him to call his ailing 92 year old father. McGwire obliged and the next day yakked with the guy's pop for 20 minutes on the horn. Say what you want about "not talking about the past", that's just good for baseball.

2. The guy asked for a booth where he could view the game whilst dining with his wife. I made sure there was an unobstructed sight line, and kept the non-Series watching bar patrons off on the wings.

3. He sat intently, locked in for 8 full innings, and had to be dragged out by his irritated wife, just as mighty Josh Hamilton sac flied in Kinsler to tie the game.

4. Ended up missing the rare Cards bull pen break down, as Michael Young also sacked in the winning run, cuing Nolan Ryan to finally crack a smile in the stands.

So yeah, I guess the punch line was pretty bad for him. But it was a damn good game, and now a damn good Series.

The Spouse and I are off to America tomorrow, which I'm pretty jacked up about, as Americans know a thing or two about baseball. So it will be pretty damn good to catch a few innings on Saturday, from the other side of the bar, on the other side of the border.

Dr. Evil

Well this is really is turning into the Tony La Russa Show isn't it?

Let's pull the best pitcher in the post season while he's rolling, only to have the music from "The Natural" play for whomever bench player takes his spot in the batter's box. Ironic that over managing was the downfall of last year's Texas team, and "hyper" managing has gotten a last minute Wild Card clincher into an early lead in The Series. Washington doesn't have a hope in heck of trying to out move this guy.

I kept and eye on the game at the shack, and damn at least it was a good watch. Texas didn't roll over like I thought. Kinsler was an absolute beast defensively, and CJ actually lasted until the sixth.

Yet, I still knew that even though in the top of the ninth, and being down 3-2 with two out and Nelly coming up , the Rangers were doomed. Sure as shit, he popped out to end Game 1 and most likely The Series.

At this level it's entirely mental, and like it or not evil genius La Russa has successfully gotten into the entire opposing organization's collective psyche. Expect nothing more from Nelly. Maybe a token blast from Hamilton. A big game on both ends from Kinsler.

She ends in 5.

It's The Post Season. Not The Off Season.

I just love how The World Series starts tomorrow, and while these idiots didn't even play one game in October, they're still managing to dominate the ball headlines. Can we please just get to some actual ball?

So yeah...turns out I was as wrong as wrong can be in the prediction dept this year, as Texas and St. Lou go head to head for all the marbles.

Will it be a great Series? Of course it will. Just look at both lineups. Look at the match ups. I can't wait to see Nelly step into the box vs Carpenter. I can't wait for Albert to try and one up him, hitting bombs all the way to El Paso. I can't wait to see how La Russa's itchy bull pen phone lines up against Ron Washington's newfound Zen calm.

Since I'm batting 0.00 in predictions, I must continue by boldly proclaiming the Cards 2011 World Series Champs in Seven Games, by virtue of their history/experience/hot streak.

However at this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if the Red Sox found a loophole to allow them a retro active two round by into Fall Classic to take the whole thing.

A Most Unlikely October Contests

So Tony La Russa's been line matching like a Cup contending coach, and apparently it's paying off big time.

Is this really surprising? Maybe, considering the many unwarranted early, exits of his starters. But Wild Card team or no, the second Carpenter won that epic Game 5 vs Roy, all regular season rankings went out the window. The Cards have the squad with the most experience, the manager with the most experience (despite what you think of him and his porn star mustache) and well...the most playoff experience historically.

Will Prince and Ryan Braun be un-handcuff themselves for the next two games? Let's put it like this. Even if they do, and break out for 6 hits and 10 RBI's between them in Game 6, Marcum (12.46 October ERA) is on the hill for the Brewers.

So...yeah....most likely it'll be Cards/Tigers...for all the marbles?

Huh?

Hey at this point I won't be surprised to see Carpenter pitching perfect ball in Game 1, twisting Miggy and Mags up like a dirty martini and still getting the hook in the 3rd for Octavio Dotel.

Fall Catch Up

Ok so the DS's have all wrapped up and we're into the CS's. While I haven't been as hopped up as usual, I have been paying close attention. Let's recap a few things worth recapping.

1. Deep In The Heart Of... Holy smokes is Texas deep. After CJ's Game 1 meltdown against Tampa I figured it was all over, but wouldn't you know it, this squad has managed to keep its shit together to actually look pretty scary.

Dispatching the Rays in four and now up 2-0 heading into Tiger territory tonight, Ron Washington's lads are proving that experience matters. (Also heard one of the commentators note that Washington has taken a very hands off approach to managing this Oct, in favour of "letting the players do their thing.") Seeing as he out maneuvered himself last year in The Series, this is pretty wise.

Patience is the key in Texas as Nelly proved last night to hit his historic October slam. To continue my current personal drought of missing the big moments of the 2011 playoffs, I of course happened to turn around the exact second he did it, leaving the volumeless, slo mo replay on the shack TV to fill me in. Speaking of which...

2. Is Tito Still In The Broadcast Booth? What's fortunate for me about these playoffs is that I've managed to actually catch a few of the games at home, meaning attention at my own discretion. And volume. While the latter is usually a welcome addition to the complete playoff viewing package, the first two games of the ALCS taken in at HQ, have sounded like a four hour asinine episode of "Off The Record."

Sure Terry Francona helped to bring a long awaited WS Banner back to Boston (and another to boot), and sure his recent departure probably wasn't under the most equitable of circumstances, but my god listening to him try to banter with Joe Buck for 9+ innings (with rain delay) is like being 5 years old and being forced to go a 3 hour midnight mass on Christmas eve delivered entirely in some Slavic language you can't begin to understand. All with no Star Wars action figures. Excruciating.

3. The Best Inning Of Playoff Ball I've Seen In A While. All the bookies in Vegas must have been doing backflips as both the Phills and Yanks exited early. Let's go back to the game they're now calling "an instant classic." Namely Game 5 of the Phills/Cards.

Two ex-Jays (yeah, I know you've already heard it. whatevs...) duelling as intensely as Kenobi/Skywalker in Episode III, Halladay vs Carpenter was definitely one of the best test of wills I've seen on the diamond in a while. Caught this one at the shack, and as it was unfolding, I too got flashbacks to Jack Morris in 1991.

The key for me. Eighth inning, Doc dealing with the bases juiced and you knew that no one was coming across the plate. Naturally, he followed up with a massive strike out.

Watching Carpenter absolutely slay the Philly line up, outgunning Doc, to the tune of a 1-0 complete game shut out, had me
literally weeping as if I'd just experienced a stunning psychoacoustic performance from a famous virtuoso.

4. Prince Is Fat, But Fuck Can He Hit. Yup.

BBQ... Bourbon... Bunting

Let's just recap the day a bit shall we?

Finished early at the BBQ joint. Had the telly tuned to all the DS pregame all shift. Heavy anticipation. Finally the predictions and prognostications had given way to bunting and a packed stadium. It's on. Let's go.

Plunked myself down at the bar at about the mid 3rd to a full platter of brisket, pulled pork, and smoked jalepeno sausage. Corn bread, baked beans. Slaw. Phenomenal. And a shot a half of a damn fine, bold bourbon. Knob Creed 9 Yr Single Barrel Reserve. Heavenly.

Probably one of the best BBQ and whiskey experiences of my life. Perfectly smoked pork. Tender ass brisket. Baked beans that acted as a warm blanket to provide comfort from the west coast downpour. Fiery, spicy bourbon to spark the slow smoked meats. Cold coleslaw to balance everything out.

An awesome October opening series, taken in post shift, whilst having the best seat in the house. Literally feasting on, and fully savouring the break between shifts sip by sip.

Said it a trillion times, I'll say it again.

Fuck, I love October baseball.

Christ it's just like whisky.

The Day After. The Day Before.

Holy fuck who's excited? This guy.

After a summer long malaise, the much touted "single greatest day in regular season history" has definitely demanded I pay attention and commanded me to return to The Game.

Thus, I must answer the call and use this brief beer/blog/couch time to break down the imminent October play downs. Now that the tourney bracket is set, let's assess:

1. Rays/Rangers. Sure everything's bigger in Texas. And wow, they sure do have big bats. But please. This isn't even a contest. You can talk to me Josh Hamilton/Kinsler/Nelly/ all you want. The fact of the matter is that the Rays just overcome the largest Sept deficit in MLB history to reach the DS. They have pitching. They have bats. They all buy into the team game. And they are managed by one of the best minds on the bench right now in the Bigs. Let's just remember that last year, Ron Washington got out maneuvered by a guy who's biggest offensive weapon was Cody Ross. Rays in four.

2. Yanks/Tigers. Yes, yes, yes. Justin Verlander had a swell year. Yes, Miggy and Victor Martinez can swat. But let's just remember the Tigers WS team of a few years back that mistook the ball field for a rugby pitch and literally tried to kick field goals every inning. The Yanks have been bred to win The Series for decades. Version 20.11 is no different. Even though they're old, and Detroit looks pretty damn competitive on paper, the Yanks will finish this off in four. IF and I mean IF the Tigers can get it together mentally and thus defensively, and somehow win the first round, they will win the whole thing. But we all know that won't happen.

3. Phillies/Cards. Please. Next.

4. Brewers/ D-Backs. My sleeper hit to make some noise during this whole October campaign is Milwaukee. If in four weeks, I'm writing a retrospective about how Prince and Co, managed to bring the banner to Miller Park I will not be completely flabbergasted. Consider. Prince, the prize free agent, poised to drive his stock through the retractable by having a monster October. Zack Grienke, who will do one of two things; collapse under the immense spotlight or routinely pitch complete games shut outs until Halloween. If he goes the latter route, I won't be surprised to see this Cinderella squad celebrating their first franchise World Series win on the Bronx grass.

"I Can't Believe What I Just Didn't Saw...!!!!!!!!"

Did I just see that?

Both Leagues with two teams tied in Game 161 for the final playoff spot. Four games which I was furiously flipping amongst at the shack tonight trying to keep pace. Two of said games going into extras. One which was an absolutely Herculean comeback. And two historic September collapses.

Did I really just see that?

Apparently not, as when every single game changing highlight reel play hit the screen, I happened to not be watching. Turned away for a second or doing some menial shack shit. Each pants shitting play commentated to me by the puck masochistic, non-ball fans (soon to be October converts) mulling about the shack.

The bottom of the ninth two out game tying Dan Johnson Devil-jack. The bottom of the ninth two out, two strike Papel-meltdown, to Andino bloop game winner. The Hunter Pence late inning in-field knock to knock out the Braves. The Longo walk off to lock up the AL WC.

Yup. Missed'em all. But no matter. The TSN is calling today "the greatest day in regular season baseball ever." Hard to disagree. Truth be told, I wasn't really too jacked for October this year.

But holy fuck. I guess The Game had other ideas. As once again, it's time to crack about 1000 Tremblays and write off the next month.

Rally Monsters

Ok, so yeah it's another year of playing out the last week of September but at least the Jays final home game of the year had a few pluses.

1. Edwin Encarncion cracked a walk off 12th inning bomb to keep the Jays a perfect 11-0 in extras at home this year.

2. In doing so, helped to stymie those damn rally monkeys, by keeping the Halos from gaining any WC ground on the Red Sox.

3. Hey according to the major label feed, it seems that this 11-0 home bid is now some new obscure MLB record. A stat which I'm sure Jamie Campbell's great grandson will trot out in 2112 on some Rogers Solar System Jays broadcast.

4. Home attendance was tallied at 1,818,103 which is a far cry from the 3 mill outburst of the late '80's. But hey...it's going to be another predictable .500 finish.

At least it's not like the Tampa sitch, where the Rays sit second last in attendance yet are involved in yet another late September pugilistic playoff push.

Tell me that if the Jays sat a mere 2 games behind Boston with under 10 to go, the Dome, and the Tower wouldn't be packed every night. Christ, even the Sky Pod would be over capacity.

Hello Nora Jeanne...

Well, there's nothing like good old fashioned, good news to shake a guy out his extended summer sabbatical. As the news doesn't get any better than the addition of another very, important crew member in our coast to coast cast.

I am quite convinced that it is no coincidence that on the night that big league Hockey returned to the Canadian Prairies, young Miss Nora Jeanne-Marie began making her journey down the hallway, to step out on the proverbial ice for the first time.

Greeted by her new proud parents, The Skip and First Mate. To whom, I trumpet with an air horn, a multitude and myriad of of congratulations.

Welcome to the squad kid. We're ecstatic you're on the team.

Time for a celebratory smoothie...

Half Full

So yeah.

A couple of back to back wins to get back to .500. This I've enjoyed over the last few days. Especially the manufactured walk off last night in extras. I love aggressive base running, especially when it leads to sac fly walk offs by Sir John A. Good for baseball.

And tonight just a pummelling. Also, this is baseball worth watching.

It's Wednesday and that means Whitecaps on the telly, and hell, even they didn't shit the pitch tonight. Rallied to garner the draw.

Right now this all must seem pretty mediocre, but I'll take what I can get.

MLB Notes

Holy fuck.

A real weekend. Can't believe it. Two full days off, and n'ary a shot to pour or a salmon to sling. Save for myself, should I want.

Hunkered down at HQ, with an early Jays/Yanks tilt on the sportsnet. Coffee. Computer. July rain outside (?). Soon, bacon.

Anyways a ton of doings happening around ball lately. Before I fire up the skillet, let's pour another cup of scoop and see what's what:

1. Sign Stealling? Can the pinstripes just fuck off back to the Bronx and stop moaning about how their billion dollar franchise has gotten mashed over the last two days, giving up a combined 23 runs?

We have Major League manager, musing in the media about the Jays' alleged ability to read Russell Martin's pitch calls all the way from Bloor St, but admittedly the manager isn't, "...100 percent sure about anything."

These latest sandlot antics serve as the official Reason #5903 to hate the Yanks. Whining.

2. ASG 2011. Caught a bit of the AL/NL showdown at the shack the other night. Not really too memorable of a game, but I did dig seeing Bautista put his stamp on the score card, with a spectacular sliding catch in right, and a rare AL base hit.

Yeah...the times definitely have changed when the AL is limited to one run. Prince had a nice bong as well, leading his League to home field advantage in The Series. There's just something really right about baseball when you see a jolly, portly guy round the bases after mashing one out of the park.

3. 3000 for D-Jeets. Pinstripes or no, you gotta respect Jeter and his impact on The Game. As the Captain cracked his 3000th hit in grandest fashion last weekend, we're cuing up the music from "The Natural", taking second and tipping our caps.

While quite often, the term gets flung about carelessly, we have no hesitation to call Jeter's 5-5 performance with a bomb (in the Bronx) to tally his 3000th hit as undoubtedly and positively Ruthian. 'Atta go Jeets.

4. Roger Dodger. Look. When the Rocket initially got named for juicing, it was a pretty big deal as it was pretty much him, Bonds, and Big Mac, and of course, Canseco serving the biggest names to be associated with steroids. Now, over the last few years, we've witnessed pretty much half The League outed,

[goddammit, let's stand up and have another hand clap for Jetes. Way to stay clean for the kids.]

...so there's no way Congress is going to send this good old boy to prison. Clemens' name is in now the public syringe lot with everyone else's. Case closed.

5. Full Tilt In Spokane. Looks like the C's did their best to recreate the Stanley Cup riots, last week at Avista Stadium. Maybe they should've flipped over a field maintenance go cart and set it on fire. Looks like some old time hockey!

All Star Breakdown

Holy fuck it's the All Star break already? This really is the latest I've gotten into a season in a while.

So. I love the Home Run Derby. And like everyone else across Canada who gives half a shit about the horsehide, I of course was rooting for Mr. Blue Jack himself, Mighty Jose Bautista.

When I finally caught a piece his plate appearance from the shack telly, things weren't looking so hot. About 3 bongs with close 8 outs. Ouch. A trip out of the first round was not looking likely.

And so, I had to endure watching two Red Sox and a Yank battle it out for the remaining two hours, with Robinson Cano finally taking 2011 Derby.

Christ. We have the number one hitter in baseball and still can't even catch a break at the All Star Break.

At this rate I'm expecting Halladay to drill Bautista in square in the hand tomorrow, breaking three bones. Whilst Ricky Romero gets chewed up and spit out like some bad chaw by Scott Rolen.

A Change Of Venue

Ok.

I get it.

After last night's last minute meltdown by the Whitecaps, I turned from the beautiful game back to the Grand Old Game. And was pleasantly surprised to find that the Jays were in command tonight against the Tribe.

For a grand total of 8 1/2 innings.

Then. The obligatory base juicing by the bullpen setting the table for Mr. .342, Mighty Travis Hafner.

We were up 4-1. From the way things had been going around Maniwaki Country lately, I knew what was about to happen.

Boom.

I get it. The spectacle is trying to throw me out of the arena. It's putting a tarp on the field. It's shutting down the concession. It's sending out its burliest bouncers.

So. Ok. No worries. I'll take a cue. For this weekend at least, as I'm hitting the road and playing the first out of town show I've played in a loooooong time. Yup. Now thats good for baseball.

A Beautiful Shame

Ok so it's been a week, two weeks three weeks.

Last night's near comeback and subsequent blown call at Fenway has really not added any wind to the sails of SS Maniwaki.

The only thing that I have been taking a surprise solace in, has been the Wednesday night MLS match. Last week I watched the Whitecaps scamper around the pitch at the new Exhibition Stadium, where they inevitably lost to TFC. Still though I found Hassli and Co's crosses, set ups and strikes strangely soothing. Maybe it's because I harkened back to the two early season matches I had already attended. Maybe it was the bright Toronto Sun shining down on the oh-so summery green pitch (in sharp contrast to the dark and gloomy GM Place...) or maybe it was just the flow of the game itself.

No rabbit punches, finger biting or hits from behind resulting in broken vertebrae. I don't know. The game just seemed civilized. Gentlemanly if you will.

And no expectations. I didn't expect the Whitecaps to beat T.O. I don't expect them to make the playoffs. Just don't do what those guys did. Namely don't put me through the ringer. Don't tenderize my innards until they're non functional. Don't make me want to puke in disgust and then roll around in said puke. Don't lose heartbreakers.

Everything had been going so well. While tonight's match against Columbus was heading for a nil-nil draw, I still felt pretty damn skippy that I had found a refreshing new sporting spectacle to get me through the summer. MLS and these Whitecaps were a nice tall glass of lemonade on a 30+ day. Maybe with a double Maker's in it.

That is until the last fucking minute of the match.

Did the Caps somehow make a transfer payment for Luongo?

Summer Session

Ok.

So it's been a week two weeks.

And I still feel fucking sick. Amidst the aftermath, the clean up, the messages, the on line identifications, the ensuing apologies, the debates about the on line identifications....and oh, yeah...the loss itself, this last week two weeks has pretty much been a maelstrom of emotion, and reaction, and emotional reactions to those emotions and reactions.

It's managed to make The Gold Medal Game shin dig look like the model of zen calm.

For the last two weeks, this post has been in the back of my mind. I kept wanting to churn out some multi part exposé, commenting on everything from the psyche of the hooligans, to the logistics of holding massive urban out door congregations, to the debates surrounding social media. As well as a play by play of my own experience from the night of the riot. And a full series breakdown of the Finals, and how we fucking lost at home in Game 7.

Maybe during the course of the summer, I will tackle some of these many integral issues that have surrounded our city over the last two weeks. But for right now, I can only fall back on the original words of this e-pages, which I scrawled way back in post #2. Namely:

"What we want. When we want."

And for the last two weeks, I really haven't wanted. Can't look at any more riot footage of burning cop cars and Orca logos. Couldn't bring my self to watch any of the Bruins parade footy. Definitely couldn't give a shit about the NHL awards, and I don't care that yesterday, Bieksa got locked up for five more years.

While people have dusted themselves off, yet still hold their outrage to the riot, many are already looking towards next season.

Not me. Not right now anyways. We will see you sporadically for the rest of the summer.

Quotes From The Day After

A few quotes I heard today:

"Where were you LAST night??!!!!!"

- Dudes sitting on the patio of the bbq joint, yelling at the soldiers riding in the massive amphibious military vehicle rolling down Water St.


"I've never seen anything like it. Even in Brazil."

- Shack chef, Brazillian national, and Uber Canucks fan. Coincidentally and astonishingly he resides in the perimeter of the Hamilton Georgia epicenter of the riots. Watched the entire thing and from his balcony. Everything. The burning cars. The street brawls. The tear gas. The beatings.


"Dude, I literally grabbed him and tried to stop them from looting as everyone was smashing glass and running into the store."

- An anonymous buddy, who tried to do the right thing.


"I walked out of the place and there were thousands people running towards me down Granville St. I had to run back in and escape through the back door."

- A bbq master, who got out unscathed. Barely.


"I went down to film some of the shit, and then started to get scared."

- Buddy who reassessed his actions.


"It's a Spike Lee moment...."

Gastown restaurant guy, who commented as we were listening to Motown classics while opening the BBQ joint this morn.

The Lowest Of The Lower Mainland

...on the deck right now. A few randoms still straggling out of the carnage. Think the majority of the shit's finally starting to die down.

Maybe not as some fuckhead just knocked over a news paper box. The scene tonight was beyond grim. It was utterly putrid and disgusting. Made '94 look like a school yard tussle.

Had our car pelted with eggs. Saw a body on the street. The smoke from the first burning car could be seen from HQ before the final horn. Bridges shut down. Sirens everywhere.

And so many fucking morons.

An absolutely deplorable display. The darkest I've ever had to share on these e-pages.

More later. Heading in now to go gag myself with my white towel.

Sea Sick

Man, it's mayhem out there. Woke up to an early Game 7 cacophony. Honking, helicopters, headlines.

I can see why Bob retreats to the seawall to clear his head before a big game.

Feeling absolutely sick to my stomach, and unable to secure a breakfast sandwich anywhere on Davie St, the dog and I headed out of the hustle and bustle and retreated to Sunset Beach.

Just the right move. Chatted with our usually friendly concession manager. Got a coffee. Shared a smokie. Continued on to our regular cove, where the dog met an energetic young tyke who was more than willing to throw the ball for him all after noon. I just sat to my driftwood perch and actually started to chill out. Kind of.

One full season, four rounds of playoffs, and it all comes down to One. Game.

Man, they never make it easy do they?

After I finish typing, I'm going to close the lap top on the final pre game on the 2010-2011 NHL season, don my jersey, and head down to the shack. And one way or another, tonight we'll be either sipping on the finest Canadian whiskey, or crying in our Honey Rickards.

This is as big as it gets.

Go. Canucks. Goddam. Go.

My Playoff Beard

Back in late Feb, Dice and I took a ski trip to the interior, hitting many mountains along the way, culminating with a very rambunctious reunion of old school chums in an undisclosed town close to the Alberta border. Total blast.

During said trip, I grew the obligatory big mountain rider beard, which, by the time we reached our destination, filled in really nicely.

Upon returning to the lower mainland, I kept it going, and hell, when mid March rolled around and we locked up the conference and home ice, I figured, "Hey! It's playoff season! No need to break out the Bic quite yet! Let's keep it going for a Cup run!!" Thinking it would get clipped by the second round.

As of right now I look like an old biker who's lapped both Americas twice on his hog, and is now kicking back at Sturgis, regaling a small crowd with old war stories, all whilst cuing up the fattest line of Belize's finest off the ass of some leather chapped, back combed bitch named Marla.

Whilst the trimmer has made an appearance a few times over the last few months, I look like I'm for real.

And the question remains. Is the squad?

This beard is so damn thick and itchy, I look like a combination of Gandalf and a leather bear, but of course I refuse to shave it before the last crescendo of our on ice overture. Yet, one way or another, within the week, shit's coming off.

What will the shearing scenario be?

1. The Elated Lather. Where, I make an initial run with the clippers, post parade, before whipping up an intense spume with the fine badger hair brush that the Skip and Mate got me for Christmas? Joyously freeing my face to meet the now summer air with each pass of the blade?

Recalling with every swipe, every lit lamp, lucky bounce and left pad save that finally brought redemption and ultimately, The Cup to the lower mainland?

Or will it be;

2. The Mark Of Sorrow. Where the unthinkable happens, and 30 seconds after the horn, each slash of the razor, acting not unlike the blade of Spanish folklore, provides added torment to the cruel reality which I now face.

Anguish spurring facial constrictions, preventing an even eradication of bristles. Resulting in a patchwork canvas of blood, whisker and tear. Ultimately reflecting the bitter, gnawing tragedy of a potentially great, yet ultimately unfinished work...

***

I am enthusiastically opting for the first option. Yet bracing for the second. The clock continues to tick down and we stand at 16 hours till puck drop.

But how long until the blade?

48 More Hrs Of Ulcers

Well.

That didn't go so well did it. Once again, Luongo couldn't...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...and no one else could respond...blah, blah, blah...and we were taken out in record time in one perio...blah, blah, blah.....

Like the Skip texted:

"I realize that was 'the script' But was it really necessary?"

To fall back on a tried and true a hockey cliche.

"It is what it is."

So, I'll stock the shelves with Alka Seltzer and we'll see you 48. Where one way or another we finish this thing.

Us Vs The World

Talk about a spill over effect from UFC 131 that went down here over the weekend. As the media scrums prior to Game 6 are starting to rival the trash talk sessions usually reserved for "The Ultimate Fighter" and the UFC amp up specials.

What's going on boys?

We have an idiot from Hockey Night In Toronto, running his mouth, sparking the Sedin bros to finally fire back against this de facto figurehead of the legion of idiots who seem to have a problem with two non Canadian players putting up over 80 points a year, winning the Art Ross Trophy, contending for another, leading a Canadian franchise to one game removed from hoisting the Stanley Cup, putting up 39 points between them in said Stanley Cup Campaign.

Fuck I hope they split 10 points between them tonight, get first and second star, and bench press The Mug in front of Milbury and the rest of the CBC crew.

Win or lose, I have two bottles of chilled Akkavit sitting in the shack fridge, to present to and pour for the Captain and his brother, should they feel like actually going somewhere on this continent where they're appreciated.

Now Bob. What are you doing? You know that every time you get sassy in the media, it backfires against you. You know this.

Let's get our focus back in the paint, and seal this thing up tonight.

And especially while the rest of the world, comes up with more nonsense media fodder , and whiny op eds.

Let's all just take a step back, take a breath, and win this thing already.

We Are Looking For A...A...A Grrraaiiiil???

Been sitting out on the deck. Horns still honking. Cheers still echoing off all the buildings. Granville St still rocking. It's been about 4 hours since Lapierre got the "greasy goal" the lads were so desperately after, and you'd think he scored it 30 seconds ago.

Maybe there was divine intervention as someone took notice of all those trying to catch his attention. Bob crossed himself right before the opening face off. Shack Sous Chef, and uber Canucks fan, Phillipe did as well as he stood in front of the bar TV. Apparently some Canucks fans were petitioning upstairs as well.

100 000+ people are crowded into the downtown right now so jubilant, you'd think it was the rapture.

And we still haven't won yet.

I took a lap after the game to check things out. A little less Olympics and a little more Friday Night Granville St, as I saw a few more busy cops dumping out liquor, a few more cats sporting Ed Hardy shirts and a few more J Wowww clones, clicking their stilettos through the mayhem. Yet all in all, pretty spirited, pretty jovial.

And just another absolutely compelling home game. The defense was solid. (Yeah Tanev. Go Tigers.) The offense kept pressing. And Luongo once again was the difference. Talk about bipolar. The TSN just posted his numbers at home and away in The Cup Finals and they're too lopsided to be believed. 0.98whatever Save % at home. 0.64whatever in Boston. One minute he's the Vezina candidate we're all waving the towel for. The next he's a fourth string goalie hoping to get his shot with the Moose Mountain Moose. And missing.

Up front, I wasn't sure if we could squeak one past Thomas, but Bieksa's lob to Lapierre, was enough to get the win and put us up 3-2 in the Series.

One game away from hoisting.

What can a guy even begin to say to that?

Worst Case Scenario

For the last 48 hours I've been desperately trying to tell myself that the Game 3 meltdown was merely an aberration. That there was no way a repeat could happen in Game 4 and that after downing the Blackhawks, Luongo had finally cut himself free from the maddening crease shitting of many series past.

Nay.

This is undoubtedly the worst case scenario. I would've been fine heading back to town tied 2-2. Really. But only if the games would've been as tight in Boston as they had been at home. Over the last three periods the Canucks have allowed 12 goals, netting only one.

Here we go again.

Every time I turned around tonight, it seemed like we were on our heels in our own zone. Three of the four goals were clear look softies. The Sedins and Kesler were nowhere to found, and once again some no name scrub has nabbed the headlines.

The Horton hit has really sparked the B's and the last two games have been text book Boston Bruins hockey. Crash. Bang. Hit. Slash. Score. Repeat.

The pundititions are breaking things down on the feeds, talking about the ability of the Bruins to shut down the passing lanes, and I have to agree. N'ary a puck possession pass was to be found tonight, as the Sedins were heavy bags for Marchand's mitts. (What needs to happen in Game 5 is Bieksa scrapping this 6th line clown on his first shift.)

Thomas right now seems to be superior in net as I don't even want to conjure up a comparison of both goalie's GAA's during The Stanley Cup Finals. I mean, he was on such another level tonight, he just about got a Gordie Howe hat trick.



Fuck. After such a promising first two games, we've got totally shortsed in every area imaginable over the last two. If there's a silver lining to any of this ridiculousness, at least we know this.

We are all Canucks, and we've been here before.

Does A Canuck Shit On The Ice?

Ok, guess I got a little too damn cocky there for a second. Maybe we all did. Anyways the Canucks took no time to remind us that they're still capable of shitting the rink on the big stage with the absolutely sorry, sorry 8-1 shellacking last night in Boston.

Anyways whatever collective swagger we showed on Saturday has quickly evaporated and Canucks fans are left sitting squeamish, wondering if we're about to see a repeat of the Chicago series. And dare I say it....the worse collapse yet.

Luongo and the lads looked positively overwhelmed, with little if anything in the tank. Not surprising considering they were facing a team in a must win sitch, playing at home, and rallying against the season ending hit to one of their top forwards.

While I don't sense a complete collapse, I must say that allowing 8 tallies is pretty darn concerning. The last thing we needed to do was to light the fire under Lucic and Co. and the reasons mentioned above now provide plenty of kindling.

While I still wouldn't call Game 4 as "must win" for us, I will definitely deem it a "must not shit the bed", as another blowout will definitely have everyone back in the Pharmasave check out line with full baskets of Rolaids and Pepto.

Anyways one of the best analyses I read of the game came from my compadre, Chris, a shack alumnus who wrote this absolute gem:

Grizzly Man 3: Bruins Revenge

Tonight reminded me of the tragic story of The Grizzly Man. Grizzly Man came out west and tried to live with some random bears. It was all good for a bit, hanging out with those bears and just being casual friends and whatnot. After a bit those bears thought, "F@ck this. Who is this guy at our river, looming around all humany and that. Let's destroy him." Then those bears went into camp one night and ate Grizzly Man. Oh, and they ate his girlffriend. Ate'em both up all nice and good. Vancouver Canuck fans, a bear just ate our girlfriends. Eight'em up and pooped'em out. That's a story about food.

RIP Grizzly Man