J'aime/Déteste L'Hockey - En Deux Chapitres

Chapitre Un
I always sucked at sports as a kid. My dad told me so at around age 16... which is why I don't set unreachable standards for Le O-Dog to meet. Every time I throw him on the ice, I tune out all the screaming idiot parents, yelling "Shoot!" or "Skate!" to their youngster every time they near the puck. I'm content in watching my boy learn to skate, have fun and keep his *ss off the couch.

Every once in a while, he does something to make me particularly proud.

O-Dog: That kid hit me on purpose.
Prego: Make sure you've got the right number, and go give him a quick glove on his face.

The O-Dog spent the last two minutes of the game chasing this little thug around the rink. He never got him, but he had a smile on his face the whole time.

This past weekend, the O-Dog gave me another "Proud Pop" moment. Anybody who's watched 5-8 year olds play hockey knows it is at times a big clumsy cluster of bodies chasing the puck. I watched as another little guy careened into my O-Dog, sending him to the ice. He falls often, so I didn't give it a second thought... until I clearly saw tears streaming down his face.

I tapped on the glass to try to get his attention, feeling helpless that I couldn't get to him. O-Dog kept skating around. He finally got his coach's attention, pointing to his helmet and getting sent to the bench.

I kept thinking to myself, "Please get back out there..." thinking he might have been too scared to continue.

Four minutes later, the O-Dog is back on the ice for the next shift.

I asked him after the game, "O-Dog, I saw you were crying."

"Yeah. I hit my head."

"You kept skating, though. That was good. What were you doing?"

"I was going after the puck. My team only had one goal and the other team had like a thousand."

All of a sudden, I had visions of Ron Francis, stumbling & crawling on his hands and knees across the ice after a Scott Stevens hit, demonstrating cobbles the size of bowling balls. Regardless of what 'pain' he might have been in, his resolve never lapsed.

"I love you, Odie."
(Puzzled look) "I love you, too, daddy."


Chapitre Deux
Les Putains find themselves in the Conference Semi-Finals again... (Afinogenov just made the score 2-1 as I write this. Yes!)

I find that I turn into quite the idiot this time of year. Ordinarily, I'm a pretty grounded individual, however, playoff hockey turns me into a bundle of nerves. The emotional peaks and valleys are dizzying, and I frequently wonder why I do this to myself. Then I see video clips like this -- a vintage Theo Fleury goal and the spontaneous celebration that still makes my glass eye fog over:



What's it got to do with me? Not a goddamned thing, yet I find myself sporting this ungodly and uncomfortable mess on my face. When I was a kid, I'd watch the Sabres of yore grow these "playoff beards" once their teams entered the post-season. Once Les Putains entered the playoffs, I began to grow this follicular talisman on my puss, as if it's really going to do them any good. From what I see around town, I can at least find some comfort in knowing I'm not the only dumb-ass.

Last year, I stuck to the same brand of beer (Blue Moon) & watched all the games with the same person (my neighbor).
Think of the horror, when my brother threw off our mojo when he showed up with his fiancée and a 12 pack of Saranac. My neighbor and I looked at each other with apprehension as our unexpected guests came in. 'What's the worst that can happen, after all?'

The death knell tolled when our doorbell rang again. My neighbor's father came to join us for the third period and the Sabres subsequently shat themselves out of Cup contention. I don't think my neighbor talked to his father for about a week. I was a little more forgiving and talked to my brother after a couple of days.

This year's taken a different tone. My neighbor is away at college I haven't been pounding the brews -- bedtime is testy enough, without being half in the bag.

(Lydman ties the score at 2! Hecks yeah!)

My juju instead has been these cookies from local dessertery Sweet Tooth:





(The two humping buffaloes at the top of the picture are inadvertent, by the way)

I don't expect a good game from Jochen Hecht, since
a) Fletchmonster dropped the cookie after a couple of bites and
b) the dog ate the lions share of it off the kitchen table.

Incidentally, Hecht is nursing a groin injury and just took a sh*tty cross-checking penalty.

Anyway, I've been watching the bulk of the games alone, prepared to kick anybody out of the house if things ain't going our way... especially my friend Skip. When he and I get together for important games... Sh*t. It's like throwing a hat on Bob Hughes's bed.

Tonight I asked Mrs. P to pick up a sixer of Blue Moon for old time's sake. It may or may not work... Actually, I'm thinking of switching to Magic Hat's #9.

Another couple weeks of facial hair and its accompanying discomfort is a small price to pay to be part of what might hopefully be a Stanley Cup season. Sh*t. I've been relishing these moments for thirty years. And as irreligious as I am, I'm playing all my cards.

You don't know how desperate I am. I'm willing to give the Dalai Lama a reach around if it'll get us past the Ottawa series.



Allez Putains.




Addendum:
The Wh*res shat themselves tonight 5-2. Series is 1-0 Ottawa.
Note to self: Ixnay the No. 9 swill. Get Dalai Lama's number.

Open Letter To the ***hole Who Stole O-Dog's Hockey Equipment

Dear Petty-*ss Thief:

Thanks for the minor inconvenience last week. I'm sure you're proud of your accomplishment. It's the craftiest heist since D. B. Cooper's. I realize I made your 'crime' a bit easier by leaving the door unlocked, but the way you managed the door handle? Now that was some adroit sh*t right there. Masterful.

I don't know what you were expecting to find in the O-Dog's hockey bag: $38,000 in small bills? Bootleg DVDs of Spiderman 3? A complete set of Funk & Wagnalls from 1973? I can imagine your disappointment when all you found was tot sized hockey gear.

There are two scenarios I envision in which you tallied up your haul. One, you cart the satchel off to your squalid little hovel, unzip the bag (I'm sure you were able to handle this task after the way in which you worked your way past the car door) and utter a long "Faaaaaaaaaahhhhhhkkkk" after pulling out tiny skates and and a youth M sized jersey. I hope you at least managed to take the goods in to a used sporting goods store and used the $40 or so they'd give you for a carton of smokes and a case of PBR.

The other less likely scenario assumes you have a little wretch at home. "Look, Jr. Christmas came early this year." In which case, I hope the bastard son of Scott Stevens catches your kid skating with his ugly-*ss head down through centre ice. On second thought, I shouldn't wish ill upon your spawn. It's bad enough it's got you for a parent. Besides, somebody's got to grieve your smack-addled corpse someday.

Either way, my congratulations on your cunning and guile. Maybe next time you can help yourself to the 43¢ in pennies and nickles I had in the ashtray.

Disdainfully yours,
Prego


PS I replaced the O-Dog's gear. Perhaps you'd like to take it from us mano a mano? I'd love to have you try. I'm sure they'll be able to surgically remove the hockey stick from your rectum.

Pucks, Pads and Piss

The O-Dog had his debut as a goalkeeper for his team today -- a daunting task for a novice skater. The poor little bastard could barely stand up with the goalie pads strapped on. In a rush to get him dressed on time, I forgot to take the last trip to the facilities with him to empty the bladder.

Every three or four games I forget this bit of rink 'housekeeping'. The O-Dog usually skates off the ice, and I rush him to the john to undo the cumbersome equipment and let him take his leak. There was no such respite to be had today.


Short of leaving the goal crease empty, there was not much we could do.




Though it looks like he's giving the "icing" signal, he's actually trying to get his coach's attention. Unfortunately, he'd have to wait. I managed to capture the conversation between the O-Dog and his coach.

Needless to say, he solved his problem on his own before the end of the game, as the coach skates with him to center ice to shake hands with the other team:

"Well, at least he doesn't have to go anymore."

... and he won, 6-5.

Pfooooooffff....

Excuse me while I blow the dust off of this blog. This thing's been updated lately about as much as the billboards in Podunk, WV.

This isn't to say life's been uneventful in the Prego household... The O-Dog got into a scrap with one of his kindergarten classmates -- a little snot who's destined for "juvie" -- Mrs. P killed a rabbit, which means there'll soon be another Caeleigh or Kegger running amok on this doomed planet of ours.

... And when I wasn't busy propogating the species, I started a webite to house my editorial cartoons. I also took the liberty of creating this Teenage Jesus character, who'll hopefully make someone chuckle once in a while in one-panel shenanigans. I figure I'm going to hell anyway for any of another number of offenses.

Here's a taste, just in time for Easter:



If anybody cares, sorry for the hiatus. Enjoy your (as Rob of fuquad! likes to quip) Zombie Jesus weekend.

"Stardust" Memories

I got a Christmas present from Apple this week. My iPod took a sh*t, wiping out 8,392 songs. Oh well. My fault for not backing up all the files. Out of the misery, though comes this little bit of sunshine. While rifling through some unlabled discs I found this classic rock video, starring a then two-year-old O-Dog.



Unfortunately, these days he's a little too self-aware to pull off an impromptu performance. Hopefully he'll grow out of this phase soon, since I told him he's one of the last hopes to save rock from the doldrums. He's already enlisted the Flecthmonster to help him do so.

Rock over London! Rock on Chicago!

O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and Arborcide

The boys and I took a walk to the Lexington General Store around the corner, to haul home a Douglas Fir for the holiday season. Part of the charm of living where we live is that we can take a short stroll with the Radio Flyer wagon and haul back anything from a couple of pizzas to a snowboard or a chainsaw. In this case, all we needed was the tree and a half-gallon of milk.


After we got the dead tree home, O-Dog had to leave for yet another birthday party, leaving the Fletchmonster and I to "hang like gentlemen" at home. He took it a bit better than he did last week, and spent the evening entertaining me on the piano while I stood the tree up and put the lights on.


The scope and breadth of the average two year-old's experiences were glaringly evident, as the Fletchmonster announced "This one's called, "I Gotta Go Poopee and Pee-Pee," before he starts pounding on the ivories.

Once the tree and lights were set up, we waited for the O-Dog to come home to help with the ornaments, lets we cause a meltdown of the "I wanted to help with the ornaments!" persuasion. Basically, neither of the boys showed any interest, once the Batman & Robin ornaments were in place, leaving Mrs. P and I to do the bulk of the work.



You'll notice I took care to ensure that my favourite ornament, Oscar the Grouch, was placed prominently at approximate eye level. I do base my life on his teachings, you know.

Thanks...

... to myself for leaving the digital camera in the back seat of the car.

An O-Dog self-portrait...

...and a snapshot of his brother.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving holiday.

Mille Grazie

Recently, the O-Dog and I sent off another original O-Dog design on a tog for Jaques Roux from the brilliant but oft-dormant Hubris & Hate blog. (Understandably the homes is in law school. What's a brother gonna do if he gots to study). As a thank you, Mr. Roux was generous enough to send 4 lbs. of Hershey, PA chocolate.

Here's the O-Dog's design. Somehow I felt it went perfectly with Mr. Roux's blog and his current role as a student.



On behalf of the O-Dog, the Fletch and our family dentist, merci beaucoup, bro. And thank you for patronizing my little dude's art.

Bird-Doggin' with the O-Dog

There are two avenues to traverse to the Prego household. One, a heavily trafficked, pedestrian friendly thoroughfare with plenty of shops and plenty of attractive 'shoppers.' The other? A quiet, tree-lined residential street with less congestion and traffic signals.






The following is a conversation between my 'almost five' year old son and myself.



Prego: O-Dog, where are all the 'hey now-hey nows'?
O-Dog: ELM-woooood!
Prego: So which road are we taking?
O-Dog: ELM-woooood!
Prego: So... which way would we take if mommy was in the car with us.

O-Dog: (Pause) ...Um... Richmond.

You're learning well, young Jedi.