In five hours, the puck will drop for my team. It’s now 7:00am (Pacific Time) as I sit at my kitchen table and think about where the road has taken me since June, when the Penguins lost the Stanley Cup finals to the Red Wings. I have followed the Pens off season moves (lose Hossa, Malone, Roberts, Ruutu, Laraque, Hall. Gain Satan, Fedotenko, Goddard. Bring up Goligoski). I have agonized at off season and preseason injuries (Whitney, Gonchar). I followed the preseason action online and via podcast. The Penguins looked pretty good, winning 4 out of 5. Seems like whatever the new lines are doing to gel, may just be working. But something else happened this summer that will make me approach this new season with new eyes.

I discovered NHL Connect.

I can’t remember now just how I came about it. I may have gone to NHL.com looking for information. I may have accidentally clicked something on the Penguins website that sent me to NHL.com. A north wind may have swept through my kitchen and onto my laptop, sending me to NHL.com. However I got here, I got here. And fell through the looking glass into an amazing new world.
It started out innocently enough. I created a profile, got a few “friends” requests from members. I uploaded photos. Filled out my “interests”. Got a few more “friends” requests. I wrote my first blog, about reliving the 1980 Miracle on Ice through my father’s eyes. Then, I made the first of what would become one of the best group of friends I’ve ever had. And the most amazing thing? They all like different teams, including teams that hate the Penguins!

There’s K_Bennett, JuiceinLA, jlewings, Mchiconsky. Rabid Red Wings fans. All offered a hand of friendship to a girl still licking wounds from that stinging Stanley Cup loss. Not one gloated, patronized or bullied. Instead, they commiserated, sharing their own past heartbreak during years of Cup drought in Hockeytown. All commented on a blog I wrote celebrating Darren McCarty’s personal victory that put him back on the path to the Cup. A fitting footnote to this was Juice’s blog about how D-Mac spent his day with the Cup, creating a mondo ice cream sundae that he shared with his children and anyone else wandering into that ice cream shop.

There’s TealGirl730, Yodaman, Allintrbl, Sportsfanatic, sjsharksfan. As you can guess, super Sharks fans. Hands of friendship, excellent blogs. I LOVE Teal girl’s “Summer School Term Paper” blog. If you haven’t read it, you need to. Allintrbl has shared his heartbreak over a terrible misalignment of dates (Sharks opening day = day of dog owner training class. Miss the class, pay a $300 fine). He dutifully sold his tickets. The date of the class gets changed. Oh, your blood is boiling in his defense, isn’t it? It has a happy ending. You can read all about it if you go to his page and read his successive blogs. Same with Yodaman, Sportsfanatic, sjsharksfan. Speaking of sjsharksfan, I enjoy getting her mass messages telling all of us to have a wonderful weekend.

There’s NYRFan78, JHRangers. My two very good friends from NYC. Rabid Rangers fans. We should hate each other, right? I mean, the Penguins knocked the Rangers out of the playoffs. No such luck. JHRangers is one of my closest friends. Always cheerful, unless you diss one of his friends. I think we saw evidence of that during an unfortunate time this summer. JH also managed to wrangle a group of us together for a Fantasy Hockey league that promises lots of fun, trash talk, and ice cream.

There’s Macksayev, HockeyFan48. Sabres fans of the highest caliber. Through Macksayev, I am also learning about the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League. HockeyFan48 was recently honored as Featured Member, and for good reason. Take a stroll through her profile and you’ll see what I mean.

There’s CCD3M, my Capitals friend. His blogs are always entertaining and he doesn’t just write about Washington. You need a taste of his humor.

There’s Strawman64. He may be, hands down, the wittiest, most acerbic person I’ve ever met. I don’t have enough words to describe the journey you take when you read one of his blogs. Word of Warning. If you are thin-skinned, this Bruin fan’s musings may not be for you. He shows me how silly it is to take myself too seriously. Lesson learned.

There’s TXHockeyCowgirl, Truefan. Two dedicated Stars fans. Two extremely friendly people. TXHockeyCow is today’s Featured Member at Connect. Another fantastic choice. I have learned so much about the Stars, just by reading her blogs. And TrueFan always makes me smile.

There’s HockeyLuver. He’s a Canucks fan living in the South. He’s always got a nice word- and his blogs are definitely worth reading. I’m glad he survived Hurricane Gustav (Mchiconsky, too!!)

There’s SuperDave. A super Leafs fan who is so knowledgeable about so many things related to hockey. Not only that, but he’s a super nice guy to boot. His blogs are entertaining and informative (read his account of his day with the Cup, and the blogs from the Prospects Tourney in Traverse City). And his playoff beard video is must-see.
There’s DashHopes. A Montreal fan who has promised to take good care of Georges Laraque, who I hated to see leave the Penguins.

There’s a group of friends who surprise me with their friendship, because they’re all Flyers fans. Yes. The cross-state rivals. Who should hate me on sight because I sport the black and gold on my profile. They don’t (or well, they’ve said they do, anyway). There’s Fish’nRich, Twentytwo, Dave25, Alice. Okay, they take friendly shots sometimes, but hey, it’s all in fun, right? Right?
Seriously. I have read some of the best blogs at this site from this group of Flyers fans. And they don’t write just about their Philly guys, either. I can’t single out any blog. You have to read them all. You may not agree, but you will understand.

Then, there’s my core group of Pens friends. CheckmatePens, Mel1004, Piggylady87, Pens_in_09. I know we will cheer together, yell together, cry together. And when things get soo serious, Mel will find some funny piece of video or some crazy blog topic to make us laugh and bring the sun back into our lives a little.

The oddest thing about my summer of Connect friendships? I’ve actually written to some of my non-Pens friends that I would cheer for their team, when the team is not playing mine. And you know what?

I mean it!

I wish everyone’s teams a great season. And when our guys meet each other on the ice, I’ll cheer hard for my guys. But if your guys win, I won’t begrudge you. Okay, maybe a little. Okay, maybe a little more than a little.

But I do know this.
You guys make this league more real, more fun, and for that, I thank you.

Hockey Limericks - Just For Fun!

There once was a goalie named Fleury
Whose ankle sprain caused quite a worry
But he healed good as new
Helped the Pens win a few
And became part of a great success story!

There once was a guy named Laraque
Who on the ice was quite a jock
But take the skates off
And his heart was quite soft
Which some people found quite a shock

There once was a goalie named Osgood
Who minded the net here in my ‘hood
Then Ozzy grew Wings
Helped crown Detroit “Kings”
Now he’s living a life that is so good.

You’ve gotta give each team its due
For fighting to make it on through
To the next round of games
And the quest for great fame
With the Stanley Cup firmly in view

Walking with Mario Lemieux... and my Grandma.

This week, I will undertake one of the most grueling events in my life. I will walk 60 miles to help raise money for and awareness of breast cancer research. I am taking part in the Breast Cancer 3 Day Walk in Seattle. And the reason I signed up for this physically demanding quest?

My Grandma. And Mario Lemieux.

My Grandma, Alma Christine Ring, was a big, loving woman. She raised six boys: Frank, Joe, John, Jimmy, Tommy and Eddie. She was quick with a quip and made the best pot roast I’ve ever eaten, or will ever eat. She swore (always accidentally, like this time: We’re walking to Mass and Grandma steps in a pile of dog poop. Grandma: “Oh, shit!” Me (straight faced): “Yep, that’s exactly what you stepped in, Grandma.” We ended up linking arms and laughing the rest of the way to church). She made farina for breakfast every morning (that’s Cream of Wheat to you and me). She never missed an episode of “As The World Turns.” She believed that after dinner coffee should never be served without a healthy slice of Entenmanns’s coffee cake (the kind with the cream cheese in the middle). She loved John Denver and always asked my sister Karen and me to sing for her. Her favorite song was “Annie’s Song.” She encouraged me to never stop dreaming. She encouraged me to always keep writing. She gave me permission to use her maiden name for my pen name. I used it on my first novel.

I watched Grandma whittle away to nearly nothing over a several year period. She said her doctor told her she had an ulcer and to take Mylanta every day. She had a cabinet stocked with those teal blue bottles. When the pain became too bad, she went to another doctor. It turned out, she had cancer. It was everywhere and there was nothing they could do. They closed her up. She died months later. I sang “Annie’s Song” at her funeral. Then threw myself on top of her coffin.

This was in 1986. In 2006 I found out that Grandma hadn’t died of stomach cancer. That she’d had breast cancer. She’d undergone a double mastectomy in the 70’s. But the cancer came back, and finally claimed her. In 2006, at age 42, I made my first mammogram appointment.





Mario Lemieux became my favorite player when he joined the Pittsburgh Penguins in the 80’s. I was mesmerized by the way he played. Okay, I also thought he was quite handsome. He still makes my knees weak.




I know Mario played most of his career through all kinds of health issues. Chronic pain. Several surgeries. Cancer. Radiation. Through it all, he laced them up (or asked someone else for help lacing them up) and took the ice, again and again. Again and again, he lived up to his nickname Le Magnifique.




I have never had cancer, thank goodness. My mammograms have all come back clear. But I do live with constant back pain. I survived a bad car accident four years ago. My broken ribs healed. My crushed leg muscles regenerated. But my back has never been the same. My doctor has offered to prescribe a strong pain killer to help me through my day. I stick with Aleve, because of my past experiences with stronger “stuff”.

I signed up for the 3 Day Walk in April. I started training in July. I’m not as fast as I used to be and my endurance is not as strong as it used to be than the years before my accident, when I walked 3 miles a day. But I am walking and I know that my endurance will come back. The speed will come back.

Like anything else I’ve ever done, I find I work best when I take things one step at a time.
And so I walk. For Grandma. For Mario. For all the women I know who have battled breast cancer and won. Or lost. For the loved ones they leave behind.

But most of all, I walk for myself. And for the self that is yet to be revealed.

Who do you walk for?

Ode to a Gymnastics Queen

One moment during the Summer Olympics catapulted me back in time more than 30 years. There was a question about a gymnast’s score. The cameras cut to a judge striding purposely across the floor. She had short black hair and was wearing a crimson blazer. She looked familiar but I didn’t know why, until the commentator said, “There goes head judge Nellie Kim to confer with the other judges.”

Proverbial bolt of lightning.

My head did the double take shake most often seen on an episode of Scooby Doo.
Did that announcer just say NELLIE KIM?

As in Nellie Kim, famed Russian gymnast who won gold medals in 1976 and 1980? Who was the first woman to score a perfect 10 on Vault and floor exercise (yes, even before Nadia!). I looked again. Yep. There was no mistaking now. This is the one and the same Nellie Kim who made me want to become a gymnast in elementary school.

Why did I like her so much? Was it her grace on floor exercise? Her strength on vault? Her all around poise? Actually, the truth is much simpler.
I liked Nellie Kim because she was half-Korean, like me.

Until that point, I had never met or seen anyone like me.
I lived for nearly 4 years in Korea, being gawked at because I was half-Caucasian and had the round eyes and curly hair of my dad. Forget that my Korean was impeccable. I was still not full-Korean, and therefore, ridiculed by some kids. The most vivid memory that comes to mind is the neighbor girl (I cannot remember her name) who used to pinch me all the way home from school. I would walk in crying, red welts all over my arms. My mom would rub my arms while scolding me, telling me to fight back. I never did. I didn’t start fighting back until years later, for different reasons.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand.

Nellie Kim was Russian. Specifically, she was from Tajikistan. Her father was Korean. Her mother was Tatar. But that didn’t matter to me. The summer of 1976, even as I was captivated by a 14 year old Romanian girl named Nadia, I was fixated on the beautiful and graceful Nellie Kim from the Soviet Union. The girl with the Korean last name and the poise of a ballerina. She didn’t look like an underfed pixie. She had curves. And she made me believe that I could learn gymnastics too.

The year after the 76 games, I started 7th grade. One of the intramural sports offered was gymnastics. I signed up. And you know what? I did pretty darn good on the vault. I had strong legs from running track, playing football and softball. My upper body strength needed help, but all in all, I wasn’t too shabby. The other events posed somewhat of a problem. I couldn’t master a back handspring. I did the back walkover just fine, but no springing. Which meant the floor exercise was out. The balance beam? Forget about it! Every time I got on one, I immediately fell off. Something about my equilibrium. I didn’t even try the uneven bars. My budding gymnastics career ended when I sprained my wrist trying a new vault routine.

Hey, don’t feel sad for me. I don’t feel bad about my brief flirtation with gymnastics. Had it not been for Nellie, I would never have even tried it. And I think I’m way better off having tried gymnastics than wondering what it would have been like. And because of Nellie Kim, I walked a little straighter and told everyone, “She’s half-Korean, just like me!” And I learned that in the US, unlike Korea, people didn’t really care about my ethnic background, or that I wasn’t full Korean or full Caucasian. At least, the people I met didn’t care. Most of them were military brats like me.

So, Nellie Kim. I am happy to see that you are still involved with gymnastics. Still sharing your grace and beauty. Thank you for giving awkward girls like me a glimpse of a glorious dream. It was worth every issue of “International Gymnast” I stole from the school library.

Hopefully, one day, I can influence someone the way you influenced me. Not to just go into gymnastics, but to try something new. Something different. Because you never know where you’ll land.

China's REAL Shining Star

There’s an image from Friday night’s Opening Ceremony of the Summer Olympics that won’t leave my head… or my heart. It’s not the amazing dancers who reenacted five thousand years of China’s history in such a colorful fashion. It’s not the breathtaking way the torch was finally lit. It’s not the parade of jubilant athletes who marched around the stadium, waving flags and smiling so brightly, they could light up the vast building with their energy.

Well, that’s not entirely true. The image that’s burned into my psyche IS that of an athlete… and a little boy who marched in at that athlete’s side. You may have seen it and been just as touched. The giant man is NBA star Yao Ming, pride of China; famous around the globe for his basketball skills. At 7’6” tall, hard to miss as he marched, dressed in a smart red jacket and white slacks that made his legs go on forever, waving his country’s flag. Then the camera pans down, way down, to the little boy jogging at Yao Ming’s side, an Olympic flag in one fist, a Chinese flag in the other. The boy looks a little overwhelmed and glances frequently up at Yao, as though for reassurance. Yao frequently glances down at the boy, as if to make sure the child is keeping up and hasn’t tripped or anything like that.

I was curious about the boy, wondering what he had done to be honored in such a way. Then the NBC announcer shed a little light on the picture. The boy’s name is Lin Hao. He’s nine years old. He was at school when that devastating earthquake struck the Sichuan province in May. Lin Hao crawled out of the rubble, then went back not once, but twice, to dig out classmates. AFTER he did that, he walked seven miles to get help. Did I mention this boy is nine years old? When asked why he did what he did, he replied simply that it was his duty, because he is a hall monitor. I am instantly smitten.

I continue to watch the Opening ceremony, hoping the cameras will cut back to little Lin Hao. I’m not disappointed. As the final dance is performed, as the torch relay reaches its breathtaking zenith, the cameras find Lin Hao again and again. By the time the Olympic flag is raised, he is ensconced comfortably in Yao Ming’s arms, which ensures an unencumbered view of the festivities. Lin seems mesmerized by the dazzling displays of light and sound. Yao seems mesmerized by Lin. The look on the athlete’s face is nothing short of tender. And I understand, because I can feel myself looking at the boy in the same way. My heart swells at the thought of all this boy has endured. I don’t even know if his family survived the quake. I sure hope they did.

As the Opening Ceremony wraps up, NBC cuts again to Yao Ming and Lin Hao and I know that whoever is calling the shots in the booth is just as smitten with this child as I am. And for one moment, I am happy to see that there’s someone else in the cold hard world of broadcast TV, whose heart can still melt at the sight of such an amazing child.

Today, I read that Lin Hao almost did not make it for the parade of athletes. Someone decided that Lin could not march with the Chinese team, because he is not an athlete! He's so much MORE than an athlete. He transcends any game. His victory-- saved lives, for goodness sake! Cooler heads finally prevailed, and Lin was ushered to Yao Ming’s side, just as the Chinese team began its march. And then little Lin marched right into the hearts of millions, maybe billions.

In an interview with an NBC reporter, Yao praised Lin’s actions, calling him a shining part of the generation that will shape China’s future. To which the little boy replied, in perfect English, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Forget about the future. I think Lin’s doing a fantastic job right here in the present.

Redemption

Before I go any further, let me say most emphatically, that I am a Pittsburgh Penguins fan, and a rabid one at that. The Pens’ loss in the Stanley Cup Finals still pains me so much that I cry if I dwell on it too much. Having said that, I wanted to share something that’s been percolating inside my brain for weeks. And if you already know the story, please move on, by all means. Like I said, this has been percolating in my brain and I need to get it out.

I call this blog "Redemption", but it's about so much more than that. It's about healing. It's about friendship. And it's about the glory of second chances.

It’s about Darren McCarty of the Red Wings. Any Detroit fan (and probably many NHL fans) know his story. I’m not going to go into details because that’s not really what makes this story so special. What really reaches out to me, is how teammate Kris Draper refused to give up on McCarty. From the accounts that I’ve seen and read, Kris reached out to Darren when others would have turned away. Darren had truly hit rock bottom. No wife. No kids. No house. No Red Wings memorabilia. They were all gone- either from frustration (wife and kids) or from bankruptcy (everything else). A once-stellar player who had helped lead his team to Stanley Cup Victories in 1997, 1998 and 2002 was truly a shadow of his former self.

The accounts that I’ve read say that Kris offered to help Darren get on track- that Darren worked out with Kris at Kris’ training facility. That Kris helped Darren get into rehab for a fourth (and final?) time. With encouragement and support, Darren started to pull his life back together. His wife came back with the kids. He got a gig playing minor league hockey - on a team owned by Draper. He seemed to be regaining his confidence and self respect. And then, the story got even better.

Darren asked Red Wings GM Ken Holland to give him another chance. Holland could have said what many other GM’s would have said: “Forget it. You blew your chance.” He didn’t. Ken Holland gave Darren McCarty that second chance. So, in November 2007, McCarthy suited up again as a Red Wing.

And had a season to remember.

Detroit had an amazing run. The post season was even better, culminating in a thrilling, 6-game Finals against my Penguins to win the Cup. And even as my heart broke for my favorite team, when I saw Darren McCarty lift that Cup over his head, I broke down and sobbed. I know what it’s taken for him to get to that glorious moment on the ice in Mellon Arena on June 4, 2008. I, too, have a story of redemption. I, too, have friends who have helped me on the road to healing. And I, too, have been given a second chance. I also know that I’m not the only one with such a story.

So, let’s go back to that moment: McCarty raising the Cup. It’s about so much more than winning a game, so much more than a uniform, or maybe even a team.

It’s about reclaiming your LIFE.

And what a life it is!

Walk On

I must confess, I am struggling and have been struggling for a little while. I've been writing like a fiend to mask my inner turmoil, but that turmoil seems to be clamoring more and more for my attention.

I don't need to talk about why I am struggling. I know everyone here has some issue that they are dealing with. I am certainly not unique in that respect. But, as I tell friends who are having troubles and feel guilty because there are other people who have worse troubles, we can only deal with our own shit. And make no mistake, our shit is very real, no matter how much worse someone else has it.

So... I'm struggling and I take my sister to an exhibit and special 35th Anniversary screening of the Bruce Lee movie "Enter the Dragon." It's an amazing night, peopled by Bruce Lee fans from all walks of life. Martial artists, collectors, former co-stars, his widow and daughter (who spoke so eloquently about Bruce as a man, a philosoper, an actor and a legend). Watching the movie on the big screen for the first time was pretty cool. Watching my sister take in the sights, meet the legendary Taky Kimura and relive the film on the big screen, was even more rewarding.

When we got home, I took several items that I wanted to keep out of my goodie bag and gave the rest to Kim to give her son Cody. Then I came in, chatted with my friend Tiara for a bit and went to bed feeling guilty that I made Tiara feel bad because I was feeling so down and she could not help me. Tiara is very caring and feels others' pain very deeply. I tried to put it down to the fact that by that time (after midnight), I'd been up for 24 hours, with only a 45 minute nap in that time frame.

I had a troubled sleep, despite a comfy new mattress and woke feeling as gray as the sky outside. No energy. No interest in the Garden Tour I signed up for with my best friend Pat. Not even coffee could perk me up. To distract myself, I went through the items I had saved from my Bruce Lee goodie bag. One thing caught my eye. It was a keychain with a little strap. I took it out of the bag it was in and looked at it more closely. The words "WALK ON" were etched into the side. Then, I noticed the bag also contained a slip of paper with lots of writing on it. I took it out and noticed it was a story. Here's what it said:

"The years between the Green Hornet and the Hong Kong films were often difficult for Bruce Lee. In Hollywood, he wasn't getting offered the roles he felt he deserved, he struggled to support his family and he injured his back very seriously and was told that he would never be able to participate in martial arts again. He turned to many self-help books during this time for inspiration.

One day, he took hold of one of his own business cards and wrote the phrase "Walk On" on the back. He bought a special stand for this card and kept it on his desk as a constant reminder to keep moving forward. With this as his mantra, Bruce Lee worked himself into the best shape of his life, wrote volumes of notes on many subjects and ideas, and further developed and named his art of Jeet Kune Do. The rest is history. When life gives you obstacles, you must summon the courage and...

WALK ON!"

Now, I have to insert something here. Before I fell asleep last night, I asked for a sign that my life was worth living, my work worth doing, my writing worth continuing and sharing with the world. I woke up to find this note. Now, I'm trying to figure out if this is the "sign" I asked for.

I guess I shall start walking... and find out.

Ten Reasons HOCKEY is Better than Other Sports

This is from my friend DashHopes, from Quebec:

10. In hockey, players have a lethal weapon on each foot and one in their hands.
In soccer, the only ones with weapons are the fans.

9. In hockey, you can try to drive a player out of bounds, but thick, immovable boards get in the way.
In soccer, a light summer breeze can send a player sailing out of bounds with the nearest opponent being penalized.

8. Hockey teams change their lineups on the fly.
In American football everything grinds to a halt while the players lumber off and “Fresh” players come wheezing on.

7. In hockey, if you’re fat you won’t play at a high level.
In Major League Baseball, if you’re fat you become the Designated hitter.

6. In soccer, former 3rd world dictators are allowed to buy professional teams.
In hockey, billionaire Canadian businessmen aren’t allowed to buy NHL teams….Hey!! Wait a minute!

5. In hockey, when a coach passes away there are genuine all around displays of emotion and respect.
In cricket, when a coach dies there is genuine concern that the fans may have killed him.

4. Blood contrasts with ice while it blends in with grass, dirt and gymnasium floors.

3. An entire hockey game is worth watching.
You can tune into the final few minutes of a basketball game and see all that is necessary.

2. Hockey is the fastest team sport in the world.

1. Hockey is the perfect combination of all that is great in sport. It combines speed, violence and grace….the greatest game!!!

One Extra. This is for Tiger Woods. Hockey has better bloggers than golf.

Reliving the "Miracle"... Through Dad's Eyes.

I was flipping through the channels the other day because I was bored. There was nothing on, so I switched to On Demand and started flipping again. When I reached HBO, I found a documentary called “Do You Believe In Miracles” about the 1980 US Olympic Hockey team. I’d seen parts of it once, back in 2001 when it came out, but this time, I was ready to watch the entire thing from start to finish. So, I clicked “play” and sat back to watch.

As the events of 1980 unfolded on the screen, I started thinking about my dad. We lived in Germany then, as part of a military assignment that would end up lasting 5 years (my father extended his assignment two years so I could graduate from the same high school- an act for which I thank him to this day). My dad was not a huge hockey fan, but for some reason, he was bound and determined to watch the US - Soviet Union match up live, as it was happening.

Let me tell you a little about TV coverage in West Germany in 1980. If you lived on a military base, as we did, TV consisted of AFN (Armed Forces Network). AFN aired programs that ran about 6 months earlier in the US. Any sporting events we saw aired about a week or two after they were played and we never knew what games would actually air. And FORGET about watching any Olympic coverage LIVE. If you wanted to watch German TV, you had to pay for a license to hook your TV up to the German networks. And from what I remember, it wasn’t cheap.

Did that stop my dad? Hell, no! He has a background in electronics, and found a way to hook our TV up to a German network. Granted, the picture wasn’t that great, but you could definitely follow the action on the screen. I remember the night of the US - Soviet Union match up, he got the TV tuned as well as he could, then settled into his easy chair to watch.

The narration was in German, but that didn’t mask the excitement of what was happening in Lake Placid that February night. I heard him cheer as Buzz Schneider scored the first goal for the US. Heard him curse as the Soviets went ahead. More cheers as Mark Johnson scored to tie things up, with just one second left in the first period.
The cheers continued in the second period, as goalie Jim Craig deflected shot after shot, keeping the game close. Third period. The Soviet team is up, 3-2, when Mark Johnson scores again to tie things up. Then… feat of all feats, Mike Eruzione puts the US team up 4-3, with ten minutes left in the game.

I watch this all unfold; listen to players, American and Russian like, relive the action on the ice. But as the players and coaches talk, I see and hear my dad, in front of that fuzzy TV in our apartment in Vogelweh, Germany, cheering, groaning and urging the young Americans on, breathlessly counting down the final minutes of history. And as the clock ran out, I didn’t need to hear Al Michaels exclaim, “Do you believe in miracles?” That’s not what aired on German TV. But the explosion from the easy chair in the living room, was good enough. My dad, career soldier, stationed in West Germany in the waning years of the Cold War, when Russia and East Germany were still threats, cheering for a group of kids who pulled off the impossible.

On my TV screen, some players teared up as they remembered their accomplishment. I teared up as I remembered the pride my dad felt at the US victory. He told me later that he felt as though that win on the ice in Lake Placid illustrated what he felt to serve in the military- standing tall in the face of the enemy. Watching the documentary, I know that my dad wasn’t the only one who felt that way. But he’s the only one I can draw from and the memory is still so strong, it stands out, even now, so many years later.

I plan to buy a copy of that documentary to send to my dad. He only saw that game once, on a fuzzy screen he’d rigged up just for that night in February 1980. I think he should see it in living color, complete with commentary from the amazing guys who made up that team, their legendary coach Herb Brooks and assistant coach Craig Patrick (who went on to make their marks in the NHL, most notably, with my favorite team, the Pittsburgh Penguins). I hope he can recapture the magic he felt that night 28 years ago, on a military base in West Germany, and know that the pride he felt in those kids, is the same pride I feel for him and his lifetime of service to Uncle Sam.

Thanks, Dad.

Hard Hitting, Soft Hearted

The first time I saw Georges Laraque on the ice, I didn’t know what to think. Here was a player who was not afraid of anything, not afraid to muscle his way through throngs of enemy players, either racing to the aid of a teammate or chasing down the puck.
I thought, “Wow, this is one tough guy.”

My husband was not so impressed. “Oh, that’s Georges Laraque. He’s a goon.” He paused, then relented. “He’s probably about the best fighter in the league.”

I was a little taken aback at his blasé tone. “Best fighter in the league? What a way to be known.”

My husband laughed. “Don’t knock it,” he said. “There’s a lot of respect that comes with that title.”

“Along with a few broken bones,” I shot back.

He shrugged, as if to say that it comes with the territory.

Georges Laraque joined my favorite team, the Pittsburgh Penguins. He was still tough. Still barreled his way through the enemy line as though they were bowling pins and he was a human cannonball bent on making a strike. Then, something else happened. The newspapers started writing about him, and I started learning about the heart that beats underneath that tough exterior.

I read about Georges, driving from Calgary to Edmonton to fulfill a dying boy’s final wish: to meet his hero. It didn’t matter that he had a game to rest up for. This boy wanted to meet him, and by golly, he was going to meet him.

I read about Georges volunteering to fly to Tanzania to take part in a program for children who have been orphaned by AIDS or living in refugee camps. His only regret: that he couldn’t bring any of the boys and girls home with him.

I read about Georges sponsoring a hockey camp at a community center in Pittsburgh. I saw video of him running drills, teaching kids how to hold hockey sticks, signing t-shirts, running around with them like a big, overgrown kid himself.

I read about Georges giving his cell phone number to anyone who needs a helping hand. About how available he is to lend a hand, deliver food for the needy, help children buy school supplies and winter coats.

And my admiration grew.

Yes, I liked his style on the ice. He’s protective and he never backs down from a fight. But my respect stems from his countless acts of giving off the ice, most of them performed without a camera recording his every good deed. He’d probably even like it if his deeds went unnoticed, because he doesn’t perform them for glory. He performs them to feed his soul.

This week, the Penguins dealt Georges Laraque to the Montreal Canadiens.

I will miss his powerful stride up the ice to enforce hockey law. I will miss his deep laugh as an interviewer asks him some “interesting” questions. But most of all, I will miss his great, big beautiful heart, which I have no doubt he won’t waste any time sharing, as soon as he finds his bearings in Montreal.

Bon Chance, Georges. Montreal has received a tremendous gift.

You Give TV News a Bad Name

I saw something the other morning on the Today Show that made me yank great chunks of hair out of my head and feel very ashamed to say that I work in TV news. They did a story on a woman who was stabbed to death by a carjacker because she would not surrender her car. She was trying to protect her baby who was in the back seat. If the story wasn’t bad enough, they came out of it to a shot on the couch, and Meredith introducing the woman’s husband and TWO OTHER CHILDREN. She insisted that everyone wanted to be on the show to talk about what a wonderful wife and mother she had been, but every time she asked the son (who looked 13) and daughter (who looked 10) a question, they became so upset it was hard to answer.

Here’s my question: WHO’S GREAT IDEA WAS IT TO DRAG THESE KIDS ON LIKE A MORBID DOG AND PONY SHOW? I mean, really. Are we so greedy for ratings that we stoop so low?

I don’t care if the kids DID insist on coming on the show. ADULTS should have better sense than to let this happen. If there’s some producer sitting back and thinking they scored a coup by dragging grieving children on air to cry over their murdered mother, that producer SHOULD BE SHOT.

At this point, I am extremely disgusted to say I work in the same medium and hope my bosses have the good sense never to stoop so low.

P.S. AFTER THE HORRIBLE INTERVIEW, MEREDITH TOSSED TO WEATHER. Talk about an awkward transition.

The National Anthem I Will Never Forget (Or… Why I ALWAYS write the words down before every game!)

I was the National Anthem singer for my university. If there was a sport to be played, you’d see me singing the anthem before every game. Our school has an NCAA Divison I ice hockey team, so it was inevitable that we would eventually play a Canadian school, although I thought it highly unlikely. After all, our university was in Alabama! No Canadian team would ever travel to Alabama.

Well, the inevitable happened. January 1992. Seneca College came to play. I learned about it several months in advance and kept telling myself I needed to learn the Canadian anthem. Finally, the week of the game, I dragged myself to the University library to check out a record that contained Canadian folk songs, including the national anthem. I took it home and listened to it over and over and over and over until I had it memorized. I wrote the words down. I returned the record to the library. I felt confident that I would nail it.

The day of the first game arrived. I couldn’t find the words anywhere. I rushed to the library, but wouldn’t you know it, someone checked out the record of Canadian folk songs! Who knew that Canadian folk songs were so popular in the Deep South? I went to the public library. No Canadian folk songs or national anthem in sight. I wracked my brain and managed to remember the beginning and end of the song. I could not remember the middle. The clock was inching closer to game time.

I became desperate and hunted down the first Canadian I could think of: our goalie. He had always been very nice to me. I found him stretching in the hallway outside the locker room. When I asked him to help me with the words, he scrunched up his face, deep in thought. Then, together, we went through it.

By the time I took the ice to sing, I felt confident that I had it nailed. Until I started to sing. I knew right away that the words I’d been given were not right. They didn’t fit the cadence of the song. But, in show business, they say, never let them see you sweat. I knew I didn’t have the right words, but I sang them as though they had always been part of Canadian history. I sailed through the American anthem and rushed off the ice. As usual, I was greeted by enthusiastic fans as I made my way to my seat. One woman gushed, “I’ve never heard the Canadian anthem sung like that before!” I grinned at her wryly and replied, “And you’ll never hear it like that again!”

After the game, I took quite the ribbing from the players. Several scolded me for seeking advice from our goalie.

“Didn’t you know that goalies don’t know shit?” one player scoffed. “Everyone knows that! It’s a proven fact!” (This I highly doubt. Our goalie not only was an excellent player, he actually finished school and I believe went on to pursue a higher degree).

The player who was mocking the goalie leaned in. “You should have come to me!”
I looked him square in the eye and asked, “So YOU know the words to the Canadian anthem?”

He looked taken aback. “Of course not!” he spluttered. “But I would have just told you I didn’t know! I wouldn’t have made shit up!”

Later that night, the goalie came to find me. He apologized, sheepishly explaining that he’d wanted to help me so badly, he hadn’t had the heart to tell me he didn’t know the words to his own national anthem.

I forgave him, and made sure I had the correct words when I sang the next night, and every night after that.

So, if you’re at a sporting event that I’m singing at, you may see me scribbling madly on a scrap of paper. It’s my superstitious ritual. I write the words to each anthem on a scrap of paper about 5 minutes before I sing.

And as much as you’d like to say hi, let me finish my ritual.

Trust me, you’ll enjoy my performance much better if you do.

Lou Piniella, Don Mattingly, Mike "Pagalulu"... and My Mom

(My mother & me in Masan, South Korea. I think I was 4 here)

Friends have asked me to write this story down for posterity. Since I now have a full-fledged blog, I figure this is as good a place as any to do it.

My mom was a rabid diehard New York Yankees fan. She embraced the team wholeheartedly when she moved to the US with my dad from Korea in 1963.

Forget that she barely knew English.
Forget that she barely knew baseball.

Her new father-in-law (my Grandpa) was the biggest Yankees fan on the planet (or at least, Edgewater, New Jersey). He found a willing recruit in the petite woman his son brought home as a bonus from a stint serving with the U.S. Army in Seoul. Forget that her husband was a Dodgers fan (Brooklyn, then Los Angeles). My mom saw Yankees pinstripes and was hooked from Day One.

As her command of the English language grew, so did her knowledge of baseball and her love of the Yanks. Her favorite players were Lou Piniella (as a player, then later as manager- we used to take "Sunday drives" past his house), Don Mattingly (I gave her a Cabbage Patch doll dressed in Yankee pinstripes for Mother's Day one year. She named him "Donnie Junior." and held him at every game she watched. I inherited "Donnie Junior." when she died), and, as she called him, Mike “Pagalulu”.

(Donnie Junior. He's missing a shoe but otherwise in good shape. He's traveled from NJ to Alabama, Miami & Seattle, where we now live)

 

I have to insert a confession here. I, too, am a Yankees fan. I’m not as rabid as my mother and there were times I didn’t know the entire starting lineup (let’s just say my brain was a little addled at times, with help from foreign substances). My favorites (Bucky Dent, Rick Cerone <-circa 1970's) were not the same as hers. And although I was very familiar with Donnie Baseball and Sweet Lou, my unfamiliarity with a certain other player leads to the story that is being recorded here for posterity.

 

(Sweet Lou - I got to work with him recently & shared the Pagalulu story. He loved it.)

The year: 1985. A friend set me up on a blind date with this guy I had admired from afar. His name was Will and he was a surfer. Okay, he was really a waiter (but he surfed on the weekends). He was tall, sandy hair, nice build. (Ladies, you get the picture). Very athletic and into sports. So was I. Except… my sports knowledge lay with the New York Giants at the time, not the New York Yankees. Still, I decided to “borrow” from my mom’s expert ramblings in an attempt to match his enthusiasm for the Bronx Bombers.

Things got off to a good start. I knew enough about Sweet Lou and Don Mattingly to keep the conversation going. Then, I got a little cocky.

Me: Oh yeah, and let’s not forget third base. Mike Pagalulu

Will: Who?

Me (coyly): You know. Mike Pagalulu

Will (scorn creeping into his voice): You must mean Mike PAGLIARULO

Me (face burning beet red by now): Oh. Yes. Of course, that’s what I meant.

If I remember correctly, our date ended about 10 minutes later. That’s how long it took to get the check and leave the beachside café. I remember it had been a balmy night and I was sure we would have walked on the beach after dinner, had things gone well. Not a word was spoken during the drive home. I didn’t even get the customary, “I’ll call you.” Wow. Who knew that Yankees fans could be so damn prickly?

The next day, my mom asked me how the date went. I told her it went fine, then paused, trying to figure out the best way to broach the topic of Mike “Pagalulu.” Finally, I just went for it.

 

(The man who will forever be known in our family as: Mike Pagalulu)

Me: Mommy, I have to tell you something. You’ve been pronouncing a player’s name wrong.

Mom: What you talking about? What player? Who player?

Me: Mommy, the third base guy. His name is Mike PAGLIARULO, not PAGALULU.

Mom: That’s what I say. PAGALULU

Me: No, Mommy. Listen to me very carefully. pa-glee-ah-ROO'-low

Mom: That’s what I say. PAGALULU

Me: No, really. Listen: you’re saying: PAGA-LULU. It’s really: pa-glee-ah-ROO'-low

She started to get annoyed.
Huffily she said, THAT’S what I SAY: PAGALULU

I gave up. “Okay, Mommy.” And I went to do the dishes.

As I worked, I thought about Will and how uptight he had become because I mispronounced a player’s name. I wondered what else would he get uptight about.

And as I rinsed the dishes, I realized I didn’t really care.

Ancora Imparo

I saw something on someone's Facebook profile recently and can't get it out of my mind.

Two words: ANCORA IMPARO

Since I don't know Latin, I googled it and found it means: "I am still learning."
I also learned that Michelangelo scribbled those words in the margin of a piece of art he was working on.

The words are simple, yet so powerful at the same time.
I find they describe my life to this point.
Even after years of successes and hard knocks, I am still learning.

Learning to LIVE in the Moment

My computer wallpaper consists of a photo featuring two hockey players: Kris Letang and Luc Bourdon. Kris’ arm is draped around Luc’s shoulders. They are both grabbing the handles of a trophy cup. Medals hang from around their necks. Luc's face is split in a wide, joyful grin. Kris is smirking, his free hand raised to show the “we’re number one” gesture. It’s a jubilant moment frozen forever in time. The only things on these two young men’s minds were their great accomplishment, and quite possibly, where they would go celebrate afterward.

I don’t know when it was taken. I’m going to guess that it was a tournament that Team Canada won because Kris is wearing a Team Canada hat. We all know that Kris went on to be drafted by the Pittsburgh Penguins and Luc joined the Vancouver Canucks. We also know that Luc died in a motorcycle accident near his home in New Brunswick last month.

Suddenly, young and carefree collided with painful loss and responsibility. Kris talked about how excited Luc had been to ride his motorcycle, which he had bought just two weeks before his death. In a press conference just hours after learning of his friend's death, Kris insisted that Luc knew the dangers and knew to be careful. (The RCMP does believe that rain made the road slippery to handle and call the collision a terrible accident.) And the hockey world watched a young man struggle to understand just what had happened. At this moment, he wasn't an NHL star on a team that was making a run for the Stanley Cup. He was just a young man trying to come to terms with a heartbreaking fact: that his good friend, with whom he had planned to vacation this summer, was gone. Just like that.

The tributes I’ve read about Luc describe a man with tremendous hockey talent and a tremendous heart. Everyone said he loved living and lived to the fullest. He contributed on the ice and off. He was friendly and enjoyed everything about being an NHL player, from playing with the likes of Trevor Linden, to meeting fans. The future only looked brighter for this 21 year old. And then it was gone.

And so, I come back to that photo, that moment frozen in time. My son asks me why I have it as my wallpaper. I explain. I keep that photo as a lesson to always LIVE IN THE MOMENT.

Celebrate every victory as though it is your first… and last.

Never take a friend… or yourself for granted.

Because you never know when it will all go away.

The HEART of the NHL

I LOVE HOCKEY.

I freely admit it.

I love everything about the game: the speed, the grace, even the violence.
And after reading an article posted by Jodie over at “The Sidney Crosby Show”,
http://sidcrosby.blogspot.com/2008/06/oren-koules-is-awesome.html , I have another reason to love hockey, or at least, one NHL Team owner.

The article talked about a young hockey player named David Carle, who was projected to be drafted as high as the second round. And why wouldn’t he? By all accounts, the 18 year old was a terrific player, a talented defenseman headed to the University of Denver on a hockey scholarship. And I’m sure he set out for the NHL Combine with high hopes of passing every physical and intellectual test.

I don’t know if you’ve seen what goes on at an NHL Combine. I’ve seen video and it looks brutal. Players with their feet taped to the pedals of a stationary bike, being loudly urged to ride as hard and fast as they can. I’ve seen some kids throw up after this “exercise”. There are also other grueling looking “exercises” that I’m sure are meant to test endurance and mettle, including one where a guy does goes all out-- while breathing into a tube with his nose pinched shut while some drill-sergeant type guy yells at him to go faster. Like I said, brutal.

But I digress.

David went to the Combine. I don’t know how many exercises he went through, or whether he went through any at all. What I do know is an EKG uncovered a heart defect that had not been found in previous exams. More extensive tests at the Mayo Clinic revealed that the defect could cause a sudden, fatal cardiac arrest if his heart endures too much stress.

How this boy survived playing hockey for so many years with this defect boggles my mind.

But what happened next will stay with me forever.

His advisor notified all 30 NHL teams that David was taking his name out of the draft, since he can no longer play hockey. 29 team owners took it in stride, but one did something amazing.

Oren Koules, the new owner of the Tampa Bay Lightning, used his last pick to draft David Carle. When asked why he did it, here’s what he said: "The kid worked his whole life to be drafted in the NHL, and I didn't see a reason he shouldn't be."

David Carle will go down in the books as the 203rd pick of the 2008 NHL Draft, because one team owner decided to forego adding to the fold, to make a young man’s lifelong dream come true.

So… the teen whose heart problem forced him to give up his dreams of NHL glory, got to live just a little piece of that dream, thanks to a man whose heart was bigger than his business sense.

This could be the end of David’s story.

It‘s not.

As they say in those annoying TV commercials, “BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!”

Remember the hockey scholarship to the University of Denver?
The school will honor that scholarship. David will get a college education, and the coach says he will be involved with the hockey program in some way. It might be small comfort to someone who has lived and breathed the game since he could walk, but somehow, I think he will be okay.

Want to read the article for yourself?
Here’s the link: http://www.adn.com/sports/story/443351.html

And after you’ve read it, ask yourself: What can I give from my heart today?

The answer may just surprise you.

GIANT Footsteps

I read a newspaper article today that really drove home the meaning of the word “Giant.” It was about a former New York Giant who decided to walk across the country to honor and raise money for 9/11 rescue workers who are battling various illnesses as a result of their heroic efforts at Ground Zero. (more info: http://www.ajourneyfor911.com )

The article says George Martin walked 3,003 miles, from New York City to San Diego. He went through 24 pairs of shoes and lost 40 pounds. Oh, and he also raised $2 million dollars along the way.

In an era that has given us pro athletes who rack up felony arrest after felony arrest, for everything from robbery, to attempted murder, to dog fighting, George sticks out like a sore thumb. He didn’t have to do this. He could have rested on the laurels of his illustrious football career. He played for 14 years and was co-captain of the amazing 1987 New York Giants team that won the Super Bowl.
I read that during parts of George’s cross-country trek, the winds were so bad that he had to walk backwards. He endured rainstorms, ice showers and brutal heat. He went through 80 pairs of socks. His walk took nine months, five months longer than he had planned, and ended in San Diego, instead of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.

But did he complain? NO.

George said he needed to do something to bring attention to the plight of so many 9/11 workers who are dealing with respiratory problems and other illnesses. Their insurance doesn’t cover the treatments they need. Some are dying before they can receive treatment. In George Martin’s eyes, these men and women who spent weeks and months digging through the dusty ruins of the World Trade Center and surrounding buildings, looking for remains, in an attempt to bring closure to so many families, are the true heroes.

I agree. These unsung heroes need help to care for themselves. They need to not be forgotten by the system and by the country.

But, I need to add one more hero to this list. He doesn’t want accolades or adulation, but in my eyes, George Martin is one GIANT hero. And we could all learn from his example, one step at a time.

Penguins Rumors... and Hope

I have liked the Penguins for years, but this is the first time I’ve felt almost visceral about the need to keep the current team together.

I was upset when Jaromir Jagr was traded away. I hated to see Mark Recchi leave the Pens, and rejoiced when he came back, only to leave again. I thought it unfair that a promising talent like Colby Armstrong was given away just like that.

I understand that this is part of the “business” of hockey. I get that there are decisions that the front office needs to make, in order to pay the players who need to be kept, while keeping an eye on the salary cap.

BUT… this year, for some reason, I cannot stand the thought of losing a single player. To me, they are ALL integral to the workings of the team. The way they gelled this season, and then that amazing run for the Cup. Everyone contributed in some way and it didn’t matter where they played. First line or fourth line- everyone added something to the run.

The season ended in heartbreak, then the leaks started. It started out well: the Pens filed for arbitration to re-sign Marc-Andre Fleury. The Pens were making an offer to Marian Hossa. Then, the not so good. The Pens were considering sending Pittsburgh native Ryan Malone to Columbus. The Pens offered Evgeni Malkin to the Kings in exchange for the 2nd overall draft pick. The Russian league was offering Geno the equivalent of $15M US to go back to Russia. Each news article felt like a stab in the heart.

Now, I’m not so naive that I think the Pens can keep everyone on the team and pay them what they want. I know that players are going to have to go.

BUT—a tiny, childlike part of me hopes that Ray Shero can pull off some magical feat that will allow this year’s amazing team to continue to grow, gel and WIN the Stanley Cup next year.

Is that so wrong?

Mobile blog

BIG Effin' Wake Up Call

I was driving home from work on Friday when my Blackberry flashed and beeped, signalling a new message. I clicked on it to see what had crossed (yes, while I was still driving), and nearly drove off the road.

It was a news bulletin and it read: Tim Russert dead at 58.



WHAT???????

I immediately called my boss. "Tell me it's not true!" I demanded. She sighed. "It's true. Can you fucking believe it?"

I could not fucking believe it. And I still can't.

Tim Russert and Robert Mak are the only two journalists I can watch for politics. They break down races and issues in a way that lets me clearly understand what's going on. Tim has always come across as friendly and down to earth. And even if that white board he uses on election night might seem a little cheesy, it didn't look out of place in his hands.

I didn't know a lot about Tim Russert before Friday. I only knew him as the moderator of "Meet the Press", which I watched religiously on Sunday mornings. I knew him as the "go to" guy during elections coverage, the guy who can gauge the political wind by the exit polls. The guy who declared Barack Obama the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee recently, in his matter of fact style. That following weekend, Hillary Clinton bowed out of the race.

In addition to politics, he had also written two best-selling books-- honoring fathers.

As I watched live coverage of his life and death (which ran not just on MSNBC, but CNN and Fox News, I learned about the man behind the white board: the proud husband and father, the devout Catholic, the mentor and inspirational boss. And I felt the gaping loss at his death even more keenly.

I learned that he had returned to Washington, DC after taking his wife and son to Italy as a graduation gift for his son. They stayed in Italy while he came home to work. He was at work, recording voiceovers when he collapsed. He was rushed to the hospital, but doctors could not save him.

Hour after hour, I watched anchors and reporters laud him; from a stalwart Tom Brokaw, to a quivery Keith Olberman; from a somber Andrea Mitchell, to boyish David Gregory, telling funny stories about Tim. Greta van Sustern on Fox News sang his praises. Campbell Brown led the coverage on CNN. All three aired messages from the President. From John McCain. Barack Obama. They conducted live interviews with politicians, past and present, Democrat, Republican, Independent, who had sat in the hot seat and faced him. They all said the same thing: Tim Russert had been tough, but he had been fair.

New agencies around the globe reported on his death. The BBC website let readers leave comments. Those comments ranged far and wide, from the US to Dubai, where this comment came from: "A true Journalist who asked the right question in the most difficult of situations. A serious loss to TV journalism first Peter Jennings & now Tim Russert. If it was possible , I know Tim would have reported from the heavens." Indeed.

Back to my boss. As we wrapped up our conversation, I said to her, "He died doing what he loved. If this isn't a great big fucking wake-up call to get out there and do what you love, then I don't know what is."

She sighed. "I know."

Boss, you'll have my resignation on Monday.

Ovechkin is Great, BUT....

I was holding out hope that Evgeni Malkin would win the Hart Trophy last night.

Yes, yes, I know all about Alexander Ovechkin and his 65 goals. I know about his exciting play that helped drive the Capitals to the playoffs.

But... I still contend that Malkin's efforts are more MVP-worthy.

When Sidney Crosby went down with a high ankle sprain, everyone wrote the Penguins off. Then, Malkin, who is already an excellent player, stepped up his game even more.
It was as though someone lit a fire under him. He scored goals, he made dazzling plays. He and the other Pens charged along, full-speed, until Sid was ready to rejoin them.

We all know what happened next.

Okay, so Geno didn't have the best playoffs. But the Hart Trophy is about the REGULAR season, and his regular season was SPECTACULAR.

Again, I'm not taking anything away from Ovechkin and his accomplishments.

But to me, Evgeni Malkin is MVP all the way.

It's SHOWTIME!

About two weeks ago, I googled "Sidney Crosby" and found countless sites dedicated to this hockey wunderkind. They ranged from "Sid's goals" to "Does Sidney Crosby have a Girlfriend?"

After slogging through several sites and coming away more dissatisfied than before, I stumbled upon a site called "The Sidney Crosby Show." I didn't have high hopes when I clicked on the link. But then, the site opened up, and so did my eyes!

This site is chock-full of all things PENGUINS, not least of all their erstwhile young captain. It's run by two people, with a woman named Jodie taking up the lion's share of the work.

It is smart, witty, entertaining and extremely informative. Not only that, the site contains links to blogs about other hockey teams, sorted by conferences! Who else gives you all this and great photos that can be turned into wallpaper at the click of a mouse?

I highly recommend "The Sidney Crosby Show" to anyone who's a fan of the Pittsburgh Penguins, Sidney Crosby, or hockey in general.

Here's the link:
http://sidcrosby.blogspot.com/

Eight Inches

"Ready?" she asked, scissors poised.

I took a deep breath.

"Just do it."

I closed my eyes, and heard the familiar 'snick' of the scissors. The next moment, my hairdresser gently placed a ponytail into my hand, containing eight inches of my hair. Eight inches that I had been growing for months. Those eight inches are now on their way to Pantene's "Beautiful Lengths" program, which makes wigs for cancer patients.

I've had long hair for years. It's been like a shield. I could always hide behind it when things got too rough. But I know that in the end, it's only hair. It'll grow. And there are women and men who are enduring some painful treatments to fight a disease. Some embrace the bald heads that emerge from chemo and radiation. Others need a shield, like I do. So, if my hair can help someone look in the mirror and not feel so strange, then it's worth it. It is SO worth it.

In the meantime, I shall continue to look in the mirror and try not to feel strange at my short bob. It's actually kinda cute. Maybe I'll learn to face my fears head-on, instead of looking for another shield to hide behind.

And in the end, what's eight inches anyway? (keep your minds out of the gutter, please).

More info on Pantene's "Beautiful Lengths" program:http://www.beautifullengths.com/en_US/index_home.jsp

Black and Gold Tears

The tears came last night.
They started as the buzzer ended, and the final score flashed: 3-2.
The Penguins' quest for the Stanley Cup had come to a heartbreaking end, 6 games in.
Players hunched on the ice.
They sat in stunned silence on the bench, before getting up and congratulating the Red Wings on their victory- classy even in the face of despair.
And my heart broke for them.

The tears flowed again as I watched the locker room post.
Some players were so choked up, they couldn't talk.
Some put on a brave face to answer questions they didn't even want to *think* about.
And their leader, just 20 years old, tried gamely to talk, even as his voice quivered and his eyes welled up again and again.

I, personally, did not lose the Stanley Cup.
I never set foot on the ice.
I think the team played their hearts and their guts out and don't fault them for anything.

So why do I feel as bad as Crosby, Malkin, Malone, Fleury, Talbot and the rest?
Have I become the type of fan that takes the team's loss as personally as the players do?

The tears flowed this morning as I read several wrap-up articles, lauding the young Penguins and painting a bright outlook for the future of these amazing guys.

And as I looked at my tears, I saw that they had turned BLACK and GOLD.

What the Super Bowl Taught Me

To many people, the Super Bowl is just another football game.
The biggest football game of the season, yes, but a game nonetheless.
This year, I saw the Super Bowl as the ultimate lesson in perseverance and resiliency.

Wait. Did I just say resiliency?
Funny, that’s just the word that Fox used to describe the New York Giants, in a pre-game profile. The profile featured Giant players, explaining the definition of the word “resilience”.

Here’s that definition, in the Giants' own words:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRsYROOO20w


As I watched, I thought, no word better describes the exploits of this team, during its amazing run to the Big Game.

They started 0-2.
Things looked bleak for Giants fans.
Then, they started winning. On the road, no less.
They capped off the regular season by winning a playoff berth, and narrowly losing to the undefeated New England Patriots (38-35).
Then, the G-Men really got going!

First stop: Tampa Bay.
This game wasn’t even close! The Giants took it: 24-14

Next stop: Dallas.
The sports pundits said the Giants’ run was over. That there was no way they could beat a red-hot Cowboys team.
Well, it came down to the very last play in the game, but the Giants WON, 21-17.

Next up: The Packers. In Green Bay.
The temperature was –2, but factor in the wind chill and it plunged into a bigger deep-freeze. In the week leading up to this game, I heard many things from many people, all of them predicting that the Giants’ could not overcome Brett Favre or the Packers. In Green Bay, no less.
Well, it came down to a long field goal in overtime, following 2 shorter, missed field goals during regulation.
But guess what? Tynes MADE the field goal!
The Giants WON, 23-20.

Wow, whaddaya know? The G-Men are in the Super Bowl, a feat no one predicted. But did the Giants get the respect they earned and deserved?
NO.
Now, the talk turned to the Patriots’ run for perfection.
The oddsmakers made New England a double-digit favorite.
All the sports pundits talked about a 19-0 season as though it was a “sure thing.”
No one factored the Giants into the equation, except as a pesky fly to swat out of the way.
Boston began planning its ticker tape parade.
The 1972 Dolphins resigned themselves to the fact that their record was about to be shattered.

But wait.

The team that for a season, bounced back time after time. The team that defined the word: resilience in game after game. The team that pulled off some spectacular, last- minute plays and overcame so many obstacles to win when everyone wrote them off, decided to have something to say about the Pats’ Perfect Season.

The Giants came out to PLAY.
And PLAY, they did.
The offense ran the clock down for most of the first half and scored 3 before turning things over to Tom Brady and Co.
The defense welcomed Brady and Co. the best way it could, with blitzes, sacks and bone-crunching tackles.
When New England scored to make it 7-3, the Giants did not let up.

In the fourth quarter, the G-Men added a new word to the team dictionary: Grit.

Definition:
“Sense of pluck, spirit.” “Fortitude and determination.”

With gritty determination, the Giants showed why they not only belonged in the Super Bowl, but why they could win it.
They scored, to go ahead 10-7.
The Pats came back. Score now: 14-10.
With two minutes left in the game, the Giants stepped up.
Eli Manning stepped up. David Tyree stepped up. Plaxico Burress stepped up. Amani Toomer stepped up. Steve Smith stepped up. The offensive line stepped up.
If you haven’t seen the highlights of the last offensive drive, you need to go to YouTube and watch RIGHT NOW, because I cannot adequately describe it.
The amazing set of plays resulted in a Giants touchdown.
The score, now: 17-14.

Then, the Giants’ defense, the heroes of this game, stepped up for a final time.
And they showed Tom Brady, the Patriots and all the pundits out there who had written the G-Men off time and time again, why it’s unwise to overlook this scrappy New York Team.

The rest, as they say, is history.
And herein, lies the lesson I learned.

It’s not about winning.
It’s not even about football.

I learned that no matter what obstacles life (or people) throw in your way, to NEVER GIVE UP. NEVER GIVE IN.

You never know what awaits you at the top.