Fictional Saints and Factual Kindness (now with postscript)

When I think back on the last 15 years of my own life, I have many memories of seeing children suffer. Many of them come from my time spent in the Dominican Republic and the decade I spent working with special-needs kids in schools. I am not sure how much impact my presence had in any of the situations I ended up in, but I certainly felt that as long as there were needs, someone had to try to meet them.

I'm no saint. Not by a long shot. My motivations are faulty and my gifts are poor. However, I think I have always had a special gift for really feeling for others when they hurt, which makes their suffering rather hard to ignore. I can't help but be moved when I see suffering -- especially among the most vulnerable members of our human family -- and I have been fortunate enough to have been permitted to work with some of them, and, I hope, to make some difference in their lives. In the end, I think every little bit helps.

So, when I found out that some of the Hurricanes were to shave their heads today to raise money for a charity that helps raise millions of dollars annually to help combat childhood cancer (St. Baldrick's) , the opportunity to go watch the event unfold was quite appealing. The fan-girl in me would get to see a couple of players I enjoy watching on the ice shed their locks, and the tender-heart in me would I hope have a chance to make some small difference in the life of a child by making a small donation in honor of my 'Canes.

It was a lovely event on many levels. Not only were the participants nice people, but the atmosphere was joyous, because in our midst were a couple of very young cancer survivors who brought their own special zest for living to the crowded pub. I hadn't really decided which of the three fellows I would sponsor when I arrived; defensemen Niclas Wallin and Dennis Seidenberg were there in company with retired NHLer and "color" commentator for Canes TV broadcasts, Tripp Tracy.

They were all pretty cool guys, and rather obliging considering how annoying I can be armed with a camera and marks-a-lot markers, but Niclas Wallin won me over in the end. I think it happened when he beamed down on one of the many children running around and said "hey cutie" with the tenderness you see in a guy who has kids of his own. That or when he didn't laugh at my ridiculous Swedish pronunciation when I attempted to greet him in Swedish... in fact, he just answered in Swedish, which implied he knew what I had said (Tack så mycket, Nic!). Or perhaps it is that I know he supports a similar organization in Sweden, so I got the impression this wasn't just a PR stunt for him. Or maybe the fact that he goes by "Nicky", a charming name, don't you think? Or perhaps that he abandoned his hard-earned sandwich to sign my jersey. In any event, his is the head I paid to see bald.

It's nice to know that there are people who are willing to sacrifice a bit of time, head warmth and vanity to bring a bit of hope to others. All in all, it was a nice ending to a really encouraging week. I've felt I have had to receive a lot these days because of my own weakness. It was nice to be in a position to give back again in some small way... and to have a little more fun in the process.

Postscript: I have now appeared on Fox Sports Network South in this video. (I'm briefly in the frame at about 1:20 in the "crowd shot" on the right of the screen behind Niclas Wallin. haha.)Dennis Seidenberg and Tripp Tracy

Dennis again with yours truly (photo taken by Tripp - Not like
you will ever see this, but if you happen to Google yourself and end up here... Thanks!)

Yours truly with Tripp Tracy. This was very blurry and only looks okay tiny. *sigh*
I contrast this with the picture I had taken with Niclas Wallin, which doesn't look good by any standard at any size.
Oh well... the hazards of handing my camera to other people!

Niclas Wallin getting ready for his shave

Niclas before

Niclas After

Score!

Tuesday was the trade deadline for the NHL, so I was quite interested to see what would happen with our local Hurricanes team. What happened is that we got a Finnish player (Tuomo Ruutu) from the Chicago Blackhawks, and he set out for Raleigh in a hurry, only to arrive at the arena about 15 minutes before the game on Tuesday night. We had acquired a few other players in the previous few weeks, one of whom -- a young and promising forward -- had been injured when he got here and had yet to play, but had been cleared for action on Tuesday night. So, Tuesday's game promised to be interesting since we'd have two new guys on the ice who were experienced NHL players.

I make this distinction because the Hurricanes have had a whole lot of trouble staying healthy enough to play the game. This means we have new players all the time -- players called up from the minor leagues (Go Albany River Rats!) because we don't have enough regular NHL players healthy on any given night to make up a whole team. This has been rather amazing to watch, if a bit distressing. A fan made a comment to the effect of "I'm kind of getting tired of the cruel joke the hockey gods are playing on us... it's like they say, 'Yes, you can have a win, but it will cost you a player.'" One of the most recent heads on the chopping block of said gods was our captain, Rod Brind'Amour. He's not very pretty to look at, his name is difficult to spell, and he's nearing his hockey expiration date, but he was the backbone of the team... and he's out for 4-6 months with a knee injury. A quick check of the calendar tells me he'll be sitting out this Stanley Cup run, even if the rest of the team manages to get in the race.

So, back to Tuesday...
The Hurricanes were scheduled to play the New Jersey Devils at home, and they went into the game on what amounts to a 16-year losing streak against the Devils (as either the Carolina Hurricanes or the Hartford Whalers, which was the Hurricanes' previous incarnation). That's a whole lot of losing, and not much reason for hope. It doesn't help our cause that Martin Brodeur was to be in goal for the Devils, since he might as well bring some pleasure reading or a manicure set with him onto the ice most of the time; he makes tricky saves look so effortless and boring. He is also the idol of most of the young goaltenders in the NHL now (including the one staring at him from across the ice on the Hurricanes' side) and makes grown women (and men, for that matter) swoon.

However, I was hopeful that this would at least not be a blow-out loss. In spite of my natural bent towards melancholy and my rather deeply ingrained cynical streak, I have faith the size of a dust mite once in a while. I mean, we have new blood on the team. We also have a group of guys -- at this point, who cares if six of them are River Rats? -- who have been working exceptionally hard for the last few weeks and have started winning again against all odds.

I was really looking forward to this game. Really, really, really. Really.

At 5:45 I went to the TV to program it to record the 7pm game. However, the game was not there. There was a whole lot of other semi-sports-related hooey scheduled. But no Hurricanes game. The local stations dropped the ball, so to speak, so that I would miss the dropping of the puck, because they decided not to cover game late enough that Center Ice had not lifted the local blackout, which was our only other obvious alternative. I wanted to cry.

Put it this way - it's a deadline week at work and I have been putting in long hours in between extra-curricular activities. I've also felt "normal" for the first time in ages. My post-op appointment went well, and I can get back to regular activity, except at least one of the things that brings me great joy is no longer open to me in the same way -- I have had to drop out of our choir. For now, I still have hockey, and I really look forward to the games as a way to unwind (and get wound up differently, of course), because it is something I can enjoy, whatever else may be going on.

It was no time to panic. It was merely time to formulate and try plan C. (This is when I am glad that my husband who liked hockey well enough to try to play it himself is nearly as obsessed with hockey as I am now.) Dan was on his way home, and I called him with my dilemma and my sales pitch. There was just time enough to get to the RBC Center if we decided to go immediately. We did, and we did.

That game turned out to be not only the best game I have ever seen (which isn't saying much, considering that my love for hockey is about a long-lived as a Hollywood marriage so far), but our boys in red shut the door on the Devils in sudden-death overtime and prompted several people to say that this game was play-off hockey minus the playoffs... gritty, hard-hitting and very exciting. Our boys beat Martin Brodeur, even if it took a sacrifice to the hockey gods of a concussion (from defenseman Tim Gleason) AND 40 stitches from gashes to the face that left a trail of blood all the way across the ice (from our just-arrived Ruutu) to get it done. Making it even sweeter, both goals were scored by one of my favorite players, also a new recruit -- Sergei Samsonov, a talented player who had been in a serious career slump before coming to us.

The icing on this hockey cake was the brilliant selection of awful arena music all evening. Sometime around the middle of the game, our ears were greeted by the semi-melodious screeching of Mötley Crüe's Shout at the Devil. That brought a snicker or two from the two of us, anyway. However, when Samsonov swept his own rebound in to make the winning goal, what to our wondering ears would appear, but Stryper's To Hell with the Devil? Ah... sports and hair bands. Who knew that love-affair would last? Tuesday night ended in triumph.

Wednesday brought dinner at a local restaurant/bar where Patrick Eaves -- the aforementioned young and promising Hurricane forward -- was doing a live radio interview and signing autographs. We sat and watched and listened over food and drink. His first game on the ice for the Hurricanes was the excellent game the night before, and even if his performance in the game was nothing to blog about, he was kind enough to sign my ticket from the game, and pose for pictures. He turned out to be a very nice guy, too. Now, if he can also turn out to be a fabulous player for years and years with the 'Canes, we're all set.

(Daniel and Patrick in their co-ordinating v-necks, and Patrick during the interview)

As much fun as the hockey has been, we're postponing our enjoyment of tonight's Hurricanes/Ranger game so that we can spend time with two of our closest friends here in the area -- a lovely couple who treated us to dinner and bowling last week... which was fun, even if the shoes were a bit unfashionable. Tonight, we're going with them to one of our favorite restaurants. I'm very much looking forward to that.

When it comes right down to it, I've really, truly enjoyed this week. It's been great to feel physically normal again. It's fun to be in an area where we can enjoy our favorite spectator sport at such short range and in such a personal way. It's nice to have friends and access to great restaurants. It's also nice to be reminded (even if it is by a hockey team) that adversity has a way of bringing out the very best in us if we keep working hard and believing that better things are in store. In short, this week, I'm feeling quite happy and blessed.

Score!(Yes, we were laughing, hence the goofy smiles)

You'll Go Down in History...

Sometimes have to wonder if I have the power to curse sports teams merely by genuinely hoping they will win. I seem to have an uncanny knack for watching losing games or associating with losing teams.

I played soccer and T-ball as a kid, and I can assure you that my teams played strangely better when I was benched. Even with me benched, we were not championship material by a long shot. I didn't even make the basketball or volleyball teams in junior high, and, out of deference to my wounded pubescent pride, I couldn't watch the teams play that I had not been allowed to join, so they managed to avoid destruction by association.

Fast forward to high school. When I was attending La Serna, the school's football team won one game for each year I was there. Only one game. Per year. Total. I began to sit in the stands on the side of our cross-town rivals (one of my friends was the sister of their star quarterback), but my genuine hope that my team would rally was their undoing.

By then I had given up on making any teams, so I played sports only in P.E. class, and even my modest involvement there created fireworks. One of my few soccer matches in high school was also the occasion of suspension for one of my opponents. She kicked me in the (unprotected) shins three times before I got mad enough to return the favor. She then promised to visit revenge on me with her friends Maria, Maria and Maria, at which point I hightailed it to my guidance counselor's office. I was deemed faultless. She was suspended. Still, I think that soccer match had a rather abortive and not-at-all-satisfying ending.

I went to two sporting events while I attended UCLA: a football game lost to USC (and if you know California college politics, you will understand why this was particularly painful) and one basketball game, the outcome of which I can't remember (I was on a date with my husband-to-be, so I think I have an excuse).

I've been to a handful of professional sporting events in my life, and while my Dad, who was usually along, may have a more faithful memory of the outcome, I mostly remember requisitioning the binoculars so that I could watch fans on the opposite side of the arena. My lack of interest in the actual game, therefore, may not have brought the curse of the Nikbino to life.

Why bring up this topic now? Well, since moving here, I've noticed it flaring up again. We managed to watch the local professional soccer club lose (or at least not win) three matches in person. Then, since I have developed a genuine interest in hockey, every team I have adopted as a favorite has lost the game when I watched any portion of it on TV or in person.

It started with my first Hurricanes game. That one was lost decisively. Since then, I have watched about 10 hockey matches on TV. I adopted Dan's favorites where I didn't have one already, and the Kings, Ducks, Bruins, Senators and Hurricanes have lost every game I have watched in part or in whole. The Hurricanes have won one in that stretch of time -- the one that I couldn't watch because I was at choir rehearsal.

It's only a matter of time before someone in the Hurricanes organization discovers the truth. I can only hope they are feeling generous and offer to pay me lots of money to find a new hobby. I'm not sure I like the other alternatives... after all, a very traditional and important part of hockey is fighting, and I don't have a guidance counselor to run to this time.

For your reference:

SPORTS CURSES A Andretti Curse B Buffalo Sports Curse C Crucible Curse Curse of 1940 Curse of Billy Penn Curse of LaBonte Curse of Muldoon Curse of Rocky Colavito Curse of the AstroTurf Curse of the Bambino Curse of the Billy Goat Curse of the Black Sox Curse of the Colonel E Ex-Cubs Factor M Madden Curse

N

• Nikki Wants You to Win Curse
  

R

• Rainbow jersey

S

• San Diego Sports Curse
• Sports Illustrated Cover Jinx

Hooked

There have been many firsts in my life, but it seems I have rarely (since I was an infant and everything was new) had so many firsts in the space of a few months. Of course, the new things seem to have multiplied some when I got married anyway. Daniel had plenty of interests that I didn't yet share and together we have found reasons to go new places and try new things. He took me to my first opera. He has been with me for my first trips to London, Dublin, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia and other fun places. He was with me for my first soccer game. And, tonight, in the midst of my first "real" fall, I had another first: my first hockey game.

Mind you, I have never even watched a full hockey game on television before. I have watched a few minutes, yes, but not a full game. I didn't know what high sticking was, or what power plays were, or that goal tenders seem to enjoy turning themselves into pretzels at the first hint of an incoming puck. I couldn't have told you that a double minor was a relatively major penalty, that the linesmen (the referee-types without orange armbands) were known to do graceful leaps to avoid becoming obstacles, that players hop in and out of the game like they might get hit by lightening if they stay on the ice more than 25 seconds at a stretch, or that hockey fans are at least as fanatical as their counterparts in other sports.

I knew so little, in fact, that I asked a friend who had attended a hockey game a few days ago to tell me how cool it is in the arena. He informed me that it is a little cool by my standards (he's used to sub-zero temps where he's from and has been seen wandering around in short sleeves when it's 35F outside and I am bundled up like a blizzard may flatten me at any moment). He assured me, however, that if I stood up and cheered properly, I would be fine.

Cheering properly? Well, maybe I could get that right. I *did* know enough to cheer for the home team. Still, at the beginning, I sometimes wasn't sure why, exactly, in that I couldn't have told you why whatever acrobatic or violent thing had just occurred on the ice was laudable. Nor did I understand precisely why I was chanting "Ref, you suck" with all of the black-and-red clad folks around me.

We were 8 rows from the ice and plenty close to the spot where the players repeatedly slam into the glass when they are trying to keep the opponent from passing the puck out of the corner to a teammate out in front of the goal. That was a sight, and sound. But there were other sights and sounds right there in the stands. We were also one row and an aisle from some of the people I will refer to as "donkeys" who were rooting for the wrong team. They even managed to make the otherwise cute and intelligent children in front of them root for the wrong team. This provoked silly comments from the fans behind me and was more than mildly annoying when the other team scored. But why should I care?

I was giggling at "Come on... we all know Philadelphians don't have sticks long enough to grab onto" from the die-hard fans behind me, directed at the guys across the aisle, when the woman on the other side of Daniel asked, "Is this your first hockey game?" I had to admit it was, and I was promptly informed by three of the fans around me that it gets worse (or better, depending on how you look at it).

Well, it got better. And it got worse. The better part was that I began to have a clue and even found myself spontaneously standing and yelling at the right moments. I even understood why the man behind me yelled "Get your head out of your a**, ref... you are missing a good game here." The "it got worse" part is that the good guys played badly. Very badly. Even I could tell it wasn't working.

As the game drew to a close, I leaned over to the woman who had inquired about my newbie status and said, "I am not even a real fan yet and I have already lost my voice." She smiled and replied, "It doesn't take long to get hooked." She's right. I think I may be hooked. Daniel smiled when I said as much as we were leaving.
I left wrapped in a cozy oversized Hurricanes sweatshirt and in possession of a working knowledge of the Hurricanes lineup. Cullen, Wallin, Williams, Brind'Amour, Ladd, Staal, Ward, Stillman, Walker ... Don't you silly hockey players know that hooking is a penalty? To the penalty box with all of you! (But thanks for the rather costly lessons in cheering properly -- and please have the decency to win next time!)