blog au poivre

Hey Caps fans (and I suppose fans of other teams too *sigh*)!

Chelsea Piers, the premiere sheets in Manhattan to play hockey, is hosting an all-skill-levels three day tournament beginning on June 20.  Early bird registration is $100 through May 11.

Further information is provided below.  

Attention Hockey Players throughout the world and beyond!

Registration for the Chelsea Challenge is NOW OPEN!

 

Chelsea Challenge 2008 Tournament

Guests may register during any registration period for the rate of $35 USD per person.  All guests are invited to the Chelsea Challenge Dinner and they will receive a tournament gift bag.

Format:

NYC Gay Hockey Association
www.nycgayhockey.org

 

 

If you experience any difficulty with the registration process, please email us at cc08@nycgayhockey.org.

 

 

 

Reflecting on all of the excitement of this 2007-08 Washington Capitals season, and the general upward trending of the franchise, its never been a better time to “rock the red” . . . New York City style!

I know that at least a handful of Capitals fans live in NYC, based on some recent posters on Japers’ Rink and some efforts to gather a disparate bunch to watch GAME 7. So I thought I’d start early to build interest for gathering NYC area fans for a handful of important Capitals events during the off-season. As “Uncle” Ted Leonsis declared in his most recent Owner’s Corner, this summer is (in addition to improving the team, of course) about expanding the fan base. So let’s help expand it all the way up the Northeast Corridor!

1. Watching the NHL Awards Show, set to be broadcast on Versus, on June 12, where Ovie will hopefully take home FOUR trophies.

2. Watching the NHL Draft on June 20.

3. Roadtrip to the Capitals development camp, which runs from July 7-12 at Kettler.

4. Roadtrip to the Capitals training camp in September.

I’ve begun this blog, in part, as a diary of my experience as an out-of-town fan following the Caps and traveling to Caps home games in DC. I purchased an 11-game plan last season, for the first time as a NYC resident, and enjoyed my experience (though my personal win-loss attendance record was poor). And I’ll likely do it again, but I’m also hoping for a caravan of Caps fans from this fair city to make some of those trips next season.

So I’d like this site to be a conduit for NYC area Capitals fans to get together to watch games on TV, attend the 6 “local” Caps games during the season, take road trips from the NYC area to Caps games in DC (and, perhaps, to games on the road outside of the NYC area), and even play hockey, for those of you so inclined.

Send me a comment to let me know if you’re interested. Let Caps Nation, the new sea of red, expand and create a formidable presence, an unprecedented footprint, right in the territorial heart of most of our ol’ Patrick Division rivals!

And don’t forget, wherever your travels take you this summer within and without of The City, to ROCK THE RED!

“Now you’ll have to tell me when, tell me when it’s imminent, so you won’t have to rise and fall alone.”

 -from the Tragically Hip’s “Toronto #4″

When I finally entered my hotel room late Tuesday night, slowly pulled my Boyd Gordon home jersey up and over my head, and sat down in the desk chair, I was emotionally and physically exhausted.  My throat was hoarse.  A clenching pang of dread struck my chest, derived from the thought of having to wake six hours hence, speedily shower, dress, and catch the Acela back to NYC and back to the real world.  Back to life not spent in a constant distracted state, fixated on “rocking the red.”

I felt crushed, like a jilted lover.  The exciting and lusty affair ended so abruptly.  (But then I know she’ll be back in September.)

However despondent I felt then, and however painful was the swift and decisive end to this season, the ride was fantastic.  Never before have I experienced such tension, excitement, elation, hope, and pride, as a fan of the Washington Capitals.
 
Tuesday, April 22, 2008.

2:30 pm - I’m leaping off Track 1 of the “S” between Grand Central and Times Square.  Just a few minutes left to traverse the Times Sq. underground maze and transfer to any of the A/C/E trains for the one stop to Penn Station.  I retrieve my ticket to an on-time 3pm Acela train bound for our Nation’s Capital.  NYP > WAS.  Four hours until puck drop of Game 7.  (It gives me goosebumps even to type that now after being almost a week removed from the tumultuous day.)  Seated next to me is a baby fast asleep in her father’s lap, and across the aisle sits a couple with a girl who I would guess is 3 years old.  She’s running in the aisle, back and forth.  I’d probably be doing that too if I had the luxury of being a 3 year old on this trip.

5:30 pm - We’re passing through New Carrolton and, for a moment, the Metro Orange line is running in parallel.  The sun is shining through the windows and the pre-sunset sky is wonderfully clear.  Inside the Metro cars I see many folks seated, wearing Capitals home jerseys, animated in their conversation.  We’re all headed to the Mecca that is the Verizon Center.  All points lead to 7th and F.  A date with destiny.  I feel like God is a Caps fan.

6:10 pm - I check into the Hotel Monaco.  The concierge informs me that “there’s a big game tonight.”  I laugh and tell him that its the reason I’m here.  He smiles and says “that’s my team” and “I have a good feeling about tonight.”  I have no idea how long he’s been a Caps fan but, on this night, he’s one of the rabid among us.

6:45 pm - I enter the arena and receive my surprisingly hefty red rally towel, and head into my Section 107 seat.  Tonight I sit with a long-time fan named George.  I’ve purchased one of his playoff tickets obtained from re-upping his season tix for next season.  Smart move.

George has been going to Caps games since 1974.  He knows I live in NYC, and tells me that he’s lived 40 years of his life in The City and 40 years in DC.  I ask him which 40 years were better.  He pauses, smiles, and replies, “the past always seems better.”  To myself I think, “Not when it comes to the Capitals.  The best is yet to come.”  George tells me that Game 5 was, perhaps, the most fun he’s ever had at a Caps game.  He also reveals to me that he was an eyewitness to Hunter’s heroic GWG in overtime of Game 7 about twenty years ago.

The crowd is tremendous, in size and in passion.  A bubbling red cauldron.  And it remains loud, an angry and primal loud, for the entire the game.  The Colosseum hungry and salivating.

Wes Johnson, our spirited PA announcer, at a few points loses his booming voice, crackling and then rebounding.  His urging is in perfect sync with the crowd, a thunderstorm of vocal support for the game and for the team in red below, willing it to victory.

I’ve never heard anything like it, and it was impressive and moving to see and hear such an outpouring of emotion for Caps hockey.  A crowd unequivocally united.

I see a lone Flyers fan a few rows ahead of me, drowning in the sea of red.  At several points throughout the game, Caps fans stand up and give him the business.  Leering and shouting at him.  It was something to behold, in the friendly confines.

George brings some Life Savers to soothe my throat and my voice, which are in trouble even after the 1st period.

I can’t drink or eat during this game, subsisting on a Diet Coke at game time and between-period sips of water from the fountain.  I’m an emotional live-wire.

In the men’s room between periods, its understandably raucous.  Someone shouts out “Any Flyers fans in here?”  A smattering of laughter.  No replies.  And I don’t see any either.

When Ovie scores the second Caps goal, the Colosseum crowd erupts.  Ovechkin wheels his arm in celebration and I’m afraid it will be dislodged.  The most fearsome gladiator inflicting another grievous, but not yet fatal, wound on his enemy.

In the third period, the inspirational movie montage plays on the enormous screen above, ending with the ENTIRE crowd, in unison, belting out “Unleash the fury!”  I’m stunned.  That sound is something I won’t soon forget.  It was transcendent, really.  Later in the third, with the score of course tied, Wes Johnson, in a lower tone betraying his weary voice proclaims “its never been a better time, TO ROCK THE RED!”  No kidding.  And we did.

Overtime.  Every second is gut wrenching.  I’ve never had a seat for a game 7, and its been an awfully long time since one involved the Caps.  The uncertainly, the anticipation, is a lot to bear.  I want to know when the end is imminent, to prepare.  I want it to be over.  But not OVER.  In a moment of contemplation, tuning out the din around me, I feel a calm, like a divine hand placed on my shoulder, assuring me that the good guys will prevail.  I try then to relax and just enjoy this game.  But then the agitation sets in again.  And THEN a whistle is blown, and Tom Poti skates to the box to serve a penalty.  The crowd is aghast, and then enraged that a penalty call (though legitimate) would be made in a game 7 overtime when all players on the ice still have their limbs attached.

And soon after that, at a few minutes past 10 pm, its all over.  Joffrey Lupul pots the game, and series, winner while Huet, who stood on his head for much of the series, tragically looks the other way.

But the shock, and then despondency of that night in my hotel, gave way the next morning to genuine satisfaction.  What a fun season.

Much has been rightly made of the renewed, or perhaps at a whole new level, noise and energy generated by Caps Nation in the home building these last few months.  And it certainly affected the players on the ice, in both camps.  So much so that, apparently, Scott Hartnell actually waved goodbye to the fans after the post-series handshakes.  (I left my seat just prior to that moment.)  Even he acknowledged the ferocity of the Caps fan spirit.

Now the (Caps) off-season.  But the future is bright, very bright.  And let’s remember that noise and re-focus that energy for next season.  Let Caps Nation come back even stronger in October.

As much as I have bitched and moaned, as much as I have felt cheated out of most of the in-the-arena experiences of success this Washington Capitals season, and as much as some months, weeks, and games of this campaign have been enormously frustrating, maddening, or down-right jump-off-of-a-bridge depressing, today’s inspirational victory washes all of that away like a crumbling sandcastle at a high (red) tide.

Particularly moving for me today was watching Semin charge toward Fedorov after scoring what ended up as the GWG to embrace him, as if to say “I did it big bro!” and Fedorov himself give an interview to McGuire immediately post-game. It wasn’t what he said, it was the grin he couldn’t stifle, for the entire 20 second-or-so interview. The reborn Feds, who gets to re-live the salad days of his career for at least one more game. “Hold on to that feeee-lay-in’!”

And if playoff performance was relevant, give Brashear the f*cking Selke! Holy sh*t has he been strong and effective this series.

So much of an emotional roller coaster, but so much fun.

No matter what happens on Monday, or Tuesday, or beyond (certainly if “beyond” . . .), this season has almost without question been the greatest season for the franchise, and for the fans, to date (still rivaled by Spring 1998). And its very likely that better days are still ahead.

We should applaud George for (slowly but decisively) fashioning this team, Bruce for instilling the right attitude and getting the most out of this now solidly cohesive and relentless bunch, and to Ted for having the patience and giving the encouragement to see “the plan” bear fruit.

On to Game 6. (And screw Flyers fans - I want another ridiculously over-the-top dogpile of Caps at center ice on Monday.)

Number of Capitals games attended this season (regular season and playoffs-to-date):  11
Total travel time spent getting to Verizon Center and returning home:  71 hours
Total hotel nights:  9
Total cost for 100-level tickets, Amtrak trains, hotels, and meals on the road:  $4900
Number of Caps games that I attended since October 6, 2007 which the Caps won:  ZERO
Attending another Caps playoff game this year:  Pointless.

Will I do it all over again next year?  Undoubtedly yes.  Hope springs eternal.

I love the game of baseball. Its a welcome pastime for the long summer in between hockey seasons, and it provides a distinct alternative to the world’s fastest team sport, at just the right time of year.

As a foil to the pinball machine-paced game that is hockey, with its swift changes of direction, violent crashes, quick hands, quicker decisions, and flashing lights (one flick of the wrist to a “high score” or “game over”), baseball is a methodical, almost meditative game of strategy and slow-simmering drama. Its pace is relaxed enough for a fan to appreciate everything from an infielder’s subtle shift toward second when a lefty’s up to bat, or the double-switch, to an 100 mph fastball, or a towering home run over the deepest fence in the park. But that slow simmer also brings a tension that (most games) keeps my interest heightened from the first pitch to the bottom of the 9th (and perhaps beyond). A perfect sport for a time of year best spent “smelling the roses” (and fresh-cut grass), watching the ebb and flow of the beach tide, or jogging in the park.

As for being a fan of a MLB team, since the second grade I’ve alternated between supporting my (roughly) hometown Orioles and the Toronto Blue Jays. But I eventually lost whatever remaining interest I had in the O’s since moving to NYC 7 1/2 years ago, mostly because (i) I never lived in, nor identified strongly with, the city of Baltimore, though raised in Maryland, (ii) my father never had a strong connection to that team, and (iii) the Angelos era dramatically degenerated the excitement that the Orioles brought to Baltimore and most of Maryland, that “Oriole magic.”

And the Blue Jays? Well, the affinity came about as a result of over-developed boyhood connections forged easily and powerfully at that age.  I still enjoy following the Jays, but I don’t live anywhere near the T dot nor do I have any close friends or family there.  Furthermore, I fully appreciate, as an incurable Washington Capitals fan, the relative risks and rewards of lengthy travel to watch a “home “game. So, the games I attend at the Rogers Centre will be few and far-between.

That all leaves me a baseball fan in search of a team.

I put the word “home” above in quotations because my real home baseball team would be - the New York Mets. And I’m now ready to support them. I moved to Queens last summer, into my first apartment, the first piece of this amazing city that I can call my own, which is a short walk to the 7 train. With spring and a new season of baseball fast approaching: now its time.

I resisted supporting the Mets (or really any NYC-based sports team) for quite a while because I never before identified myself fully with being a New Yorker. I often viewed the city as a vast and choatic stew of humanity, where meaningful connections and a sense of community are extremely difficult to experience and, if lucky enough to discover, require diligent maintenance.

One of the important reasons why I remain and enjoy being a Capitals fan is that sense of community of its fans (not to mention almost two decades of strong emotional attachment), and the connection of owner Ted Leonsis and the organization to those fans and to the DC metro area, through all kinds of outreach activities and events both fun and charitable.

While Washington, D.C. with its ‘burbs forms a sprawling metropolis (not quite as large as NYC but still well in the millions by population), the Capitals fan base is close knit by two prominent fan clubs, years of internet-supported dialogue, radio chit-chat, and now podcasts, and by meeting similar people year after year at home games, and then meeting their friends, their co-workers, and, eventually in some cases, their children, many of whom, over time, get hooked on Caps hockey and are welcomed into the fold.

The fan community of any NYC city team seemed to me to be anything but a community - often frustrated, disgruntled, sniping, cold and overwhelmingly disconnected, concerned only with results and interested in the humanity of the players themselves only when scandal is uncovered. So, having that sense of community was important to me, and I found it lacking here in my (now) home town.

Being a fan to me means so much more than just supporting the team that’s local, that happens to bear the name of your current place of residence on its jerseys. It involves supporting and appreciating the benefits that the players bring to that place of residence. Benefits that go beyond making some people feel good just because the team won an important game, and because that game brought a welcome distraction from life’s troubles (which are important benefits themselves).

It involves actually liking the guys that you cheer in the stands, appreciating not just the stats they’ve accumulated but what they value, how and how much they enjoy the game, how they got to where they are on that field (or on the ice), and supporting what they hope to accomplish and the plan to get there.

It involves supporting an ownership that, at least in part, views itself as holding the team in trust for the home town (or the sprawling metropolis I suppose). It involves management that not only makes smart decisions but ones that reflect care and concern for the well being of the players involved even in the face of bottom-line business goals.

(Of course this is all quite idealistic, but for me worth keeping in mind.)

So first things first: I’ve set out to refute my long-harbored views of the local fan base and begun the search for that “Mets community,” and the first place to go in these times is to read the voices of the fans in e-print on blogs. So far I’ve been pleasantly surprised and encouraged, finding some great reads that reflect a lot of what I think I’m getting at here, exciting in-depth coverage and passionate opinion, and I look forward to exploring more of the fan community of my “new” home town team.

I spent the last week (and a few extra days due to a weather-related flight cancellation) in the “Live Music Capital of the World,” Austin, Texas, in part to run the Austin Marathon. Of course, my tour wouldn’t have been complete without taking in local ice hockey action: the CHL’s Austin Ice Bats.

Thursday’s (February 21) opponent hailed from the Rio Grande Valley, the Killer Bees. Specifically, they play in Hidalgo, Texas, which is a border town located in the southern-most tip of the Lone Star state. The final score was 5-1 in favor of the home team, and the win sparked a modest streak which now temporarily puts the Bats into playoff contention. The CHL is among those leagues where a team with a losing record can still qualify for post-season play.

The Bats play in the Chaparral Ice Arena. Its, in essence, a neighborhood ice rink off Interstate 35, retrofitted to seat about 2000, with bleachers along the length of the rink side opposite the players’ benches and penalty boxes, said bleachers transformed into individual “seats” by plastic seat backs fastened atop them in rows. A few of these seat backs featured a sticker with the team’s logo and a fan’s last name, and the words “season ticket holder” beneath. A couple shorter rows of seats were nestled into an empty space on the opposite side next to the visiting players’ bench (the seats below those three flags pictured above).

The retrofitting most notably included a “balcony” of a couple of rows, constructed of wooden support posts and plywood set as a triangle, in the corner above the main entrance to the ice sheet. Below this balcony, in front of the steps leading to the main section of bleacher seats, sat a vendor selling 16 oz cans of Lone Star and Bud Light out of a cooler full of ice. (Other concessions included a typical rec-rink snack bar, with machine popped movie-theatre popcorn, hot dogs, and nachos.) Though the area is a paradise for tex-mex lovers, those nachos remain the standard corn discs arranged in a plastic tray with a side compartment of hot processed “cheese product.” A heaping condiment tray of those pickled jalapeno slices, however, did grace the concession stand counter.

Upstairs featured a bar and some “skybox” seating, all facing the goal on which the Bats shoot twice. The ubiqituous neon Dos Equis TeXXas beer sign cast an inviting glow above the bar.

Predictably, and properly, the rink was cold. Those regular fans brought blankets and wore sweatshirts and Uggs. A few gentlemen wore cowboy hats, and I saw a Dallas Stars jersey and a one of the Houston Aeros, the latter worn by a very young fan. (The Bats are affiliated with the Aeros and, in turn, the Minnesota Wild.)

Unfortunately, from a spectator’s viewing enjoyment, thick black nets surrounded the entirely of the glass, extending upward almost to the ceiling. (Our seats were in the next to last row, which was about 6 rows from the ice. The seat assignment was handwritten on the ticket. Ushers enforced seating assignments - a few rows closer meant a significant price hike.) The nets did seem appropriate, given the number of small children present.

In any event, there was room enough between the nets and ceiling for the home mascot, “Fang,” to toss over a souvenir tee shirt. I’ve never before seen such a lengthy crowd noise-generating shirt toss tease by a mascot, or a fan more determined to yell loud enough to get that shirt. (I purchased two tees myself at the rink shop.)

The scene at game time, once the lights dimmed (or rather just went out), was straight out of Slapshot. The warbly PA address system spit out unintelligible renditions of the names of the Bats’ starters, while they individually skated out, trailed by a spotlight which frequently missed the mark. The press box sat atop a balcony set into the other corner of the arena on the bleacher side. The scoreboard showed only the score, period, time remaining, and penalties by time remaining and jersey # of offender. Musical entertainment featured some hockey arena staples from 10 years ago, such as Fatboy Slim’s Rockafeller Skank and Sum 41’s Fat Lip (the latter featured on the EA Sports NHL 98 game).

Like the 6 goal Jerry’s pizza promotions long time Caps fans may recall, a local Bats’ sponsor restaurant gives out coupons for 5 free wings when the Bats score 5 goals. After each goal, one letter went up behind the off-ice officials’ table to eventually, on this night, spell W-I-N-G-S. (Click on the photo for a view of the local ad signage.)

Of course, if wings are not your thing, there is an IHOP and a Whataburger right next door for your post-game dining pleasure.

Also of note, one die-hard fan, in a pristine authentic Bats jersey, situated himself right up against the glass in the corner where the Bats shoot twice.  When the good guys scored, he tossed a handful of plastic bats onto the ice.  (Anyone recall Scott Mellanby’s legendary locker room slapshot of a live rat, which led Florida Panthers’ fans to toss out plastic toy versions during the 1995-96 season?)  The practice was obviously encouraged, as a rink employee swiftly scooped the bats up off the ice and handed them back to the same fan for the next go-around.  “Keeping Austin Weird” for sure.

The Bats’ jerseys have undergone quite a change. Interestingly, the current sweaters bear no resemblance to those of its higher league affiliates. They’ve gone with a simple and smart crimson red with traditional striping and a large block “A” on the crest.

The jersey choice perhaps seems appropriate for a team with an uncertain future. The Chaparral rink was intended to be a temporary home while a new arena deal was hammered out. But, instead of moving into a new arena to be built in Cedar Park, about 20 miles away, the Bats have lost out to a glitzier proposal of AHL hockey in the new facility, likely, it appears, via AHL expansion and an NHL-affiliation reshuffling.

As for the game itself, the play was what one watching a league at this level might expect. Most players showed little faith in the backhand. I saw a lot of open pivots while facing defenders, with no body protection of the puck. These led to a great many deflections and take aways. A lot of well-meaning one timers went awry, following a deft pass with a mammoth wiff of the intended shot. The goalies scrambled and overcommitted, but the Bats’ netminder did make some flashy saves to prevent a competitive affair. The referees called a passable game - I saw no glaring missed calls or overzealous hands raised.

Kurtis Kisio, son of long time Ranger veteran Kelly Kisio, skated for the Bats, and scored a goal on this night. Notable on forward for the Killer Bees, perhaps for his name only, was one Robin Big Snake, who (surprise) has his own website. The thought of a Native Canadian skating for a team in a (Texas) border town, in a new arena that cost $23 million to build and seats 5,500 for hockey, is surreal and wonderful, and I’ll likely follow his professional career with at least a casual interest henceforth.

Like the Charlestown Chiefs, however, the Bats’ days may be numbered. Will they fold or persevere? “Who own da [Bats]?”

PS: Further research revealed this interesting blog post summarizing the sequence of events that has led to the current Ice Bats’ situation of playing in a local amateur hockey rink, while a new AHL franchise threatens ruinous competition.

As a Capitals fan living in NYC, its a time-consuming adventure to travel to our nation’s Capital, at 7th and F Streets, NW, to witness my beloved team in its home environs, surrounded largely by fellow Caps fans.  Its a labor of love.   

Like many loving relationships, of course, there is elation and there is disappointment.  There is pride and there is shame.  There is joy and there is anger.  But no matter what happens along the way, for this fan, there is fidelity.      

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Game 8 of the 11 game plan - Atlanta @ Capitals 7pm.

I awake at 8:30 am, and the weather promises to be beautifully sunny, if unseasonably warm, both here and in D.C.  My girlfriend stirs, muttering something about staying home and sleeping in late, as I leap in response to the alarm clock, mind already rehearsing the day’s plan.  I further plot how to ultimately convert her into a fan (a near impossible task) by April.  Playoff April. 

On an average work day, I would grudgingly shuffle into the bedroom for the morning’s ablutions and ruminate over what conference calls, urgent requests for advice, or red-flagged emails may await me at the office.   But today was hockey day on the Northeast Corridor.  I had a 10:05am Amtrak to catch:  NYP > WAS. 

9am - I am showered and packed:  the essentials for an overnight trip, running shoes and gear, ipod, Caps tee, Home red Alexander Semin jersey (the other Alex, the quiet sniper), my laptop, a “good” magazine, and a novel I’ve long been meaning to finish.   As seems fitting, I adopt the Russian custom of sitting down quietly for a few minutes, bags packed, sipping a mug of home-brewed coffee, and thinking about the fun day ahead.

I stroll outside and down the street a few blocks to the E train, which happily arrived in just a few minutes and whisked me directly, in a few stops, to New York Penn Station.  On the subway I wondered what activities my fellow passengers had planned for the day, what brought them to ride the subway on an early Saturday morning, confident that few of them were as excited for the day’s events as I was.

I grab my ticket from the Quik-Trak and find a seat on the train.  While Penn Station is still an eye-sore, I’m grateful that its so easily accessible to my apartment.  It makes this leg of the trip easy.

I’ve taken in the view from the train window on the route between NY Penn and Union Station many times, but staring out that window, as the scenery zips by, always has such a uniquely soothing quality.

Unable to focus on my reading material, I daydream about the last Caps game - the instantly legendary broken nose, four-goal performance of Alex Ovechkin, eloquently memorialized in print by Post columnist Mike Wise.  I contemplate the Southeast Division standings scenarios, hoping for a victory tonight that would vault the Caps into 2nd place in the Division and one tiny point away from first place.   Recalling an appropriate song title, that certain part of my brain cues up the Tragically Hip’s “On the Verge.”

Amtrak comes through with an on-time 1:25pm arrival.  I scurry down to the Metro, re-fill my card, and then wait 15 minutes, pacing, for the Red line to Dupont Circle.  Back above ground, I march a few blocks and into my hotel, schedule on-track.

Right now I’m in the final stages of training for a marathon and, to counter the monotony of running the same course in and around NYC, I decided to get down to DC early today and run my scheduled 15-mile run in my old home town.  So I needed ample time to prepare, fuel, run (of course), and recover in time to leisurely make my way to Verizon Center for the puck drop.

3pm - I set out south toward the campus of George Washington University and then down Virginia Avenue, following it to K street.  I stride under the Whitehurst Freeway and onto the Capital Crescent trail.  Wearing my Caps tee over a warmer layer, I proudly pound the pavement and admire my wooded surroundings, the C & O canal and towpath to my right, Potomac River to my left, and nary a building in sight save for Fletcher’s Boat House.

I continue over and across Canal Road, uphill to see the Chain Bridge to my left, and finally to the Maryland state line, the turnaround point.  Making good time.  Ipod’s got plenty of charge left.  Game time ever closer.

Once I get back to Georgetown, I cross the Key Bridge into Rosslyn and then uphill on Wilson Blvd., deeper into NOVA.  Eventually I reach the neighborhood I called home for a few years.  I love the area still.   

I remember, as I take a short break to survey my old building, those heady days of the 2008 playoffs when I glued myself to the futon, in my basement apartment, and peered intently at the lilliputian screen of my 13″ TV (hey, these were poor grad student days) for each playoff game, each . . . round, indulging in all manner of superstitions.   I recall my experiences a few years later as a 99-00 season ticket holder (thanks Ted for your early efforts to boost season ticket sales and allow that same student budget to make room for an upper level seat), when the Caps surged ahead after a forgetful start to that season, not once losing consecutive games through the final 49 matchups, going 32-9-7-1 - how crazy were those four column standings? - and winning the division (Sound familiar?).

I finish my running route just short of K-Plex, not wanting to tire myself out too much for the game, and hop on the Metro at Virginia Square back to my hotel.

5:30pm - I “suit up,” check the Caps official website, Vogel’s Dump and Chase, and Tarik’s blog for any late-breaking news, head to the arena, and stop in to Chipotle.

The anticipation is at a fever pitch.  I’ve traveled much and accomplished much so far today, and now its time to inhale a burrito, step through the turnstiles, grab a Dos Equis, and settle into my seat for some mother-flippin’ Caps hockey.

The place is packed at game time, over 17K by official boxscore count, and the upper ring of the lower bowl is festooned with fan club banners celebrating Ovie’s recent heroics, and his ascent into super-stardom in a fashion that no NHL marketeer can deny.

To my left is a Dallas Stars fan, relocated to the D.C. area.  Nevertheless, she cheers on the home team with gusto throughout.  She’s with her son who is, while watching tonight, contemplating joining his high school hockey team.  Hedging against a disappointing outcome, the encouragement begins already for him to sign up.  To my right are two high school-age boys who are surprisingly opinionated about the game play as it unfolds. 

After the first intermission, its scoreless.  I roam the concourse during the break and call a friend back in New York, who I know is watching the game with his wife, to discuss.  Both of them are serious Caps fans.  I don’t bother any friends I know who support the Rangers. 

Stars Fan and I question the rationality of coincidental obstruction and diving penalties, as Semin heads to the box for the latter, for his second penalty of the night.  After two periods, the shots are 18-8 in favor of the Caps.  Yet Kari Lehtonen will not let one in, and its still scoreless.  Its getting tense and I’m getting thristy, so I grab another XX. 

As a Caps fan, its too easy to become despondent, fatalistic, when adversity strikes.  And so when Todd White’s goal (ably assisted by graybeard waiver pick-up Mark Recchi) clanks in midway through the 3rd, its sound distinctly audible, I despair.  It’s one of those games where one goal wins it - I’ve seen too many similar games to know. 

And then an interesting thing happens.  The crowd, many of whom seemed to have looked forward to, and emotionally geared up for, this game as much as I, responds overwhelmingly to the typical encouragements to get loud, stand up, dance like a fool.   Defiant almost, the Caps fan stands up and (perhaps after taking a big swig of something to clear the throat) belts out the cheers and applauds, fixated on every draw, every rush, every shot.   It becomes clear to me that Caps nation, across generations, believes that this team is different.  The “young guns” still might come through, as long as there is time left on that clock.

Of course, you all know the result.  After the final horn, I shuffle back to my hotel dejected, feeling betrayed after all the hype, still having witnessed one solitary victory in DC this entire campaign (that of opening night).  I’m thinking again that the playoffs are a mirage, that we’ll fall just short of a playoff spot. 

10:45pm - I sit at the desk in my hotel room and pour a healthy glass of Crown Royal over ice, and question whether I’ve become too obsessed this season.  Perhaps this 11 game plan idea, living 4 hours away, was a conspicuous excess, a lapse in good judgment.  Its been too long since I’ve felt elation, pride, and joy in the home rink. 

Sunday, February 3, 2008

12noon - After a sound and lengthy sleep, and a 4-mile morning jog around the White House and the Ellipse, its back on the train home to NYC.  I take the Acela on the way back.  Its gloriously half-empty, and so I enjoy a pair of seats to myself for most of the return trip.  I already feel the frustration over last night’s loss lifting, and begin anew to dream of playoff miracles. 

I know I’ll get over it.  I always do.  Still in love after all these years.

Hope to write more of these well into baseball season . . .

As the new moon just began to wax last week, a new era of Washington Capitals hockey began with the sensational 13 year contact extension inked by once-in-a-generation forward Alex Ovechkin.   Truly the “face of the Capitals,” the contract vaults the Caps to a league-wide (daresay a global professional sports-wide) significance and notoriety, and brings a hope, unprecedented in the history of the 33 season-old franchise. 

That much is obvious but, as I pounded the pavement during an evening jog the night of the contract announcement (while, approximately 4 hours south down I-95, season ticket holders were celebrating at Centre Verizon), and peered up at that sliver of a moon, it hit me, more profoundly then ever before, that we just signed Gordie Howe, or Gretzky, or Maurice Richard.  At the beginning of their careers. 

Of course Ted Leonsis knew that when making the nearly career-long commitment to Alex, and I suppose I knew it too.   Those greats of the world’s fastest team sport won games, won series, won Cups with their outstanding individual skill and perseverance, and its not a bold prediction to say that Alex the Great will too. 

But I knew it some superficial way, in my head, amongst statistics.   And when I’ve seen advertisements featuring our #8, my reaction remained part disbelief.  “This is a star player, featured by the league, on my team?”  And when I saw fantastic, jaw-dropping displays of scoring greatness, I wondered often how much longer it could last. 

Like many long-time Caps fans, I’ve become accustomed to supporting a team that loses big games a lot more than it wins them, a team which many media outlets on both sides of the border belittle for its inability to attract fans and view as a contraction candidate, and a team that never had a star player to call its own, expecting any significant talent to leave us as soon as a contract expires, or never sign if we’re talking about free agents.  

I’ve been content to come back for more though, if only to see a group of underacheivers, season after season, play out of their minds and abilities - blocking shots, crashing the net and into corners, out-hustling and bruising the opponent into submission - to witness that occasional and unpredictable victory against a more talented, more popular, more storied, more successful opponent.  And for those few games I’d beam with pride to be a Caps fan. 

Sure we had Jagr as our “star” for a brief time, but that disastrous chapter in Caps history further supported the defeatist view of many within the fan base.  He was a player borrowed from the Caps most-loathed modern day rival, who bristled against having to play in Washington, quit on the team, and validated for everyone who wanted to dismiss the Caps that, indeed, this was a franchise that would never succeed.   Like Jagr, it was living on borrowed time.

Now, all that changes.   The future is brighter than it has ever been.  For THIRTEEN seasons, we have reason for hope.  No matter if the supporting cast fails, another coach is fired, George McPhee is replaced, the fans endure another season of no playoffs, we have reason to watch every game.  Because we have the greatest goal scorer during the last 2 1/2 seasons and the most complete individual talent in the game today.  And because we have a owner who is willing to take the risk on such a long-term investment in the team for a potential future of his team’s name, our team’s name, engraved on the Stanley Cup. 

This contract validates Ovechkin’s status, now and for the future, as among those aforementioned legendary forwards of hockey’s alluring history.  And it validates us fans.   Like an angel investor in a high-risk company, Ted has made this tremendous investment in the team, and long-time fans have made a tremendous emotional investment (not to mention ticket investment) over the years waiting for that moment that signals our time to become that more talented, more popular, more storied, more successful franchise. 

That time is now.