Yet Another TSN Premature Ejaculation: The Cloustonian Conundrum -- Whither "Interim"?

My Sunday morning routine hardly ever varies (and I very much like it that way, thank you Mother).

Up at seven (ish), shower, a pot of coffee, a thorough cover-to-cover read of the Sunday Citizen, including the completion of the Sunday crossword (the only one of the week worth doing...the weekday versions are obviously geared toward small children, the intellectually challenged and Jack Layton) followed by the destruction of a ridiculously unhealthy breakfast of bacon (about a dozen slices), eggs (three, scrambled and cooked with shredded cheese), hashbrowns (also with shredded cheese), english muffins swimming in real butter and orange juice, all lovingly prepared by Beloved, who swears she has no interest in my life insurance policies.

And I watch Dave Hodge and His Bloviating Quartet at 10:30, also known as TSN's The Reporters.

Dave Hodge, he of the sanctimonious drivel, asked a question this morning that struck me as rather premature and not a little unfair. To wit: If Bryan Murray gets fired before the end of the year, or even in the off-season, does Clouston keep the job?

The panel, composed of the usual suspects was divided. What follows is the exchange as I remember it:

Damian Cox: "Sure, why not? They're playing way better than at any point this season, so give the guy a chance."

Michael Farber: "No way. A new GM is going to want his own coach."

Steve Simmons: "I bent my wookie!"

Putting aside for the moment that it was an act of purest stupidity to have even posed the question in the first place, coming as it does three freaking games into Clouston's NHL career (gee, Mike, did you hurt yourself jerking your knee that quickly?), I say "HELLS yes he does!"

You may not have noticed, gentlemen, but he seems to have found the "ON" switch. Sure, the Sens have two losses and a shootout win (in which they blew a two goal lead) to show over his three games, but anyone who has had the great misfortune to watch almost every game of this miserable season *ahem* can and will tell you those last three games are the best we've seen in over a year. That has to mean something. When one of the team's veterans tells a reporter that Clouston's practices are light years faster than any under Paddock or Hartsburg, that has to mean something. The fact that we seem to have regained a bit of our former swagger, however faint, after beating Buffalo and taking a point off the best team in the East after trailing by two, has to mean something.

In May 2002, Bryan Murray, then GM of the Anaheim Mighty Ducks promoted a young head coach out of the AHL nobody outside of The Bryan's inner sanctum had ever considered as NHL Head Coaching material. A year later, the Ducks came out of nowhere before losing the Cup Final in seven to New Jersey. That guy's name? Mike Babcock. And that has to mean something.

Don't get me wrong. I'm perfectly aware that this may just be a case of a team trying desperately to avoid the label of "coach killers" and would practice and play harder for anybody, maybe even this guy. But my point is, how do we know? How do you know?

Even if The Bryan gets canned before the end of the season (and here's saying he won't), why not let Coach Cory ride out the rest of the season. It's not like we're going anywhere. And come April or May, the GM, be it The Bryan or *cough*patquinn*cough* whoever, can sit down with the team and figure out if Clouston is the real deal. But to dismiss his chances after only three games?

C'mon, Dave. That's just stupid.

A Fight Fan's Measured Response To Sanctimonious Drivel

Ordinarily, I have nothing against Dave Hodge. Anyone who can sit that close to Steve Simmons and listen to his clueless stammering every Sunday morning without succumbing to the well nigh irresistible urge to drive an icepick through his own eardrums just to make it stop deserves a measure of respect in my book. But sometimes...

For those who may have missed it, dear old Dave went off on a wee rant between periods of last week's Sens/Caps game on the hockey topic du-jour, fighting and the possible banning thereof. In a nutshell, while decrying and tut-tutting the specious arguments and not-so-subtle name calling that has marked the debate from both sides of the issue, he helpfully adds his weighty oppinion by...giving us specious arguments and ever-slightly-more-subtle name calling before slapping on a coat of condescending sanctimony for good measure (full transcript here).

So to turn Dave's argument on its head, I too would like to propose a change to the debate "that might make the dinosaurs and the granola eaters agree on something."

I want the proponents of a fighting ban tell me that the game is more entertaining without a fight than it is with one, that the 18000 or so ticket buying souls who stand and roar during every single fight have been wrong all along. I want them to swear to me that now that fighting has been eliminated, they will flock to the rink and buy jerseys and beer and pizza and car flags in numbers never seen before.

I want them to tell me that in no way whatsoever should a player from their team seek to administer some kind of retribution on a fourth line call-up nobody from the other team who took a run at their star player and knocked their star player out of the game or season with an unpenalized cheap shot because it makes them feel bad.

And as long as we're engaging in stereotyping smear campaigns (Dave), I'd like to hear that they want fighting banned in hockey because it's too long to wait for the next UEFA Cup soccer game.

I want them to state, catagorically and without any doubt, that banning fighting will not cause an increase in stick infractions not only because the officials will always catch those fouls, but also because the NHL has such a stellar reputation for imposing subsequent fines and suspensions based, not on the name on the back of the jersey, but on the severity of the infraction.

I want them to finally admit that the "but nobody fights in the playoffs" argument is a canard, a red herring aimed at those who can't see or won't admit the difference between a regular season game in February and the seventh game of the Stanley Cup Final.

But most of all, I want them to watch tonight's All Star Game and tell me that that's the way they ultimately want to see the game played, bereft of physicality or emotion.

Do that, and I'll have no argument with them. I like hockey. They don't. But at least we'll be able to agree on something.

A Shot Across The Bandwagon's Bow

I haven't posted anything about the last two games for a very good reason. Frankly, I am running out of ways to say "We suck!". My ability to find new and funny words to describe the same mistakes or express my utter frustration over how a team as talented as this one (on paper) can fail to even show up game after game after game, has been completely exhausted. So I won't.

Let us instead, gentle reader, ponder the phenomenon of the "Bandwagon" and how the legroom on our particular conveyance has improved markedly of late as the fairest of fairweathers suddenly discover that there will be no playoffs this year and scramble off in search of something new and shiny.

To those poor, lost souls, I would offer this: Get fucked right in the ass by a herd of rabid wildebeests you infuriating bag of dicks. It is my most fervent wish to see all of you tied to a pole in a public square and skullfucked with a forklift. You drive me batshit insane. You fucking posers.

I'm not talking about the mouth breathing troglodytes who clog the call-in shows or message boards demanding Emperor Eugene fire the GM/coach/training staff/mascot after yet another loss. You can fault them for many things (grammar and proper sentence structure chief among them) but you can't dismiss their passion for the team. And I'm not talking about those who, out of well meaning if misplaced ignorance, continue to insist that trading Giggles will cure all of our ills. Sure, they don't know what they're talking about, but at least they're sincere.

You know who I'm talking about. You know who they are. You might even work with a few.

They're the guy who sits next to you at SBP; the guy who's only too happy to tell you how he got the tickets for free because his boss couldn't come, and then spends the entire game bitching about the drive into the rink, the parking rates, the line up at the concession and the price of beer before taking off ten minutes into the third period of a one goal game "to beat the traffic".

They're the guy who finds you in the bathroom as you're trying to take a quiet dump and shouts "Hey! How about that game last night, eh? That Mike Fisher looked really good!" over the stall door while you sit there gritting your teeth, pants around your ankles, knowing full well that this obnoxious sac of pus wouldn't be able to pick Mike Fisher out of line up.

They're the woman who festoons her cubicle with Sens flags and posters and coffee mugs and hair scrunchies and a 2007 Eastern Conference Champion commemorative mouse pad but ask her about anyone who played on the team prior to the Final and you're met with a blank look.

They're the guy who exchanges hugs and high fives after every goal with everybody in a bar packed to the rafters for Game 5 of the 2007 Eastern Final and then bumps into me you in overtime and asks "So putting the puck in deep...is good?" causing me you to miss Alfie's winner as I you stare in disbelief into the depths of a dilettante's ignorance. To this day, I you still want to cave that goat fucker's face in with a Zamboni.

But now, with our season in the crapper and the playoffs out of reach, look how they flee. The free tickets go unused, the bathroom is mercifully quiet and the mouse pad and hair scrunchies have been packed away. So to those snapping their ankles jumping off the bandwagon during the first tough season in over ten years, I say once more: good fucking riddance, asshats.

But before we let you go, know this: All sports are cyclical. Any true fan of any game understands that. The longer our team spends on top, the more brutal will be the inevitable fall. But as true fans, we also know that, barring something aberrant like an ownership more concerned with profit than winning or a 40 year stretch of organizational incompetence, our team will eventually rise again. And when it does, we will be able to stand tall with all of those who've stuck it out, whose passions have never wavered no matter how maddening things may get, and proclaim "This is MY team!"

What are you going to say then?

Code Red [Ottawa Citizen]

Sunday Soapbox: A Sens Fan Code Of Conduct -- Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

Having abandoned all hope of ever seeing socially responsible behaviour from its players, the 800lb gorilla of sport leagues, that bastion of joie-de-vivre, the NFL has turned its attention to its more, shall we say...enthusiastic...fans by instituting a "Fan's Code Of Conduct" which will be policed and enforced by the individual teams.

Having been to a few Buffalo Bills games, where the New York State Troopers will happily assist you in carrying your two-four (sorry..."flat") of Old Milwaukee from the 7-Eleven across the road to the stadium parking lots three hours before kick-off, I can only say...um...yeah. Good luck with that. Trust me, "intoxication or other signs of alcohol impairment that results in irresponsible behavior" is the only way to gird yourself against the horrors that are the Ralph Wilson Stadium bathrooms (you cannot call yourself a man until you've spent a halftime trying to pee in a trough with 974 of your closest, newest friends yelling at you to HURRY DA FUCK UP!! DEY'S CLOSIN' DA BEER STANDS!!!).

But it did get me thinking (in and of itself a minor miracle during the dog-days off the off-season). This is precisely the kind of thing that needs to be instituted at SBP. So, showing the prescient community activism for which I've become known, I give you "Because This Shit Really Pisses Me Off: A Senators Fan Code Of Conduct For Attendance At All And Future Games At ScotiaBank Place". You'll thank me for this later.

1) Whiny self-righteousness will no longer be tolerated! Any person in attendance, having spent the entire game silently sitting on his or her hands but who then feels the urge to castigate, in a loud, sarcastic voice, those sitting in the two rows immediately in front of him or her for standing, swearing at a bad call, dancing, holding up witty home made banners or otherwise showing any sign that they are actually having a good time, shall be escorted to centre ice by security staff whence, between periods, he or she will be tarred, feathered and mercilessly mocked over the Public Address System as a self-absorbed tight ass who thinks the world should revolve around them.

2) Anyone caught trying to start "The Wave" will be summarily shot. Self explanatory.

3) All cell phones in the Lower Bowl will be confiscated and returned to their owners at the end of the game. Those who feel the need to incessantly rise and wave at the camera each and every time the flow of the game nears their seats and then proceed to phone friends and family to ask them "Did you see me on the TeeVee??", thereby ignoring the actual game itself, shall henceforth be protected, if not from their own inner dork, then from the unfortunate souls forced to sit around them.

4) Anyone wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs Replica Doug Gilmour Jersey will be summarily shot. C'mon people, it's been fifteen years!

5) "Gotta beat the traffic!" will no longer be an acceptable excuse for departure. Any fan leaving the arena with more than five minutes left in any game where the goal differential is less than three, shall be stopped at the exits and assessed a "Heinous Poseur", or "Jackass" fine, equivalent to the face value of their ticket, which will then be used to purchase tickets to subsequent games for REAL fans who could not otherwise afford to attend.

6) Anyone seen sporting anything anywhere on their persons with the words "What Would Gary Roberts Do?" will be summarily shot. Just on general principle.

7) The scoreboard will no longer be treated as your Omnipotent Overlord. As a reminder to those in attendance from those watching at home, it is possible to make noise, chant, scream or otherwise attempt to disrupt our opponent's play even at times when there aren't pretty flashing signs ordering you to do so.

So there you have it. On behalf of the Ottawa Senators, Five For Smiting thanks you for your adherence to this new Code, and would encourage anyone with other suggestions to leave them in the comments.

That said, should you feel that the implementation of this Code will in anyway infringe upon your enjoyment of live Senators games...see Rule #1. Jerk.

The Sunday Soapbox: Quit Yer Bitchin'!

In any given week there are usually one or two stories in hockey, or the sports world in general, that are guaranteed to annoy, confuse, amuse or just plain piss me off enough to talk about.

Rather than continue to inflict these meaningless rants on Beloved during our daily commute (although I will miss the eye rolls), I thought I'd explore them here in a new feature I'm calling The Sunday Soapbox. Like it? Hate it? Think I should just do everybody a favour and get the hell off the internets, leaving them to people who know better? Let me know in the comments.

This week: Stupid contracts, the salary cap, and how it's ALL YOUR FAULT!

Yes, I know. The numbers are ridiculous, even obscene. Five million a year for Brian Rolston. $7.4M for Hossa. Mats Sundin leaving twenty (Twenty!) million dollars on the table while he wanders through whatever passes for a purgatorial Swedish desert trying to find himself. Then of course, there's our own favourite (former) whipping boy, Wade Redden, who gets to underachieve in Manhattan for the identical number of Bahamian pesos he sucked out of Emperor Eugene's wallet last year, and if everything holds true to form this coming season, he'll actually deserve roughly half of it. And even I'm having trouble coming to grips with living in a world where Sean Avery can make four million a year for being, well, Sean Avery. But seriously folks, everybody needs to calm down.

As predictable as a Leaf-less May, the hue and cry has gone up, with the two main arguments seeming to be that a) these crazy contracts are proof that the lockout and resulting salary cap has solved nothing and that b) it means that the poor, innocent fans will just be gouged even more in order to pay for ownership's inability to control their own baser instincts (the third argument, that Gary Bettman is actually the Anti-Christ will be taken as a rhetorical given and will not be argued here). In rebuttal to both of those arguments, I offer a thoughtful and heart-felt "Bullshit! Pull your heads out of your asses!"

The salary cap is working exactly as it should. I ask you, in the pre-lockout world, what would have stopped say, the Rangers from offering Campbell $100 million or maybe $200 million rather than the $56M-and-change he'll be getting in Chicago? Nothing. And not because Campbell, or any other player for that matter, is or is not inherently worth that kind of money (nobody is), but because the Rangers, without the cap, wouldn't have to worry about the rest of their roster.

And that's the beauty of the salary cap. You want to blow ten or eleven million dollars on one player (Vancouver)? Fine. Fill your boots, I say! But that means that your third and fourth lines are going to made up primarily of rookies making the minimum, or washed up has-beens on the downside of their careers. Either way, come April, when the ice gets smaller, the hits get harder and the balls get bigger, I'm probably happier my team spent some cash on the bangers and grinders on the last two lines than on buying Mats Sundin a walk-in humidor for a few extra wins in December.

Then there's the complaint that these salaries will somehow cripple the fan's ability to attend games. Here's a newsflash for you. That ship sailed quite some time ago. And if you're looking for someone to blame, look in the mirror.

I'll be the first to admit, my economics background consists entirely of one semester of Grade 12 Intro to Econ where I spent more time trying to see down the top of the cheerleader sitting next to me than taking notes on Malthus' Theory of Sustainability, but even I managed to grasp the basic premise behind the principle of Supply and Demand.

The salary cap, and resultant player salaries, are tied to league revenues. As the take goes up, so does the cap. Therefore, it logically follows that if the cap has gone up (and it has...about $17 million in a scant four years), then somebody is willing to pay for it. Is it me? Hell no. I haven't been to a live game in three years. Can't afford it. Does that piss me off? Hell no. Why should it? I can watch just about every game on t.v. (and see more than I would if I were there in person). I still shell out for pay-per-view games. I still buy the t-shirts and ball caps, and the car flags will continue to fly from my windows. And if I can hazard a guess, I would assume that most of you do likewise. Yet, when I watch a game from SBP, I don't see too many gaps in the crowd, do you? And it's those butts in the seats that tells me I'll have a team to agonize over, cry over and otherwise obsess about for years to come.

From bread, to milk, to cars, to houses, to hockey tickets, the price a supplier can charge for any given commodity is dictated by the maximum dollar amount a given market will pay for that commodity (well, everywhere but in Toronto...but that's another subject altogether). So if you find yourself bemoaning the fact that those spoiled bastard players are making too much, or that those greedy no-good owners are screwing you, look around and make sure you're not telling them that that's okay. Because until enough people stop doing that, nothing will ever change.

And you don't need a hot cheerleader to tell you that, although it helps.

The Sunday Soapbox: Of The NHL, Euro 2008 And Testicular Contrasts

I have a confession to make. Every two years I watch a lot of soccer. And every two years, I always, always think the same thing: I am never watching another game. Ever.

But it never fails. The next time the World Cup or the European Championships roll around I find myself drawn to the television the way a Catholic schoolboy is drawn to his dad’s porn stash: with heart pounding excitement mixed with shame and self-loathing. This time it will be different, you think. Just one little peek. What can it hurt, right? And yet, it always ends the same way. Eventually, you find yourself in a locked bathroom with the water running, not sure if it was worth it, wondering why you just can’t stop and hoping against hope your mom won’t notice the inordinate amount of toilet paper that seems to have vanished from the roll. And that’s exactly how I feel after watching every Euro or World Cup final (um…without the toilet paper). Exhausted. Used. And a little dirty.

And the reason is quite simple. It’s the diving stupid!

I’m not talking about the awkward flopping of a player hoping to draw a competitive advantage. After all, we hockey fans don’t have to go too far to see one of our own doing the same thing (Hellooooo…Darcy).

No, I’m talking about the effeminate girly-men rolling around on the ground after being brushed, if touched at all, by an opponent, clutching an ankle, or knee, or baby toe as if it had just been amputated, while wailing at the top of their lungs that OH GOD, I’VE BEEN SHOT!! IT HURRRRRTS! The high theater continues with the inevitable appearance of stretcher bearers (stretcher bearers!) who whisk the poor bastard to the sidelines, whereupon a little man will produce a magic aerosol can from his little-man gym bag, and spray the affected area. And like Lazarus rising from the tomb, the dying man jogs back onto the field at the next whistle, ready to start the show all over again. Come to think of it, I may still be talking about Darcy. But I digress.

Every time I see that, particularly at major international tournaments like Euro08, I can’t help but contrast that with the sight of Ryan Smyth taking a dozen stitches to the forehead in the hallway behind the Oilers bench without missing a shift in a playoff series against Dallas, or Chris Draper and Ryan Malone doing their best to score a goal by deflecting a slap shot with their face in this year’s Finals. Did I mention that Malone was playing with a broken nose at the time?

If you’re like me (and God help you if you are), you have at least one crazy-ass soccer fan among your circle of acquaintances. They are a passionate lot, these fans. They will bombard you with stories about how badly it hurt when England got hand-jobbed at the ’86 World Cup or send you an email containing a frighteningly complete minute-by-minute recap of that week's Hotspurs match. A match that ended in a 0-0 draw. They love their game, and they want to make damn sure you love it too. Good on ‘em, I say.

Now, that said, for all of their knowledge and passion, they seem to have a curious blind spot when it comes to the main reason most North Americans just don’t get the sport at best, or at worse, loathe it to the depths of their beings. I fall somewhere in between. I love the passion of the crowds. I can appreciate that a scoreless tie can still be exciting. And I know that soccer, when played at its highest level, can indeed be beautiful (not The Beautiful Game, mind you. There’s only one of those, and it’s played on ice).

Sorry folks, but until soccer rids itself of the downright embarrassing displays put on by its stable of castratti, it will remain, to me and to millions of North Americans who prefer their sports a tad more robust, as a biannual curiosity, but nothing we'd bring home to mother. Or spend money on.

Now if you'll excuse me, the semis are coming up. I have to go refill the toilet paper.

The Sunday Soapbox: We Now Pause For Maudlin Sentimentality

When I was fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have him around. When I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years. -- Mark Twain

I can't wait to be a Dad.

I can't wait to teach my toddler to say "Leafs SUCK!" and then feign shock and dismay when it's enthusiastically shouted in the grocery store.

I can't wait to open a hockey bag, in September, full of equipment (put away wet and jammed in the basement) looking for the $75 shin pads my 8 year old swore up and down were "stolen" after the last game back in March.

I can't wait to find them.

I can't wait to burn them for the safety of all concerned and buying a new pair.

I can't wait to tie ten pairs of skates at six in the morning in a cramped dressing room while the "coffee" I bought at the arena's concession stand sits untouched and congealing on the floor under the benches.

I can't wait to take a day off work to take my 12 year old, at his insistence, skating on the Rideau Canal on a December day so cold, your wind-whipped tears freeze to your face on contact.

I can't wait to pack it in ten minutes later after the fourth time said 12 year old complains that "my boogers hurt!"

I can't wait to stand, hose in hand, at midnight on a 30 below January night to make sure the ice on the backyard rink is absolutely perfect by the time the kids come home from school the next day.

I can't wait to curl up on the couch on a lazy, snowy Sunday afternoon and explain the beauty of a perfectly executed double-raze-takeout, or the intricacies of a zone blitz.

I can't wait to say "Can you go get Daddy a beer?" at halftime.

I can't wait to burst into the bedroom and laugh at my very green pre-teen who is feeling the full effects and dire consequences of breaking into my liquor cabinet after I went to bed the night before.

I can't wait to show enough mercy not to mention anything about it for the rest of the day.

I can't wait to show my child that nature's perfect food is an inch thick top sirloin steak grilled to medium rare and sliced across the grain.

I can't wait to say "Don't tell your mother I said that."

I can't wait to let my 15 year old help me build a new room in the basement, entrusting him to mix the compound I'm going to use to hold the drywall tape.

I can't wait to open the door on our new room the next morning to find that four hours of taping had completely collapsed and was now lying in the middle of the floor.

I can't wait to teach my child that the only things you need to do basic electrical work are a pair of pliers, some work gloves and a good sledgehammer.

I can't wait to teach my child how to find a good electrician. And dry waller.

I can't wait to make a two hour round trip at three in the morning because my daughter called and tearfully declared that she had had a fight with her roommate. And I can't wait to help her move out the next day.

I can't wait to show my kids what a gift it is to be married to the same person for twenty-five years.

I can't wait to show my kids that my whole world revolves around them, and that no matter what they do or the trouble they get themselves into, they will always have a place to come home to for as long as they need to stay.

I can't wait to be a Dad. I can't wait to be my Dad.

Happy Father's Day.

The Sunday Soapbox: "It's Just Business" -- How Much For That Ditty In The Window?

In any given week there are usually one or two stories in hockey, or the sports world in general, that are guaranteed to annoy, confuse, amuse or just plain piss me off enough to talk about.

Rather than continue to inflict these meaningless rants on Beloved during our daily commute (although I will miss the eye rolls), I thought I'd explore them here in a new feature I'm calling The Sunday Soapbox. Like it? Hate it? Think I should just do everybody a favour and get the hell off the internets, leaving them to people who know better? Let me know in the comments.

This week: HNIC, The Song, and putting a price on being "a fan". Please ensure onions are firmly affixed to belt prior to proceeding.

The saddest statement I've run across (so far) in the HNIC Theme Song imbroglio came from "Louis". I've never met Louis. I have nothing against Louis. I'm sure Louis is a fine fellow. But Louis depressed the shit out of me.

In a brief exchange in the comments section of the New York Times coverage of the saga, Louis and I debated the relative wisdom of the CBC's decision. When I pointed out that if Ms. Claman and her lawyers were just trying to squeeze the song for the largest possible pay-day, as Louis was implying, they could simply sell the tune to TSN for "a thousand times more" than Mother Corps had ever paid. It was Louis' response that depressed me. "Then she should do that and quit squeezing the CBC. It’s just business."

"It's just business". If we, as a society are indeed going to hell in a hand cart as some of our more "eccentric" members insist, then that phrase would adorn the license plate. The sad implication is that all things are expendable, and that anything can be sacrificed, as long as it "makes good business sense". This may hold for strictly "business" transactions (although a few Enron investors may beg to differ), but in the sports world it's scariest string of words a fan can hear. Because "it's just business" has no room for the deep emotional investment we, as fans, make in our favourite sports.

"It's just business" tells us, the fans, that not only do our passion and loyalty not matter, but worse, that the owners of the teams to whom we freely give that loyalty and passion couldn't give a rat's ass about either.

"It's just business" is why hockey fans in Winnipeg, Quebec City and Hartford no longer have teams to cheer for and why Hamilton never will.

"It's just business" is why we've replaced grand old arenas like the Forum, Maple Leaf Gardens, Boston Gardens, The Spectrum, and Chicago Stadium, infused as they were with history, character and noise with soulless cookie cutters stuffed with luxury boxes whose "naming rights" are whored out to whichever corporate pimp comes up with the biggest cheque.

"It's just business" is why, on most nights, you can hear a pin drop in most arenas as the well healed snack on sushi and Perrier in those boxes, throwing an occasional glance to the ice between rounds before disappearing half way through the third to beat traffic.

"It's just business" is why a working class family has to spend the equivalent of their mortgage payment to go to a game.

"It's just business" is why that same family, after spending that money, can only hope to actually enjoy a hockey game amid the deafening music that has replaced the organist, the commercials running on the scoreboard or the blinding array of strobe lights and flashing signs exhorting them to "MAKE SOME NOISE!!" five seconds after the aforementioned deafening music killed the spontaneous chants of the crowd.

And "It's just business" is why people like Louis will never understand how, in a sports landscape where all of the traditions and lore that make being a sports fan worthwhile are slowly and constantly being stolen from us in the name of turning a buck, losing some silly song would mean so much. And that makes me sad.