SB Nation User Blog: Rich of GASL

Great Story on Blues Great Berenson

Rich of GASL — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 12:12:40 -0000

Great Story on Blues Great Berenson

Favorite quote from Glenn Hall on the night of Red's six goal game:

‘Red, you’ve had your hands in the air all night. How about putting them in your pocket and buying us a drink?'

English Hockey or Notes From The 10th Division

Rich of GASL — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 01:07:07 -0000

Cool story about a Canuck in King Arthur's Court...uh I mean hockey rink. From the NHL to Altrincham

It is the jewel in ice hockey's crown: the fastest league in the world, watched by hundreds of thousands of fans, three times a week for half a year.

North America's National Hockey League - the NHL - is as good as the sport gets.

Televised, analysed and monetised to within an inch of its life, it is the sport's beating heart. It is a world away from ice hockey in the UK.

To my knowledge, only one man in England's Premier League (EPL) has stepped onto the ice as an NHL star. Now, he's talking to me in a dimly-lit Bracknell car park.

The Minnesota Wild Creeping Me Out / Blues GDT

Rich of GASL — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 19:24:42 -0000

I just bought tickets online for the Dec. 26th showdown between the Note and the Wild up here in St. Paul. As I was going through the process I was asked to verify I was a human being and not a bot by typing in two words they provided.

What two words did the Wild (and Ticketmaster) provide?

"Pleau"

"Enticing"

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Just proving I'm not, in fact, Insane

Rich of GASL — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 20:07:16 -0000

This goes back to last week and the link on Garfield as Garfield. Here is the Bloom County strip the idea was "borrowed" from.

via i35.tinypic.com

The Hockey Prof: New Season's Resolutions

Rich of GASL — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 17:20:49 -0000

I've never been a big fan of New Year's resolutions. I've never really figured out why hitting January 1st should mean anything to anybody. OK, fine, we have to buy a new calendar, but why should I re-evaluate my entire life just because I bought another set of 12 Far Side cartoons?

Besides, I've always been wary of New Year's resolutions because I suspected the people pushing us to make them were the same Catholic bastards that made New Year's a holy day of obligation. Oh, yeah, like I'm so fucking sure it was totally coincidental that I was being forced to go to church after a night dedicated to heavy drinking. Sorry, bishops, but I ain't buying it for a minute.

However, the start of the hockey season is something that has special meaning to me. Life is noticeably different once the Blues are skating for real. So it makes sense, to me at least, for this to be the time of year where I decide to make changes to what is important to me. Now, it isn't my fault that, because it is this time of year, my resolutions will all be about hockey. If you don't like it Mr. Bishop I suggest you go read a golf blog or something. (Sit down Ben, I'm not talking to you!)

Resolution #1 - This season I resolve to cut Brad Winchester some fucking slack.

Resolution #2 - If I'm watching a Blues/Red Wings game and the Note goes down by two goals, I resolve to no longer threaten to slash my wrists, nor will I any longer promise to "take out" anyone who tries to console me.

Resolution #3 - I resolve to finally make it to the Excel to see the Blues play the Wild, even if I have to pay some scumbag scalper out the wazoo for the privilege.

Resolution #4 - I resolve to drink more on game nights.

Resolution #5 - No matter where the Blues sit in the standings at any given date, I resolve to wait until the end of the season before I speculate on whether Coach Murray's parents were ever married.

I think that is about all the self-improvement I can stand at a single sitting. But, if you have any resolutions you would like to announce I think this is the place to do it.

Blues On Radio Tonight? (I Think So) [Game Night Thread!]

Rich of GASL — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 21:45:39 -0000

Hockey Prof here:

I know the Blues web site says no TV/Radio tonight, but the Wild website says:

Audio from tonight's game will be streamed live via WCCO on CBS radio

For what it's worth....

ADDING:

Since none of the higher ups seem to be around (drinking?) I'm promoting this to a game thread.

Really. I've nothing better to do.

Erik Johnson: The World's Hardest Dick (continued)

Rich of GASL — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 16:39:15 -0000

Part Three: The Lion's Den?

The flight down to Love Field in Dallas was uneventful. All I had to do was brood about the potential dangers waiting for me when I arrived. This happens when someone tries to ventilate your skull for ya. You get edgy until you learn something, anything, to your advantage. In the meantime, I did learn that Checketts only stocks Dewar's in the on-board bar, the cheap sonofabitch.

Once in Dallas I headed not for the downtown hotel I had made a reservation for, but instead had a cabbie drop me off at a Motel 6 off of I-35 in Fort Worth. I registered under the name David Backes. This being Texas I knew there was no chance any of the yokels would know the difference, neither would the guy from the Punjab working the desk.

I woke at 4 for my 9 o'clock appointment. I made it outside the Stars' offices before 6 and took up a position in the shadows across the street. I waited and watched.

Soon the staff began to arrive for their work day; First the stiffs came in via public transport, the janitors, the secretaries, the guy who gives Zubov his bikini waxes, etc. Next the suits began to arrive and pull into the corporate parking lot; the guys with tiny dicks arrived in expensive foreign sports cars, the better endowed in more tasteful sedans.

Hull finally made his appearance at 8:30 driving a black Lexus sedan. I waited another couple of minutes and was about to head across when a limousine pulled up.

"What have we got here?" I asked of myself. I looked at the man pulling himself out of the back and audibly said, "What the fuck?"

Wayne Gretzky? Wayne fucking Gretzky? What in the hell is he doing here in Dallas only a couple weeks before training camp opens? I know its only the Coyotes, but even they should attempt to put a team together. It was too odd not to be suspicious.

I let Wayne get just into the building before I, painfully, made my way across the street. With luck I would be able to find out who he was coming to see. As I entered the lobby I didn't see him right away, and I began to fear my knee had made me miss him. However, as I limped towards the bank of elevators I saw the reflection of him alone in the last car on the left. As the door to the car closed it almost seemed like he saw my reflection as well as a look of recognition came over his face. I waited to see what floor Gretzky got off on. The number 7 lit up. I made a mental note.

It was nearing that time so I grabbed an elevator and pressed 10. As the car pulled smoothly upward I made sure the safety on my .38 was switched off. I didn't really think I would need to use it here, but I wasn't going to take any chances.

The door opened and I found myself in the usual polished air-conditioned corporate sterility favored by hockey execs and high-priced hookers. Across from the elevators a wall of frosted glass with a mahogany door with a placard saying "Office of the General Manager" waited.

I open the door and entered the outer office.

"Well, hello there," I heard a smoky voice say as I stepped inside.

The woman behind the desk swiveled and uncrossed her long tan legs as she rose to greet me; that was strictly for my benefit, and, let me tell you, I was one lucky boy. True, she had hair the color of underwear skid marks, but she had more curves then a year’s supply of Marian Gaborik’s sticks.

"So," she purred, "is that a .38 in your pocket or have I already got your attention?"

"Can’t it be both?"

She gave me the kind of smile that told me she wasn’t thinking about any "Saturday Night Special," but before I could add anything more she grabbed a pile of files of her desk and made for the exit.

"Oh, you can go right in. You’re expected."

And she was gone.

I turned to face the inner office with the name plate "Mr. Hull." I walked up to it. I knocked once.

"Come," said a voice through the door.

With one hand on the door knob, and the other cradling my gat, I pushed my way in…

Previous Chapters:

Part One

Part Two

Blues Sign Derek Armstrong

Rich of GASL — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 01:39:03 -0000

Norm Sanders says:

Veteran center Derek Armstrong signed a two-way contract Tuesday with the St. Louis Blues.

The 36-year-old Armstrong had five goals and nine points in 56 games with the Los Angeles Kings last season. He also had 63 penalty minutes and a plus-minus rating of minus-11.

How will the Armstrong era be remembered when it is all over?

Poll

Looking 10 years into the future, how do you think you will remember the Derek Armstrong era?

Derek who?

59 votes

Wasn't he the first man to walk on the moon?

21 votes

I'll never forget the time he said, "Kid, would you like my autograph? Pretty please?"

19 votes

99 votes | Poll has closed

Erik Johnson: The World's Hardest Dick (continued)

Rich of GASL — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 21:33:33 -0000

Part Two: Down But Not Out In St. Louis

When I came to in the hospital I was greeted by the ugly mug of Detective Holland from the SLPD and the even uglier mug of one Nurse Fatlap.

"So, you're coming around, eh." this was from Holland and said with a smug smile.

"Once again, detective, your powers of observation astound." I replied.

Holland's smile died a quiet little death and a scowl came over him.

"Alright, smart ass. You want to tell me what happened out there."

"A cat."

"What?" said Holland perplexed.

"A cat was trying to cross the highway. Campbell musta tried to avoid hitting it."

"That's bullshit, Johnson, and you know it!" Holland was nearly apoplectic.

I shrugged. "What else can I say?" When I made it clear I wasn't about to change my tune Holland stormed out of the room. There was no way I was going to get the city bureaucrats in on this, not until I knew exactly what I was up against. The coppers get a whiff of something like this and they will keep you completely in the dark. That was a good way to wind up more than slightly dead.

"You are probably wondering about your friend?" chimed in Nurse Fatlap.

Friend? I thought. Oh, she must mean Campbell. "Yeah," I said. "How is he?"

"I can take you to see him." Fatlap motioned to a nearby wheelchair. I saddled up and allowed her to roll me down the hall to another private room.

Campbell looked like someone who owed Todd Bertuzzi ten bucks. He was flat on his back, both of his eyes were bandaged shut and his right arm had a cast on it.

"He will probably lose the use of his left eye." stated Fatlap matter of factly. "His right eye should be okay, and his right wrist is broken. From what the paramedics said he was very lucky, and so were you. They didn't expect to find anyone alive when the saw the state of the car."

"Yeah, lucky. How do I check myself out of here?"

A little paperwork and a call to a cab company later and I was back on my way to my office. It was just past 2 AM when I collapsed into my office chair in my Washington Avenue loft.

I tried to make sense of what had happened to me during the past week, but it just didn't add up. If someone wanted to kill me why would they pull the stunt with the golfcart? There was little chance for that to be fatal to anyone. And, if they did mean to only injure me, why are they suddenly trying to fill me with lead?

My head hurt too much to think about it anymore. I pulled a bottle of rye out of a desk drawer and after the third slug I was ready for some shut eye.

A full eight hours later the phone rang. I cursed and picked up.

"Johnson here."

"I have to hear you are in a car accident from the police?" It was Davidson, and from his tone he was none too happy.

"Well, I got in kinda late to call...," I began.

"It's almost 11! If detective Holland hadn't called would I have ever found out?"

Damn that Holland. You can never trust a cop. Once a flatfoot, always a flatfoot.

"I'm okay Johnny boy."

"What about Campbell?"

"What about him? You getting desperate for washed up third liners?"

"Stow it, smart boy. He was supposed to tape a Dairy Queen commercial today. How can he do that with a fucking eye patch?"

"Tell them to make it pirate themed."

"Johnson, you are not helping."

"I know. Listen, I've got to run to physical therapy. Catch you later."

I hung up as Davidson began screaming at me. Switching lines, I selected a page from my Rolodex and dialed. After a series of clicks and a silence lasting twenty full seconds a voice came on the line.

"Checketts."

"Hey, big guy. EJ here."

"Johnson, yeah. What can I do for you? How'd you get this number anyway?"

I chuckled, "Never mind that. I need to ask a favor. Actually, I need to borrow your plane. I just got my knee fixed up and there if no way I could fly commercial."

"Well," Checketts thought a second. "I don't see why not. Where you going?"

"Dallas."

"Better you than me. Yeah, you can have the plane. It will be fueled and ready to go at Spirit by 7 tonight. Good enough?"

"Perfect," I said.

"That's fine," he replied. "Oh, and Johnson?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me on this line a second time and I'll have your ass traded to Atlanta." And he was gone.

Great. Now I'm in dutch with the man who signs the checks. Again.

I had a few hours before the flight to big Dildo, so I decided to beat the bushes a little. A short cab ride later I was in McGurk's for a pint, some fish 'n chips, and, hopefully, some information. After my meal I found, as I expected, Gallagher manning his stool at the end of the bar.

Gallagher is the type that puts the fanatic into fandom. He publishes a fan paper and as a result kept up on all the gossip. He had lines into just about everyone who mattered, even if they didn't know it. A player couldn't get a hang nail or knock up an underage babysitter without Gallagher hearing about it eventually. He pretty much worshiped us Blues, which was always vaguely nauseating, but the guy knew his shit.

"Johnson!" said Gallagher, with his usual dose of toady admiration. "What brings you to Soulard? How's the knee?"

I ignored his question about my health. "I'm here to ask a favor of you."

"Me? Sure, anything." He was my eager little puppy.

"I want you to start asking some questions. Hit all of your sources. Hint that I'm making inquiries as to who might be holding a grudge against me."

A look of something like fear crossed Gallagher's face. He called the barkeep over to order another Jameson. After downing the whiskey in one gulp he said. "That sounds dicey."

"Well, I could always ask Lee." I made as if to go.

"No, no. I'll do it." He was all accommodation now. "It's just...well, I've heard...things."

"What kind of things?"

"Nothing definite." He looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot. "But I've heard more than one source question our blue line depth, before you went golfing."

That's the thing about the hockey underworld. We are not talking about rocket scientists here. Goons always talk. The skinny was out there and I was gonna sniff it out even if I had to stick my nose into Elisha Cuthbert's cooch.

"Well," I said, pulling on the dregs of my Guiness. "Just do what you can. I may, or may not get back to you." I flipped him a cool G in a silver money clip.

As I left Gallagher looked puzzled, but not so much he didn't take the cash or call the barkeep over to order another.

Back in my office I pulled my kit together for the trip. Extra shirt and socks; the wing tips; the white linen suit; the grade seven Panama; and the .38. Another nice thing about flying Checketts Air was I could take my roscoe with me. Dallas could prove to be hostile country.

I noticed the clock and made a call.

"Hi there, this is Erik Johnson of the St. Louis Blues. I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Hull tomorrow morning. 9 o'clock? That'll be fine. Thank you."

Brett may or may not be trying to kill me, but either way he now knew I was coming.

Previous Chapters:

Part One

Erik Johnson: The World's Hardest Dick

Rich of GASL — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 03:04:27 -0000

Part One: A Different Kind Of Wrist Shot

It was clear to me at the time that someone wanted me out of the way...permanently.

Oh, we played the thing off as an "accident" to keep the big artillery of the cops in the dark, and the college educated pinheads at the Post-Dispatch will believe almost any damn thing you tell them. Hell, they still think Bryan Burwell knows what he's talkin' about. But when the parking brake on my golfcart failed on the 5th hole while I was half in and half out of the stupid thing I knew the truth.

I was a marked man.

Who am I? I'll tell you. I'm Erik Johnson, part-time hockey player, full-time bad ass and, if you've got the cash, a private detective. I'm known as the hardest dick in the world. You mugs got a problem with that?

I didn't think so.

After the accident the team wanted me to see their docs, but I told them no dice.

"Don't worry about it, Johnny boy. I know a guy who can fix me up good as new."

Davidson seemed uncertain. "Why not use our guys? They got a good track record. Hell, they've never even consulted for the Cardinals."

I held firm. "Listen up. Until I know what's going on I trust nobody. You hear me? Nobody. Someone went to greats lengths to put me on ice this season, and until I know 'who' and 'why' I'm not letting any quack cut me open or put me under, unless I know them backwards and forwards."

Davidson merely glared as I rolled myself out of the room.

Yeah, my exit would have been cooler had I not been in a wheelchair, but what the fuck was I supposed to do about it at the time?

I took the elevator down and was met by my driver in the lobby.

"Alright, Jimmy." I said, "It's time I got fixed up by the Doc."

"Right, sir!" said Campbell with enthusiasm. He was an experienced pug that Campbell. None too bright maybe, but he knew his way around the business end of a hockey stick or a .38. And at that point I needed someone I could trust.

We got into my '77 Lincoln and I commanded, "Take me to the Hill."

"Sure thing, boss."

As we drove I tried to read the impression of Davidson from the early afternoon meeting. Had he pressed a little too hard for me to use the team docs? No, I decided. He was just being a good organization man, but that didn't mean someone else close to him might not be playing him for a sucker. No, I'd stick to my own resources for the moment.

We were in the Hill now, the close knit Italian immigrant community where Yogi Berra learned to mangle the English language, and where I was about to undergo surgery. Around the corner from the famed Amighetti's Bakery Campbell stopped the car at a non-descript house flying the Italian flag. We were expected and a man quickly exited the house to meet us.

"Hey Gino," I said. "Is Paulie ready to get cutting?"

"Keep you voice down! You want the whole neighborhood to know what we do in here?" Gino Cavallini was always the more excitable of the boys. I was certainly glad it was Paul who would be wielding the scalpel. "Anyway," Gino continued, "Paulie will be back any second. He just went down to Vito's to pick up a pizza."

One eye roll later I made my way, painfully, up the steps and into the house. Paulie showed up about five minutes later carrying two pies. The smell of extra prosciutto filled the house. The Italian ham wasn't on the menu for regular Joes, but the boys knew how to get things done in the Hill.

"Hey Johnson, you're already here, eh?" said Paulie dropping the pizzas on the nearest Formica counter top, "You want a slice before I slice?"

I stared hard at him and he flinched like a puppy threatened with a phone book. "No I don't. And wash your hands before you get cutting. You don't know where Vito has been."

"Okay, okay," he said as he left to wash up.

I hobbled into the 'operating' theater set up in the extra bedroom and waited.

I'm not sure when Paul Cavallini had started the whole underground surgery racket, but he always made a lot of extra scratch from his little sideline. Not that he didn't pay a price as well. When he scarred a important man's moll in a botched face lift back in his playing days, the miffed Don exacted his revenge by having the tip of Paul's finger cut off with a rusty hedge trimmer. The organization had to pay a small fortune to rig Paul's glove with a squib and cow's blood so he could have an "accident" his next time on the ice. After that Paul never cut the dames. "No guy ever cares if I make him uglier" he always said.

When he came into the room he was all business.

"Alright Johnson, I'll have Gino put you under now."

"No you won't. I'm doing this sans gas. I trust you to cut me, you butcher, but I want to have my wits about me. I'm going to stay alive until I figure out what is going on, and long after."

He chuckled. "It's your funeral, man." Turning to Gino he said, "You can go in and eat some pizza, I guess." His brother exited.

Paul picked up a knife and bent over my presently useless knee. As he cut into me he said, "You can yell if you feel like it."

"I don't and I won't."

Paulie grunted and got to work in earnest.

It took four hours during which time I invented elaborate tortures I would inflict upon the villain who did this to me....if and when I caught him.

And then it was over.

"You're done," said Paul. "Your knee ain't gonna win any beauty pageants, but you should be ready to go by the time the oh nine, ten season begins."

I grimaced at the thought of a entire season lost, and a little at the pain of my throbbing leg, but all I said was, "Thanks. I owe you one."

"The hell you do," said Cavallini. "Where's my money?"

"Heh. It's always the same thing with you ain't it, Paulie."

"Hey, pasta with red sauce doesn't pay for itself."

I called Campbell into the room and he produced a wad of tightly bunched Franklins.

"Satisfied?"

"Va bene," he replied.

"Whatever. Jimmy, let's get out of here."

"Sure thing, boss."

They had to use the wheelchair to get me to the car as my freshly carved leg kept me from even being able to hobble. I bit the inside of my mouth to fight through the pain and was treated to the taste of my own blood.

"Someone is really going to pay," I promised aloud, not for the first time.

"What's that, boss?" piped in Campbell over the front bench seat.

"Nothing. Let's go home. No...wait." I stopped myself. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep with this bum leg, and I couldn't sit through another night of cable TV. "Let's go to the office."

"You got it," said Campbell sliding the Lincoln into D.

My office is a loft down on Washington. Its where I do my heavy thinking, as well as where I keep boxes of my "Extra Well Hung" prophylactics, if you catch my drift. Tonight, however, I didn't have a broad on my mind.

As we swung into the light evening traffic on 40 at Kingshighway the black Audi that had been following us suddenly shot forward. I could see the tinted windows begin to drop, and then the silhouette of a gun barrel.

"Brake!" I screamed.

At that point, several things happened at once. Campbell slammed on the brakes of the Lincoln, while my unbuckled frame doubled over the front bench seat thrown forward by the attempt to stop. At that moment the window by Campbell's head exploded into a million pieces, though neither of us ever heard the report of the pistol. As glass shards entered Campbell's eyes he reflexively grabbed at them throwing the car in a hard right turn at 30 mph. It was too much to ask of the car and it flipped, once, twice and a third time, coming to rest on its hard steel hood.

Somehow, I wasn't thrown from the car. I found that I was lying prone, bruised and battered, but alive and kicking. My head hurt like hell, and the world was swimming before my eyes, becoming as faint as Mike Weaver's Norris Trophy chances. Campbell was hanging, unconscious or dead, from his safety belt. Blood was streaming from his left eye and dripping onto the ceiling of the car.

I turned and looked out the passenger side door now facing forward down the road and saw that the Audi had stopped to see the aftermath of the accident. I heard the sound and cries of approaching good Samaritans, and the Audi peeled out and sped away, but not before I spied it's liscence plate.

It was a Missouri plate that read "No 16 HOF".

Just before I passed out I had but one thought.

Why would Brett Hull try to kill me?