I found this singed jotting, skewered with a 'pitchfork-esque' swizzle to my front door. I immediately assumed it was in response to yesterday's letter.
'Drear' Prego:
My assistant, Mr. Reagan passed your letter to me. Let me begin by telling you that you are correct: your soul is mine. Theos and I were throwing back the Zimas a while back, (mid 90's) and if I'm not mistaken, I believe that was the height of your foray into debauchery. We discussed your prospects for the afterlife and it was clear to us (particularly after the possum fiasco) that you were destined for perdition. You have about as much chance of getting into heaven as Pete Rose has of getting into the Hall of Fame.
I must admit, though, I like your moxie and irreverence. That's why I'm willing to entertain your offer. As you might have noticed, your Sabres were victors in last night's hockey game. I'm going to mull it over between now and Saturday afternoon. The Senators, after all, did beat my Pittsburgh Penguins.
As for your other proposal, though Attila appreciated it, he has his sights set on the "Zack and Cody" twins. Rosie, however has a vatful of petroleum jelly and some leg shackles with your name on it. As the hillbilly said to Ned Beatty: "Squeal like a pig, boy...!""
Nefariously Yours, Lucifer
PS I do, in fact, exist. Nice job on the fence-sitting "out" clause, sucker... but around here a deal's a deal.
Prego:I'm selling my soul to Satan. Mrs. P: For what? Prego: To get the Sabres past this series. Mrs. P: (Annoyed & Distraught) Ugh.. That's really good. Nice. Nice...
I know she has visions of us walking hand in hand in that giant Jehovah's Witness Petting Zoo in the sky, so it was really difficult for me to break it to her.
Dear Satan, Baal, Beelzebub, Akuma, Prince of Darkness or Whatever:
How are you? Torrid, I hope. Let's not kid ourselves. I know you already lay claim to my everlasting (There was that time in Kentucky with the possum and the voodoo priestess from Havana. Oh... and playing those Judas Priest records backwards...) but I thought I'd ask you for a small request. I don't usually ask for much -- not that you listen much, anyway: American Idol is still on the air, Rosie O'Donnell can still walk and talk... Also, you never sent that murder of crows to pluck out Dr. Phil's moustache hairs one by one -- but you're my last chance.
I realize you're busy, and people ask you for all kinds of stupid crap (fame, fortune... sacrilicious doughnuts; I also realize that his kind request falls into that category - after all, there's no self gain for me and it doesn't quite further your cause, but do you think you can find it in that black void in your chest to let the Sabres squeak through this round of the Stanley Cup playoffs?
The other #$*@ers are ignoring me (and I wish the Dalai Lama would quit calling me) and I don't know where else to turn. I'm willing to spend eternity as Attila's boy-toy or sitting through a Bette Midler triple-feature...
You did it for Ray Bourque, Mario Lemieux and Scotty Bowman, so if it's not too much trouble...
Sincerely Prego
PS If you do in fact exist, kindly ignore this letter. Let the chips fall where they may. I'd hate to think that the Sabres actually won the Cup on anything less than grit, hard work and sheer determination. And say "hi" to Katie Couric for me.
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.
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.
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.
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."
It looks like I'm getting a couple weeks to atone for my transgressions (even though my opponent and I 'kissed' and made up. I like the use of the word "crime" in my captain's e-mail, though.
Oh, well. Time to find a couple friendly "pick up" games over the next couple weeks. What's funny is that Sunday morning, my good friend and hockey mentor Bill and I found ourselves on opposite teams during our weekly "pick up" game. Going after the same puck, he gives me a stiff forearm across the chest, sending me flying to the ice.
"You're not gooning me, pal."
I've been humbled.
From: E Sent: Monday, December 04, 2006 9:11 AM To: F (Warriors) (E-mail) Subject: Hockey Importance: High
F, Just making sure you know that Prego received a fighting misconduct at last game which means he must sit the next (2) games. That is the minimum suspension time for fighting.
E
From: F Subject: RE: Hockey Date: December 4, 2006 2:40:41 PM EST To: e E,I would like to formally appeal this suspension. Although Prego was wrong in throwing the first punch it does take 2 to tango and the opposing player is just as guilty as Prego and should be forced to sit at least a game. I mean Bryan K threw 2 punches after the refs jumped in and the only explanation I got from the refs for not throwing him out was “What would you do if you were punched?”
Prego should not have thrown a punch but far worse had been done in this game with no whistles. Slew footing behind the play, boarding, 2 handed slashes and charging to name a few.Either way he was wrong and should have been thrown out.I am not going to make a big deal about last game but the officiating was as bad as it ever was both ways. They had no control over this game whatsoever and someone could have been seriously injured.The league needs to address both refs involved and have a talk with them. They were terrible.
Please let me know what we can do in regards to the appeal. Prego’s punishment is far worse than the crime.
When I was a kid I had the misfortune of having an older sister who liked to "fight my battles." I questioned her motives, wondering if it wasn't so much to protect her kin or because she enjoyed the confrontations. I'm guessing it was more of the latter; though she has long since lost the bloodthirst for physical confrontation, she still enjoys the occasional verbal tête à tête.
What this translated into for Prego were the additional ass-kickings that ensued.
"Your sister's not (punch) here to save your ass now, f*ck-face (kick)."
Eventually, the ass kickings stopped. My sister lost interest and I actually fought back once. It was in Venezuela, circa 1983 when a new kid in the neighbourhood who wanted to prove himself rang the doorbell at my friend's house, announcing "I heard you wanted to fight," right before he swung a punch to the side of my head. The vision in my right eye blurred at the blow while something inside me snapped. I lunged at the *sshole with everything I could muster, catching him off-guard. I forgot how we were finally separated, but for weeks after the fight, the kid would simply walk by me and give me a nod, or a "What's up?"
In a way, that was my personal ass kicker's debutante ball, because I don't think I had to fight anymore after that. Yeah, I got jumped by a Guido in Buffalo around 1987, but I pretty much avoided conflicts altogether. I usually like to keep it that way, unless I'm wearing skates.
I don't know what it is about hockey, but every once in a while the tempers flare. Knowing that I'm donning protective equipment and a cage across my face might add to my bravado, so occasionally I get involved in a tussle. Maybe that's why I find myself near the top of the league in penalty minutes (PIM).
Usually, I find myself on the scoresheet with a couple of tripping or hooking calls. Thursday night, however, I racked some up in a most un-Prego fashion. One of the opposing players took exception to me tying him up in front of my goalie to prevent him from digging up a rebound and scoring. He decides to push back violently with his elbows. I shove back.
The next thing I know, I've got a face full of irate, yelling god knows what - to which I reply, "F*ck you," with a quick gloved swat to his cage.
"Grrrrrrraaaaaaawrrrr! I'm going to f*cking kill you!" he says, as he lunges at me over his teammates' shoulders. "Go ahead," was my calm reply. "I'm right here!" he continues, as we are separated by the officials and other players.
As I start skating towards the penalty box, the referee looks at me and points in the other direction.
"What?" "You're gone," he explains. "Game misconduct."
One of the guys on the other team explains succinctly "Punch in the face. Bye-bye, f*cking*sshole."
My nemesis remained on the ice. Despite the life threatening remarks and his part in the mêlée, I had thrown the only punch, and was thus ejected. I looked at the clock to see only nine minutes had elapsed. Worse yet, I'd only skated three shifts. As I entered the locker room, I felt quite alone - just me and some empty hockey bags. Though I hadn't even broken a sweat yet, I took a shower and went back to watch the rest of the game.
A couple of my teammates glanced over the glass, smiled or gave me a nod.
"What'd you do, take a psycho pill today?" asked Higgins.
It was a long game to watch, given the fact that ordinarily I'd be participating. I obviously hoped my team would win, making my blowout worthwhile somehow.
We did.
At the end of the game, the teams shake hands. I stood at the entrance to the rink and, who should come skating towards me but the same gentleman with whom I'd tangled. I braced myself for the worst, figuring out what to do if things got ugly again. As soon as he was about ten feet from me a wide smile came across his face as he extended his hand.
I took his hand and we gave each other a friendly hug.
"It's hockey, man," I told him. "Good game," he replies.
(Yeah. All f*cking nine minutes of it.)
Have I joined the ranks of Stu Grimson, Bobby Probert, Joey Kocur or Dave "Tiger" Williams? Not quite. Doubtfully. Maybe I just joined the ranks of my sister. She was on to something.
This past Sunday the O-Dog had a doubleheader of birthday parties. Unfortunately, the first one was one that the Fletchmonster had to sit out. His heartbreaking cries of "I want to go with mommy and O.D." made the daddy-tears well up.
"Don't worry, Fletch. We'll hang out like gentlemen." "I don't want to hang out like gentlemen. I want to go with mommy. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
As Mrs. P and the O-Dog left, I was left with a wailing two year-old.
Any parent knows that the quickest way to stop a kid from crying is to put him in the car and tell him you're going to buy him something. I thought I'd take a quick jaunt to Ft. Erie in Canada to buy myself some hockey elbow pads (the cheap, sh*tty pair I currently own did little to protect me from a weak-ass shot from the point). Also, the Fountain Plaza ice rink should be opening any day and it's time to throw the Fletch into the size 7 Bauer skates. I figured I'd get him a helmet while I was there.
For the geographically impaired, Ft. Erie is on the other side of the Niagara River from Buffalo, NY. We live five minutes from the Peace Bridge and the Canadian Tire store is about another 8 minutes away. Going through Canadian customs is usually a breeze, so I figured the whole trip might take an hour or less...
I turned to take the bridge and got an eye-full of Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhk!
There was a back up of about two to three miles of what my Canuck brother-in-law calls "cheap-ass Canadians" coming into the U.S. to take advantage of our crappy Crap-mas sales over the holiday weekend.
I felt like that Flick kid in "A Christmas Story" as soon as he put his tongue on the lamp post.
Short of making an international incident causing u-turn in the middle of the bridge (brown people like me get shot first and get questions asked later when doing anything unusual), I bit my lip and headed into Ontario.
Customs Official:Purpose of your visit. Prego:Well, I was just going to take a quick trip over to Canadian Tire, but...(Customs Official winces and grimaces...) I think I picked a bad day... Customs Official:Yeah. I'd say so. Prego: ... so I'm probably going to pay a visit to my sister in Thorold, ON. Customs Official: Yeah. You might want to extend your stay a little. Go ahead.
I drove the 20 minutes to Thorold, short of breath... suffocating from feeling trapped in the land of hosers, curling and (shudder...) politesse.
In the meanwhile, the Fletch was chatting me up from the back seat. "You getting me a hockey helmet? Where's the store, daddy? Am I going to see my cousins, daddy?"
"Yes, buddy. We're close. Yes, buddy."
I pulled into Canadian tire and browsed the aisles for hockey gear. Bingo. On sale, $16 cdn for a pair of elbow pads. Sweet. Now where are those helmets?
I located them in the next aisle. $50 cdn? Jesus! I put one on the Fletch's head, at his request. The vision of my handsome toddler behind the facemask evoked fantasies of the Fletch-Master General leading the Maple Leafs to their first Stanley Cup win since 1967... or becoming a stalwart defenceman for the Edmonton Oilers...
Sh*t like that? 50 scoots is a baaaahr-gain. In the end, it was almost worth getting stuck in Canada, eh?
For the record, I paid my sister and her family a 40 minute visit before I decided to head back to the U.S. I managed to spend an hour and a half in Niagara Falls, inching my way towards and across the Rainbow Bridge, trying to maintain my composure. Remember, brown people like me get shot and get asked questions later.
Years ago I affectionately dubbed the hometown Buffalo Sabres "The Wh*res." On the one hand, it felt like a logical phonetic amendment of the word "Sabres." After all, the "Sabes" or the "bres" doesn't have the same panache as "Wh*res." Additionally, I also felt that it somehow encompassed how my friends and I viewed the relationship we had with the hockey club.
Not in a literal sense, of course.
Though this relationship has spanned 30 years - from discovering NHL hockey in 1976 onward - my 'affair' with this years Wh*res was dizzying. In all honesty at the beginning of the year I didn't expect much from them.
Like a young, ugly hooker, they simply fulfilled a need. Hockey.
"Let's not kid each other. We know what this is. I need to watch a hockey team, and you fit the bill. You ain't pretty but you're wearing skates."
After a year off due to a labour related lockout, I needed it badly - but again, I didn't expect much from them at all... "Pominville? Who the hell is that?!"
At first, I only paid them a visit once in a while... Hockey Night in Canada and the occasional local broadcast.
Eventually, as they hit their stride, I started paying a bit more attention. Stringing together 10-15 wins once in a while proved that these wh*res might be worth a second glance. After all, what's more endearing than a hooker with a heart of gold? Especially a hard working hooker.
Every once in a while, though, the hooker would come down with the flu and take a couple nights off. At one point "she" went 8 or so games without a win. I started losing a little bit of faith in her, but deep down I actually cared for her well being. Well, she (they) bounced back and finished strong.
I was truly starting to fall in love. She was no longer the ugly, gangly streetwalker. She made me look forward to seeing her... she gave me comfort, goddamn it. Especially during the playoffs.
The relationship always intensifies in late spring. Sometimes things get heady, other times they're downright dull. This year the wh*res exceeded my expectations tenfold. They pounded the rough and tumble hookers from Philadelpia. They dashed the hopes of the prom queens from Ottawa and they frustrated the hell out of the Dixie Chicks from Carolina, but alas... As we all know, god hates Buffalo. The little hooker that could succumbed to a broken wrist, a broken ankle, a pulled groin, a concussion and the ultimate f*ck you? A strep infection on her left shin.
Yes... my hooker was bitchslapped by the almighty and gangbanged by Atropos and her sisters. Regardless, I really thought she'd pull through. Unfortunately the Dixie Chicks get to go to the dance with the Edmonton Oilers. Hopefully those roughnecks will bend the Chicks over in 4 or 5 games and give them an old fashioned drilling...
As for my whore? She's got the summer to recover and we can start anew next year.
I loves you, baby. You're beautiful. Don't ever change.
I must admit, though, I like your moxie and irreverence. That's why I'm willing to entertain your offer. As you might have noticed, your Sabres were victors in last night's hockey game. I'm going to mull it over between now and Saturday afternoon. The Senators, after all, did beat my Pittsburgh Penguins.
