Dr. Hook and the Mitch Fritz Show

Upon visiting the Bridgeport Sound Tigers' website last week, I saw that Paul D'Amato, a/k/a Tim "Dr. Hook" McCracken of "Slap Shot" fame, was due to appear at that Saturday's Sound Tigers game to sign autographs. I quickly sent out an e-mail to The Mediocre One, as well as two lowercase mediocre ones (or, as they are also known, Rangers fans) to gauge interest in a trip to Bridgeport. I'd been itching to get to a Sound Tigers game, since I hadn't been yet this season, and this seemed like as good an occasion as any, even if it meant missing a dual-accordion concert in Brooklyn featuring an alumnus from the Official Palm Isle Alma Mater.

Not surprisingly, the Mediocre One was the only one to jump at the opportunity; I can only assume the Rangers fans were home baking muffins for their hero. So, after a brief flirtation with going to see Mr. D'Amato (along with Chris "Hanrahan" Murney and Andy "Tim Carr" Duncan) at the Coliseum on Thursday (which turned out to be a double-super-secret appearance not promoted or even really encouraged by the Islanders), we were off to Bridgeport to see Mitch Fritz's Sound Tigers take on the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Penguins in a battle for second place in the East.


The Mediocre One picked me up in Woodside, where I'd arrived from Philadelphia after a Friday night Jason Isbell concert, and we headed for I-95. The Mediocre One is easily a bigger "Slap Shot" fan than I (I'm a "Slap Shot 2" kind of guy...I keed), and he and the Reverend Zamboni (perhaps you remember him from the good old days here, before he abandoned us for the cold embrace of the Central New York winter and the love and adulation of his twice-monthly Puck Daddy fantasy-hockey column) are members of the legendary Ithaca College intramural floor hockey Charlestown Chiefs franchise. And, as a member of the team, the Mediocre One wanted to make sure he wouldn't be the only Chief to have a Dr. Hook autograph. That meant that he came fully prepared with not only DVDs but also a stack of Dr. Hook photos printed on his computer. Ten of them. We were hopeful that Mr. D'Amato wouldn't be charging a hefty fee for his signature.

We got to the Harbor Yard about a half-hour before gametime and found what seemed to be a sizable crowd getting ready to head into the arena. Still, because it's minor-league hockey, we were able to pick up center-ice seats, about twelve rows back, for $28 a pop. We could've gotten cheaper tickets, but I like to support the Sound Tigers as best as I can. And considering similar seats at the Coliseum are probably about three times as much (and, let's face it, the Isles are really the Sound Tigers varsity at this point), it was still a helluva deal.


We spotted the Dr. Hook table soon after entering and after scoping out the merch situation (signed 8X10s, pucks, and t-shirts were available for $10, $15, and $20, respectively, and there appeared to be no fee if you brought stuff to sign), we decided to head to our seats and come back later.



After the excitement of seeing Mitch Fritz in person subsided (never gets old) and the first period ended, we headed to the concourse to complete Operation McCracken. While the Mediocre One was in the can, I bought a Syracuse Bulldogs puck and got it signed, capping off the experience with this swell photo.


And then came the Mediocre One's turn, after he bought $20 of raffle tickets for the McCracken jersey, in a goodwill gesture for the monster autograph signing that was about to take place.


The Mediocre One opted for a split session, getting the DVDs signed first and letting the line die down before hitting him with the photos (all class, that kid, though I did give him some coaching based on my sadly vast autograph experiences). So, after talking with the guy in charge of the Slap Shot fan pages on MySpace and Facebook (nice guy...I forget his name; TMO has his business card) he headed back to the table when things subsided and hit him with the stack (not literally). Mr. D'Amato was awfully nice about it, happily signing and personalizing the photos as TMO made sure to get all his Chiefs (well, the important ones) covered.


And, since we were on a roll and had obtained 14 autographs from Mr. D'Amato, we kidnapped him and took him back to the Mediocre Estate, to watch "Slap Shot," partake in a couple of rounds of Scattergories, and play Super Mario Kart on the Wii.

OK, you got me. We didn't. But seriously, Paul D'Amato's a good (and patient) dude. Check out his website and buy a signed photo (or ten) if you're so inclined.


With all that taken care of, we could enjoy the game, which wound up being a pretty good one. It was hard not to just watch the awesomeness of Mitch Fritz the whole game (the man seems to be forever taking notes about whose ass he might have to kick later in the game), but the rest of the Tigers played well and had things well under control, until an incident with 6:16 left in the third. After a play stoppage, there was some jawing at the benches involving Fritz, and the next thing we knew Fritz was heading back to the locker room and the Penguins had five minutes of power play time. What the?

Because the PA announcer likes to not be too vocal when announcing penalties, I originally thought that Fritz got an unsportsmanlike, but I see today that he was called for the equally baffling butt-ending (prior to the play stoppage, I guess, since I didn't see him butt-ending anyone at the bench). Don't see that called every day. In fact, I'm not sure when the last time I saw a butt-ending call was, particularly with six minutes left in a one-goal game.

No matter. The Sound Tigers killed off the five minutes (only one shot on goal) and took the 3-2 victory and possession of second place. The two teams are playing again tonight, and I'm watching it as I write this on the free AHL Live preview. Nice.


And that wraps up another successful Palm Isle road trip. I hope to provide you another Sound Tigers report after I attend Jeff Tambellini Bobblehead Night later this month.

Core of the Four Weekend

First, let's get the ugly stuff out of the way. This weekend, the current Islanders did an awful lot of sucking. Saturday's game (ticket graciously provided by the Mediocre One and Father of the Mediocre One...muchas gracias) was the more disheartening of the two, as you would have had a hard time believing that the Isles were playing a game that had the potential to end with them moving up to the eighth spot. The intensity just wasn't there, and if you lack intensity for a late-season home game against the Flyers, something is seriously wrong. But we know that, don't we?

Anyway, it was a rough game to watch, particularly when the Isles were on the power play. And the fact that the previous sentence could have been written about, say, 90 percent of the Isles' games in the last three years is probably as good a statement as any that times are tough.

Sunday's game was a little better effortwise, and it brilliantly demonstrated another major flaw in the severely tarnished diamond that is the Islanders: the lack of anyone with a pure scoring touch. Sure, there were a lot of shots, but few were really threats and a bunch were taken from angles that assured saves without rebounds. And when there were rebounds, the front of the net was emptier than Oleg Kvasha's head. Bad news, Jack.

But, hey, enough about the present and dismal future, let's celebrate the past, specifically the Core of the Four, who were feted before Sunday's game in grand style, with a breakfast and autograph signing, followed by a team lunch, then the Walk of Champions, and, finally, a ceremony in the Coliseum that was criminally underattended. How there can be that many empty seats for such a ceremony is baffling. I guess you can blame it on too many celebrations of the Cup teams, but Yankees Old-Timers Days don't seem to have trouble drawing people. And even a fair number of the people who actually made the effort to get to the Coliseum early seemed unimpressed. Disheartening. As was the misspelling "Ledgend" in one of the in-game contests. And, really, if I could punch each and every person who voted on the Mobile Phone Poll that the record the Isles hold for consecutive playoff series won is 9, I would. The fact that that answer was in the lead the last time I looked in the third period is proof enough that the Islanders aren't having too many celebrations of the Cup teams.

Anyway, regardless of how anybody else at or not at the Coliseum felt, I was pretty excited. Then again, I'm a guy that likes the past. I spend a lot of time on eBay looking for postcards of the places my family went to on summer vacations. I still have a keychain from my college newspaper on my ring of keys. I like Irish literature. Celebrations of the past are right up my alley. So I plunked down money for Bob Bourne, Al Arbour, and Stefan Persson's autographs in the morning (the latter's signature is badass), took pictures with some of the legends, milled around the lobby after that trying to catch some free signatures from the others (almost everyone was ace throughout the day), snagged a good spot at the Walk of Champions, made sure I was in my last-row seat in plenty of time for the pregame ceremony, and hung around afterward to get some more of the guys to sign the LP you see in the previous post. Plus I got to talk to a bunch of righteously cool Islanders fans (don't get much of that kind of interaction in Jersey City) and hang out with some entertaining collectors.

It was a good day, so good that by the time I went home, I was almost over the fact that the Isles let four points slip away. Almost.

Anyway, here's some photos. I've got a bunch more, but these are the best of the batch.

Al Arbour:

Stefan Persson:

Anders Kallur:

Dave Langevin:

Gord Lane:

Me and Lorne Henning:

Me and Bob Bourne:

Gratuitous Ice Girls Shot:

Trots and Bossy (from here on out, I'm guessing it's clear who these fellows are, but I'm a stickler for consistency):

Bob Nystrom:

Denis Potvin:

Bill Torrey:

The Core of the Four wave to the too-small masses:

The present-day Islanders come out to meet the Core:

End of the streak (boogedy boogedy)

I had a bad feeling about the Devils game (although, truth be told, there aren't many Islanders games I have great feelings about beforehand), but after discovering that the Devils hold aside 200 $10 seats for every home game, I figured it was worth the half-hour trip to the Prude (I aint calling it the Rock) to watch the Isles go for seven in a row. Alas, it was not meant to be, as my impressive personal two-game seeing-the-Islanders-live streak also came screeching to a halt. The Mediocre One and I will try to start a new streak next Saturday.

Despite the loss, it was actually a pretty good time, as I saw something I never saw before--rabid, interested Devils fans. I thought such creatures only existed on "Seinfeld." I stand corrected.

Most of the fans on line for the $10 tix were calm enough, or perhaps just sleepy from being up early on a Saturday. But then there was the teenage douchebag behind who yelled "Yeah, Trent Hunter..Five Years" and "Fishsticks" at anybody wearing Isles gear (I had on my Sound Tigers hat, which I guessed went right past him), including families. Personally, I think the Hunter deal is fine, and the "Fishsticks" jeer doesn't really impress me. Of all the things you can make fun of the Islanders about, you're gonna choose a jersey they wore more than ten years ago? That's the best you got? The Reverend, the Mediocre One, and I come up with worse insults about the Islanders than that. C'mon, jerkoffs. You can do better.

Anyway, after waiting on line for about an hour (and seeing former Newark Mayor Sharpe James dash in and out of the lobby, stopping on his way out to wish a former constituent a happy new year, which raises the question of when is the cutoff date for wishing someone a happy new year?), I got my ticket, which I soon discovered was in the very last row. But unlike the last row in the Coliseum, the last row at the Prude actually enables you to see the entire ice surface and not have to elect someone from your section to tell you how much time is left in the period. So it aint so bad. Plus the $10 seats are at the end of the ice where the Isles attacked (pause for laughter) twice, so that's a bonus. Theoretically.

Since I was late the previous time I went to an Isles-Devils game at the Prude, I took my time strolling around the arena and taking in the sights. Here's a guy who's not Eddie Layton (RIP), but at least he tries. You gotta give props to a guy who plays an ongoing medley of various pop hits (including a killer "Stacy's Mom") before the game.

And here are the famous Beers of Newark.

Jersey City...represent

Brodeur on Brodeur

Once the game got rolling, the fun really started in Section 216. The teenagers in front of me were particularly vocal, and soon some guys maybe a little older than them took the seats next to me and quickly sussed me out as an Isles fan. I girded myself for a long afternoon, but it turns out I was worried for nothing. The Isles fans in 215? They had reason to worry.

It started calmly enough. There was the "Rangers Suck...Islanders Swallow" cheer, and some derogatory comments directed toward Mr. DiPietro, but nothing out of the ordinary. And, in fact, in the early going, the only strong venom from the guy next to me came in the form of "God, I hate the sound of children's voices" after a "Let's Go Devils" chant from a kid. But then things took a turn for the worse, when the 17-year-old (I know his exact age because at one point he yelled out, "I'm 17 years old and I'll still kick your ass") started throwing "faggot" and "queerbag" around, and it soon turned into a cultural war between New Jersey and Long Island.

I would like to point out that there is no dynamic that fascinates me more than the Jersey vs. Long Island war of insults. Basically, these arguments are one side making fun of the other for reasons that other people make fun of them. It's fascinating. And it was fully on display in Saturday afternoon's war of words in Sections 215 and 216.

The guys around me started mocking Long Islanders and speaking in exaggerated Italian accents, which is odd, because I think there may be a lot of Italians in Jersey, but maybe that was just on "The Sopranos." Then it got better. The guy next to me went into a long diatribe that included the following:

"Yo, let's all go down to the Jersey Shore and see Seaside {sic] Johnny and the Jukes. Oh-ay."

OK, so, let's take a look at that. The guys from New Jersey are mocking the guys from Long Island for (a) having guido-like inflections when they talk, (b) going to New Jersey on vacation, and (c) liking a band from New Jersey.

Awesome. Even better than the Sabres fan who yelled out "White Trash!" after a playoff game at the Coliseum last year.

It heated up every now and then during the game. The 17-year-old in front of me told one of the older guys from Long Island to "have a heart attack" and "sit down, ugly." A guy from Long Island told one of the guys next to me to "get a haircut," which was quickly met with "get a nose job." And then after the Devils went up 4-2, it got a little tense (that was when the 17-year-old made his fight offer) and an usher had to come by to restore order. Cooler heads (if any of the heads involved could really be deemed "cool") heads prevailed, and after a woman two rows in front told the Isles fans to "enjoy your lose [sic]," it was time to head home. Or at least to the Goal Bar to soak in the postgame show atmosphere and get Chico Resch to sign my ticket stub (got Daneyko last time). Even more handsome in person, ladies.

So, anyway, that was Saturday at the Prude. The streak(s) had to end at some point, but that third period (Isles were outshot 20-5) was tough to watch. Definitely didn't look like a team that was fighting for the playoffs. I hope they bounce back Tuesday night. If they can get into March in 8th place, I'd say they have a shot.

Oh, and I would've liked to give you a full report on the Isles' open practice at Iceworks in Syosset, but they cancelled it. Which I wish I would've known before I got to Syosset. Oh well. At least I partially salvaged the trip and got a sweet Trottier t-shirt at the Team Store in Hicksville.

Gettin' around

While the other denizens of the Palm Isle were holding things down indoors, I spent the last few weekends out and about on hockey-related expeditions. And here's the happy recap (sorry for the baseball reference...I can't think of how Howie Rose teases a recap, though I sure as heckfire know that "damn" isn't part of it):

Saturday, January 12: To mark the closing weekend of the Pond at Bryant Park in NYC, a swell group of former NHLers took to the ice to skate with what I assume were the largely oblivious masses. Clark Gillies, Bob Nystrom, Gerry Hart, Benoit Hogue, and Rod Gilbert (one of these things is not like the other...) were introduced to the crowd by a gentleman who called Gerry Hart "Gary" (leading to a later debate at the autograph tent of whether the guy signing autographs was Gerry Hart or Garry Howatt), Benoit Hogue "Benoit Hague," and the hockey team from Buffalo the "SAH-brays." Twice. Good to see they got a hockey fan to do the job.

I didn't skate, ostensibly because the line was too long but mainly because I didn't want to fall in front of Gillies and Nystrom. Instead I queued up with the rest of the nonathletes on the autograph line, where I was regaled with stories of hotel collecting success (if I get really bored one weekend, maybe I'll do that and report back to you) and eBay finds. Finally, the players made their way over, and the signing began. I added Nystrom to my signed John Tonelli 8X10, got Gillies, Hart, and Hogue to sign an Isles puck, and accepted a signed postcard from Gilbert, who, I was told by the collectors in line, has turned into a big jerkoff. I have a soft spot for Gilbert, because he was always nice to my dad when he worked at the Garden, so I didn't want to believe that he was a prick. But then he greeted the request of the guy behind me to sign his mini Rangers stick with "I don't sign those things." Meaning, I guess, that he doesn't sign them unless you pay him to. Friggin' Rangers.

The line was so short that I had a rare bright idea: get the pictures printed off my memory card at the Kinko's across the street and get back on line to get them signed. Bob Nystrom saluted my ingenuity as I made my way through the line for a second time. Or at least he said something vaguely complementary to someone who might be a stalker. And then he signed the group photo, which has a hot shot of some Nystrom ass because he turned around at the moment I took the picture (really, I swear), saying "I just wanted you to get my better side." Good times.




Sunday, January 13: After Saturday's successful day, I figured I'd keep the fun going by hopping on the Metro-North to see the Sound Tigers play their third game in three days, and their second against the Binghamton Senators. And, of course, this afforded me the opportunity to see our Blessed Savior Kyle Okposo in his third professional game. Let us pause to celebrate his presence on earth:



As you can see, it was camo jerseys for Armed Forces Day at the Harbor Yard. A list of those from Connecticut who have lost their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan was read before the puck was dropped, and the whole arena went completely silent, save for the gasps that accompanied those whose ages were 19 and 20. A crowd's silence during such a moment would seem like a given, but since the PA announcer at the Coliseum had to say "Please refrain from shouting" before a moment of silence at yesterday's game, it aint always a sure thing. And people in Bridgeport did start chanting "U-S-A!" afterward, but, to their credit, maybe the Iron Sheik and Nikolai Volkoff were in the building.

Anyway, the game was pretty slow going, and Okposo looked like a guy who was playing his third game in as many days, so it was hard to get all excited. But I did get a front-row seat next to the penalty box, so at least I had a good view of the nonaction. And I was close when Drew Fata got pummeled by Matt Carkner in a fight. So that's something.

The Sound Tigers lost 3-1 and I didn't win a camo jersey in the auction. Still, I got to see Okposo. I can imagine the excitement in previous years when Isles fans got to see a young Brett Lindros. Or Scott Scissons. Or Dean Chynoweth. I should stop.

Sunday, January 20: What better way to spend NFL Conference Championship Sunday in New England than meeting Hockey Hall of Famer Johnny Bower at a sports collectibles store in Saugus, MA? My friends DJ and Wendy live just minutes away, so I figured it wasn't too much of an imposition to ask them to drive me over to the store before we headed to DJ's friend Chris's house to watch the Pats game.

If you don't know why I would want to meet Johnny Bower, all you need to do is read this from the above link:

"Bower, like his other five Original Six brethren, became famous for his fearless play. Maskless, he never shied away from an attacking player and in fact patented the most dangerous move a goalie can make - the poke-check. Diving head-first into the skates of an attacking player at full speed, Bower would routinely flick the puck off that player's stick and out of harm's way. One time he got a skate in his cheek, knocking a tooth out through his cheek. He suffered innumerable cuts to his mouth and lips and lost virtually every tooth in his mouth from sticks and pucks, but almost to his last game, he never wore a mask."

That's enough to forgive him for being a Ranger.

When we got to the store, I noticed another guy signing stuff next to Bower. Turns out the store added former Bruin and (sigh) Ranger Derek Sanderson to the signing, so I got an 8X10 signed by both of them (and also picked up a signed Willie O'Ree puck while I was there, because it was the day after the Bruins tribute and the puck was only $15). Then, the fun began when I handed my camera off to one of the guys at the store to take a picture of me and Sanderson. I guess I tripped the wheel of the camera to the movie function when I pulled the camera out of my pocket, which led to two three-second videos of me posing awkwardly next to Sanderson. Then the problem was solved, and the picture was taken.



But after that, Sanderson took an interest in my camera. I then spent some time explaining the camera to him, finding it odd that he was so interested. He was particularly hung up on the movie function, and after I explained it, saying that the screen is always running, but the movie doesn't start until someone clicks the button, he said, "Oh, so that's how they get those videos out there." Yeah," I replied. "YouTube and all that." Then I moved over to Bower, who is clearly awesome and has an old-time hockey face you have to love, and got the picture with him.



I wandered around the store a bit, as I can't just go in and out of a place that has autographs on the walls and in racks and cases all around the store. So I'm looking at stuff when Sanderson comes out from behind the counter.

"Hey. Show me that movie thing again with the sound."

"Well, I don't have any on here that have sound on them, but..."

And then he explained why he was so interested. I guess he had been having a conversation with another guy about an actor that he didn't want on the Web anywhere. I honestly didn't even hear the conversation, let alone film it, and if you think I'm even mentioning the person he was talking about, you're crazier than I thought, which, since you're actually reading this blog, is pretty, pretty crazy.

Anyway, he was nice about it, just concerned. Of course, after I told him that there was nothing on the camera and all was resolved, another guy chimed in with "Yeah, that's what he says." The same guy added, "He can still fight, y'know," to which Sanderson said, jokingly (I hope), "Oh, it'd be worse than that." And we all shared a laugh. Ha ha ha.

The lesson here: If you see Derek Sanderson around, don't film him, kids. That's one to grow on.

And with that, I'll wrap up my first post here. Welcome. We're all Palm Islanders.